BASKETBALL FEVER AND ONE MAN'S REMEDY

Nobody plays basketball with more passion, more commitment, than the young inmates locked-up in prison. Ask them and they’ll tell you they’re superstars, no one can take it to the hole like they can. Three meals a day, a warm place to shit, another warm place to sleep, and some yard activity and they’ll dribble that ball from sun-up to sun-down, or for however long the yard officers will allow. They’ll sacrifice learning how to read and write well, and don’t think for a red hot minute that they’ll take time out from their busy schedule to learn their multiplication tables either—it’s just not going to happen. Skipping school, even if it means risking a parole, is worth every minute of hoops. Short-term thinkers get long term punishments but who gives a hoot.

Once the snow hits, it’ll be time to move indoors. At Ryan Correctional, the athletic director invited some retired professional basketball players inside for a scrimmage. I remember the pregame warm-ups. The pros started with a standard two-line formation, one for lay-ups and the other for rebounding. On the other end of the court, you had a dozen balls flying from all angles at the basket with no rhyme nor reason. Total mayhem. Shock and awe, sapping any possibility of team play. Needless to say, the pros toyed with them, let them gain a sizable lead before picking them apart with a variety of set plays and the occasional slam dunk for emphasis.

Another time, our facility went into lockdown mode after an inmate spat on another inmate during a heated game. In order to make things right, in order to “save face,” both teams brought out their shanks and started running the gears. Maintenance had to dismantle the drinking fountain after someone bled in it while sipping water. Also, an inmate porter, trained in blood borne pathogens, proudly declared that he had cleaned up after the melee. I looked to see what time it was, “1430 hours.” The clock hung twelve feet high on the wall so no one could steal the motor and use it on a hobbycraft project. “How about there,” I said, nodding at the blood splatter on the clock.

But not all inmates shared the same passion for b-ball. There was this deputy warden, an ex-felon himself, paid his debt to society and went on to become a productive citizen, who believed in giving the inmates a cold-hearted reality check. He transferred to another facility and the first thing he decided to do to show the inmates that he had arrived, was to have maintenance cut down the basketball poles near the units. I’d heard this story from the inmates and chalked it up to modern day lore. When I transferred to the very same facility, I saw the asphalt filled holes where backboards were once erected and had to smile, simply had to.