Booty Green

AsI tell this story, it sounds like Jean Shepherd in my head. Jean Shepherd is the author of "In God We Trust: All Others Pay Cash" from which the famous movie "The Christmas Story" was taken. The movie was a compilation of many of the stories of his youth in northern Indiana and is a hoot to read. From it was also taken another movie, less known, called "Ollie Hopnoodle's Haven of Bliss" about their yearly two week fishing trip up north to stay in one of the fishing cabins named after the Dionne quintuplets. It has Ralphie and family as a bit older and a different cast of actors (James B Sikking plays the dad) but a great story. Get a copy if you can. So anyway, when you read the story that follows, imagine a Jean Shepherd narration, as he does in The Christmas Story.

In high school there was a bunch of us neighbor kids who hung together, alley buddies as it were. I lived in Topeka, Kansas, on MacVicar and the alley behind our house was well trodden with our feet as we all played army, rode bikes, and played football and pickup basketball games on any hoop we could find. At the other end of the alley and across to the east and in the next block was Kevin Stovall's house where he lived along with his three brothers Mark, David, and Brian. Kevin was the oldest. I was the oldest of three brothers as well with Wyatt and Breck. Joining us from around the neighborhood was also our buddies, Danny Brook, Joe Scraper, and the Proctor brothers at times. Also Bill Bonjour who didn't live in the neighborhood but was always there it seems since he and I had hung together since grade school. The basketball games would be held at any hoop down the alley; the one on the pole behind my house, the one at Skip Anderson's driveway, or others along the alley that were left unattended.

Stovalls had an old one car old Model T garage but one year their folks decided to tear it down and make a two car garage facing the street and with a huge (we thought) drive way. It was the Taj Mahal Mecca of basketballery.

We owned the alleys and all the backyards. Nothing was off limits as far as we were concerned and when we got hungry, there was that big mullberry tree halfway down where we could get a snack and purple stains on our shirts. In the summers we were out all day, coming home with the street lights or when mom sent younger brother Breck down to let us know supper was ready. It was a heady life. Life moved on after high school and sadly, I went to the funeral of my high school buddy Kevin Stovall last Saturday. I was reminiscing with his brother Mark and Mike Proctor. And of course, the pastor asked us to say something about him so (pushed forward by his wife Lisa) I did. That got the juices flowing and I woke up in the middle of the night, running memories through my head. As I lay there in my insomnia, I remembered the basketball game we used to play. I had forgotten. It was called Booty Green.

To this day I have no idea where the name came from but since it was the 70's booty was a popular word for your backside and we had songs to go along with it: "Shake, Shake, Shake, Shake Your Booty" to a disco beat. What it had to do with our booty or why Green was added we never knew. But that's what we called it. And we assumed worldwide, that's what everybody called it. What a surprise when we met up with kids outside our sphere and they didn't. Some called it 21, for obvious reasons (I'll explain) but that seemed such a dull thing. In my neighborhood when you said, "Ya wanna play some Booty Green?" everyone knew what you meant. Anyway, this is how it's played: You had to decide who went first, oldest, youngest, you started last time so it's someone elses turn-no I didn't that was Joe, etc. The winner would get the ball first and of course it was every man for himself (you kept your own score-no cheating) so it seemed a good idea, at least initially, for all to gang up on the guy with the ball and steal it away. As we got older we realized that it was easier to push him to the farthest limits of the driveway (ya we were playing at Kevin's!) for him to put up a hail mary and we could get the rebound, or better, the complete miss. Any shot hit from the field was worth 2, then the shooter got to go the freethrow line to make as many as he could for 1 point each. But a guy had to be careful because if he hit 13 and missed the next shot, he busted to zero.

As you can imagine, there were many accusations of tripping and fouls which were always met with loud denials of "That wasn't a foul!". If the ball went out of bounds whoever got it first got to bring it in unmolested until he got on the court (after all, we weren't Philistines) and then started the melee again. If it went out into the garage, you had to take it out under the basket and hope for a trick shot back at the basket. That didn't happen much since Kevin's dad Marvin wasn't wild about us pummeling his classic Cadillac. This all continued until one guy, either by a shot from the field when he had 19 that made 21 or if he was foolish and got himself into this predicament by poor planning, had 18 and made a shot which gave him 20. Then he had to make the freethrow. If he did the game was over so his shot was always accompanied by "Miss, miss, miss!" and various other comments and noises. There was some strategy as we got older and more experienced. If you were smart you hung out under the backboard hoping for the rebound and a quick put-back. So we always tried to get the younger guys (less experienced and not as smart as us) to go out and guard (harass) the shooter so we could get the easy one. Once you made a shot and were at 2 now the real strategizing begins: Hmm, do I try to make a few three throws and take a chance on getting an odd number or bing it off the front of the rim and try to get the rebound back to me before those other rubes (who were looking at the backboard) realized what was happening? Strategy.

Of course after getting past the dreaded 13, one WANTED to be on the odd number so he could hit right on 21 from the field. So at some point you had to make a free throw. Because if you got to 20 and missed the free throw, you busted to 10 (or 0 or 11, whichever variation we argued for at the beginning). Now here's where it really got interesting. You could burn the backboard after you got 10 points. Ah, burning the backboard and all of it's various nuances. Burning the backboard consisted of hurling the ball from the free throw line like a baseball, one handed, so it would bounce off the backboard and back to you, and give you another chance at a two pointer and free throws. Of course, the other guys, knowing you had a chance to burn the board, would back up to beat you to the rebound. This moved to the next update to burning-butt burners. Basically (all this negotiated at the time of the first guy getting to 10 usually by one guy yelling loud enough "no butt burners!") you could burn anything. Another guy who wasn't paying attention, your little brother, the fence, the garage wall, all in the hopes you could get the ball back. But you couldn't burn yourself. It was tried and considered cheating. Many times, if the burner didn't have good burning skills, the ball missed the backboard and the garage in it's entirety to which started the charge up the alley to track it down and get a chance at bringing it in. One had to pick his battles though. If it was obvious someone else would beat you to the loose ball, you'd save your energy and wait to attack him back at the court (or better yet, let the other guys do it and wait for the wild shot for a rebound and quick 2!) When the game was over, losers had to submit to butt burners, lined up in a row, for the pleasure of the winner. Unless the majority objected to the humility or just went home (I hear my brother calling-time to go!) The final iteration of Booty Green, the last I remember anyway, was a jungle rule, no holds barred, free for all where we expected the ball carrier to dribble but pretty much everything else went by the wayside. Until the ball went in the hoop. The we all settled for the free throw. You had to have SOME rules. After all, we weren't hooligans. Or were we? That's the subject of my next story. Coming soon.