"Three Minutes and Twenty-seven Seconds on the Scoreboard"

Three Minutes and Twenty-seven Seconds on the Scoreboard

“Life isn’t a matter of milestones, but of moments.”

-Rose Kennedy

It is one of the things that makes us human; a child’s pain hurts the parent even more.

The scoreboard clock told Marty there were only three minutes and twenty-seven seconds remaining of such suffering. It was the last game of his son’s eighth-grade season, and soon it would all be over. A sit-down meal at Wendy’s after the game, a hamburger, fries, and a large Frosty, Timmy’s favorite combo, and his painful basketball career would hopefully be forgotten.

Never in the history of the game had there been a greater disparity between the passion to play and the ability to perform. Timmy was cursed with an unmatched love of all things sports, but basketball was his Holy Grail. The walls in Timmy’s bedroom were covered with posters of his favorite players- Jordan, Kobe, Magic, and Bird. The kid started watching SportsCenter when he was six. Marty could only wish it weren’t so.

This day, St. Mary’s was playing at home against St. John’s, the dominant force in the Catholic grade school conference.

“We’re going to get clobbered, Timmy, so we should have a good chance to get in the game.”

“Don’t say that, Will. Attitude is everything. We can beat these guys.”

“You’re dreaming, Timmy.”

Timmy was a good student of the teachings of Father Mel, the portly Pastor of St. Mary’s.

“In God, all things are possible.”

That was Timmy’s other problem, an unfortunate, fanciful faith in his team’s talent and his own abilities. Somehow, someway, he never quite understood just how bad he was. Whenever you hear a coach say, “What a kid lacks in talent can be made up for with desire and effort”, don’t believe it. No one tried harder, worked harder, than Timmy, but he wasn’t just the worst player in the league; he was the worst player in the history of the league.

Most parents love watching their children do anything. This, however, is not the case if the enterprise is a true fool's errand. Every moment that Timmy was out on the court presented untold opportunities for humiliation and embarrassment- walking, actually running with the ball; a record fouls per minute played ( bowling over the ref in last year’s bout with St. Catherine’s mercifully didn’t make the stats sheet); an errant pass that knocked a little girl’s juice box over in the fifth row; disturbing bloody noses when a teammate’s pass hit him in the face; and, of course, the occasional shot at the wrong basket. Fortunately, he was zero for seven such attempts over the years.

Marty lettered in three sports in high school and played D-2 college football. Susan was a standout on a Big Ten volleyball team. Timmy’s ineptitude in anything involving skill, coordination, or hand-to-eye coordination was a near genetic impossibility.

“I know it’s not the most important thing in life, Susan, but I feel so bad for him. We have some special memories. He’ll have none.”

“Let’s just get through these next few minutes.”

“It just occurred to me, Susan. Do you know how many points our son scored in his four years of basketball?”

“Unfortunately, that’s an easy one.”

“None. The poor kid hasn’t made a single basket in four years. That almost doesn’t seem possible.”

St. John’s was up 32-19, which is a lot for eighth-grade boys. It was getting close to Timmy-time. Will was less committed to the cause than his best friend who was firmly affixed to his regular position at the end of the bench.

“Timmy, I’m going to ask Jenny to dance with me at the Valentine’s Party.”

“Look who’s dreaming now. Good luck with that.”

When in need, Will too could find a little religion.

“In God all things are possible.”

“Will, pay attention to the game. Coach Barnes could send us in at any moment.”

“Who do you want to dance with? Becky? Jack says she likes you.”

“Knock it off, Will, pay attention to… really? Jack says she likes me?”

“Oh yeah. Big time. Jack’s sister says…”

“Will! Timmy! Get over here. You’re going in.”

Showtime. Timmy hopped off the bench like a spring-loaded Jack-in-the-box. His heart rate doubled as he crossed that line separating the dormant land of anxious scrubs-in-waiting from the field of dreams or, in some cases, the place where utter failure and unbounded humiliation lurk. Timmy tightened the band keeping his Coke bottle lenses in place while Marty clenched his fists, hoping to ward off the feelings of doom and gloom that came with every one of Timmy’s appearances on the court.

Timmy’s debut started off with a bit of a glitch.

“Timmy! Get back to the scorer’s table. You forgot to check in.”

Harmless error, thought Marty. It can happen to the best of them. But there was more to come.

St. Mary’s had the ball at half-court, and Timmy’s in-bound pass went to a player in a different color jersey who merrily dribbled down the court for an uncontested layup. Marty’s sigh could be heard three rows down.

“There’s no way Timmy will play in high school, Susan. I hate to see the last basketball game he played in go so badly. I don’t want that to be his last memory.”

“I know. The memories can last forever.”

With the game safely in hand, the St. John’s coach emptied his bench. The caliber of play was diminished, but the playing field was leveled. Scrub on scrub can present interesting, competitive matchups.

The teams had played each other in the past, so Timmy was assigned the task of guarding the readily acknowledged St. John’s version of himself… though to a far lesser extent. Timmy vs. the feckless kid from St. John’s, the Battle of the Titans, King Kong vs. Godzilla, Pee Wee Herman vs. Mr. Peepers.

Timmy’s next few minutes were nondescript. Nothing good, nothing bad. This was a welcome chain of events for Marty and Susan. After four years, they had learned this was the best they could hope for.

The clock was winding down. Timmy was darting in and out of the free-throw lane without any apparent objective in mind, with his adversary in hot pursuit. Will was trapped in the corner at the baseline and caught Timmy in the corner of his eye. In desperation, he launched a pass in the general direction of his best friend, who was surprised to suddenly find himself in possession of the ball. As Timmy struggled to get rid of the ball, a St. John’s kid plowed into him. The ref raised his arm and blew his whistle. Timmy was as shocked as anyone in the gym when the ref ruled that Timmy was in the act of shooting. The crowd grew silent in anticipation of the historic event about to unfold. Timmy Peters, perhaps the worst player in the history of the sport, was going to the line, and they were there to see it.

“Oh my God, Susan, Timmy’s going to be shooting a free throw. I don’t think I can watch this.”

Timmy stood at the free-throw line with the confidence and determination of an Olympic athlete. The ref handed the ball to Timmy as the players, coaches, and all the fans watched in unsettling anticipation. Most in the stands were mesmerized by the event unfolding before them, and even the small children fell silent. The merciful in the stands averted their eyes.

“Please, God, please let Timmy have this one moment.”

That prayer was on Marty’s lips, but similar supplications were on the minds of nearly everyone in the gym. Truth be known, even the St. John’s players were secretly rooting for Timmy.

Timmy bounced the ball three times, bent his knees ever so slightly, and gave the ball a good shove in the direction of the basket. To the amazement of all, the ball appeared to be headed straight for the basket. Marty nearly stopped breathing. The ball was indeed on target, but then cruel gravity intervened dragging the ball down to the floor as it had only traveled half the required distance.

Intermittent groans filled the air, but most suffered in silence. Marty and Susan could only close their eyes and feel for their son.

But wait. It was a shooting foul. Timmy had another shot coming.

In the normal course of human events, this would be a good thing. For Marty, in the wake of the cringeworthy first attempt, a second moment of excruciating embarrassment would be a bad thing. He groaned and muttered something unintelligible.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing, Susan. I was just sort of hoping for a power outage, a lightning strike, or maybe an earthquake, anything to keep him from having to shoot another free-throw.”

But that’s not how life works. Timmy would be getting that second free throw. The referee was a nice man, and he didn’t want to give the ball to Timmy, but he had to. With visible reluctance, he handed the ball to Timmy and quickly turned away. Those who had demonstrated such interest in the first free throw now wished they were someplace else.

Timmy remembered his dad’s instruction to put some arc in his shot. Timmy took a deep breath, bent his knees, this time a little deeper, and launched the ball high into the air with all the strength he could muster. Arc? No one had ever seen a shot with such arc as the ball soared dangerously close to the ceiling. Marty’s eyes popped wide open at the power behind the shot and quickly went back to hopeful prayer.

The shot was as straight as it was high. The players, the coaches, and all the fans suddenly realized they might witness a miracle. From Marty’s vantage point, it appeared to have a chance.His dream of Timmy’s one glorious moment might come true.

With the incredible amount of arc Timmy had put into his shot, the ball came straight down and hit the back iron between the backboard and the basket and bounced back up into the air. It came down, struck the back iron, and went right back up again. This up and down motion repeated itself to the point that the crowd appeared to be watching some strange version of vertical ping pong. With each bounce, the attained height grew less, until the ball finally came to rest on that flat piece of iron behind the hoop.

Stunned silence overtook the gym. Marty stared at the basket with agonizing disappointment.

“I don’t believe it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before. I don’t think it’s even possible.”

Susan was in disbelief.

“What happens now. Does he get another shot?”

“No. It’s a dead ball. The ref will blow his whistle, and the other team will get the ball. I can’t stand it. He came so close to getting his moment.”

But the ref didn’t blow his whistle. He appeared to be in shock having just witnessed an act that seemed to defy the laws of physics. The entire scene was frozen in place as those present had just witnessed the impossible.

The eerie silence was broken when Will slammed his foot down hard as he stood at the free throw lane. It was act of frustration, more symbolic than purposeful, fueled by empathy for his friend. Perhaps he thought he could jolt that ball into the basket, but the gesture yielded no such result. But then the other St. Mary’s players on the floor at the time followed Will’s lead and began stomping their feet. Timmy’s other teammates jumped off the bench and stomped their feet and clapped their hands. In an act of true sportsmanship seldom seen in the ranks of eighth graders, all the St. John’s players joined in, stomping their feet, hopping up and down, clapping their hands, and shouting as loud as they could. Both coaches were now doing the same, and in a serious breach of officiating propriety, the ref joined in. All the while, Timmy stood motionless at the free-throw line staring at the ball.

The commotion was irresistible. Marty understood the effort, and perhaps in a moment of fanciful optimism, he slammed his foot down on the bleachers. Susan quickly recovered and did the same. Soon all the fans in the bleachers, both the Home and Visitor sections, were stomping their feet and yelling at that ball. Anyone standing at the gym’s perimeter added slapping the wall to their stomping. The small children thoroughly enjoyed the chaos and took full advantage of the open invitation to make as much noise as possible.

A bewildered Father Mel entered the gym to investigate the clamor. Will pointed to the ball resting comfortably on its perch, ever so close to its intended landing spot, and Father Mel immediately understood. The image of Father Mel making his best efforts to attain altitude will long be remembered at St. Mary’s.

The sound was deafening, and Marty could feel the vibration in the stands. If faith can move mountains, maybe, just maybe, this tumultuous effort could move that ball.

But the ball was stubborn and refused to move. The crowd was not discouraged, and their efforts only intensified. The bleachers went past vibration and were now shaking wildly. Susan turned toward Marty, moved close to his ear, and practically shouting said, “You just might be getting your earthquake.”

Then it happened. First a slight vibration, then a bit of motion, and finally the hint of a roll. The crowd went into a frenzy as the ball began edging toward the basket, ever so slowly, half inch by half inch, until it arrived at the rim. It teetered for a moment and then dropped into the basket.

The place went nuts. Timmy raised his hands above his head and leaped into the air. His teammates all rushed to him, congratulating him with high fives, slaps on the back and shoulders, and smothering him with hugs. The ref called the game, and in a symbolic gesture, he presented Timmy with the game ball. The celebration in the stands could only be described as sheer joy.

There are moments in sports history that will live on forever- Bobby Thomson’s home run; Franco Harris and the “Immaculate Reception”; and the Ice Bowl in Green Bay. But in this small town, nothing can match the lore of Timmy’s free throw. As in the case of other spectacular events, far more people will later claim to have witnessed the feat than the seating capacity of the St. Mary’s gym would have allowed. For years to come, the subject would come up at the workplace and in the aisles of grocery stores.

“Did you hear about Timmy’s free throw?”

“Hear about it? Hell, I was there.”

As Marty was chairman of the cleanup committee, he was the last to leave the gym that night. He stopped when he got to the door, paused for a moment, and then looked back at the basket at the far end of the gym. He wiped away a tear, turned off the lights, and slowly walked down the school hallway with a smile that only a dad could appreciate.