My Early Obsession with Basketball

From as early as I can remember, basketball was more than just a game to me—it was a calling. I was only eight years old when I first became obsessed with it. The spark was small but powerful: the back of a Wheaties cereal box in 1967. I remember sitting at the breakfast table, spoon in hand, reading about Jerry West, the legendary guard for the Los Angeles Lakers. His practice routine was simple but relentless: he would pick a spot on the court, and before he could move from that spot, he had to make ten shots in a row.

That story imprinted itself on me. At eight years old, with more determination than coordination, I carried that same idea to the hoop my dad had installed in our driveway. We had a sturdy backboard and rim, bolted firmly into a concrete footing in the yard. The driveway wasn’t perfect but it became my personal arena. I’d pick a spot, sometimes several feet from the basket, and I wouldn’t move until I sank ten in a row. Hours slipped away as I chased that same perfection I had read about on the cereal box.

Looking back, I realize those hours weren’t about proving anything to anyone else. It was pure love for the game, the challenge of repetition, and the satisfaction of hearing the swish when the ball cut cleanly through the net.

Playing Through the Seasons

Aurora, Minnesota, wasn’t known for gentle winters. Snow fell heavy, and cold winds howled through the neighborhood. But neither snow nor subzero temperatures could stop me from playing. When the snow piled up, my brothers and I would shovel the driveway until the concrete reappeared, revealing enough space to bounce a ball. I’d bundle up in a thick coat, hat, and mittens, my breath clouding in the cold air, and I’d shoot baskets until my fingers ached.

The sound of the ball bouncing against the icy pavement was different than in summer—hollow, sharp—but I loved it all the same. Playing in the winter taught me resilience. It showed me that if you love something enough, you’ll find a way to do it no matter the conditions.

Some days, I was joined by the older kids from my brothers' class in the neighborhood—boys four or five years ahead of me. They were bigger, faster, stronger. Playing against them forced me to push myself harder. I had to learn quickly, to shoot faster, to dribble lower, to make up for my smaller frame with sharper focus. Those driveway battles toughened me, and though I was younger, I slowly earned their respect.

Moving to Winona

When my family moved to Winona, everything I had practiced in Aurora began to pay off. Winona wasn’t a small town—it had 18 - 20,000 people back then, far larger than the 2,000 people in Aurora—and for a fourth grader, it felt big, exciting, and full of opportunity. Best of all, they had a competitive youth basketball league.

For the first time, I wasn’t just playing alone in my driveway or against older kids from the neighborhood. Now I was part of a team, playing games that had referees, scoreboards, and bleachers filled with cheering families. I quickly realized I was ahead of most kids my age, not because I was naturally gifted, but because I had spent countless hours in that Aurora driveway practicing shot after shot after shot.

In fourth and fifth grade, I was our team’s leading scorer. In one game, I scored every single point we had --- 23 in a win. I was the unquestioned leader of the team. Game after game, my name appeared at the top of the stat sheets. In fact, it was usually just me and my best friend, Chuck Mueller—playing on separate teams—who led the city in scoring. Week after week, the newspaper printed our names as the top scorers in the league. For a ten or eleven-year-old, there was nothing quite like the thrill of seeing your name in print. We each scored well over 200 points in a 15 game schedule. I've attached a photocopy of one of the newspapers below. In that year we played each team in a 6 team league three times. We lost to 14-1 Peerless Chain and Chuck Mueller twice (we beat them once) and to the Redmen Club once for a record of 12-3. I believe the win over Peerless prompted me to write a spirited typewritten letter to my brother Dave at Cornell University in Ithaca, NY.

A Community Stage

Those games weren’t small affairs. The Winona youth league was well attended. Parents filled the bleachers, and games felt like community events. Every basket, every steal, every rebound echoed through the gym. I loved the energy, the noise, the competition.

But there was one memory that stands far above the rest. At the end of the season, the league chose the two best teams to play a special exhibition game during halftime of a college matchup at St. Mary’s College. To a ten-year-old kid, stepping onto a college court was like stepping into Madison Square Garden.

I’ll never forget that night. The court seemed enormous compared to the tiny gyms we were used to. Running from one end to the other felt like a marathon. But the moment the ball went up, all I cared about was playing the game I loved. My parents were there, sitting in the stands, watching me on a court that felt bigger than life.

We played our hearts out during that halftime show, and the crowd responded with thunderous cheers. They loved watching the little kids run up and down the floor, giving everything we had. Later, during the college game, the pace slowed, the energy faded, and the crowd grew restless. Soon, chants started echoing through the gym: “Bring back the little guys! Bring back the little guys!”

Imagine being ten years old and hearing hundreds of people cheering for you to come back out. That feeling—that mixture of joy, pride, and sheer wonder—etched itself into my memory forever.

Lessons That Stayed With Me

Looking back now, my early obsession with basketball wasn’t just about the game. It was about discipline. It was about passion. It was about learning that if you love something enough, you’ll find ways to practice it in every season, no matter the weather, no matter the obstacles.

Practicing alone in Aurora taught me dedication. Playing against older kids taught me resilience. Competing in Winona taught me confidence. Seeing my name in the paper taught me pride in hard work. And playing at St. Mary’s College taught me the joy of sharing your passion with others.

Those years laid a foundation not just for sports, but for life. They taught me that success comes from repetition, from showing up every day, from pushing yourself even when nobody’s watching. They taught me that sometimes the memories that last forever come not from grand victories but from small moments—the sound of a ball bouncing on a cracked driveway, the sight of your breath in the cold air, the echo of a crowd chanting for the “little guys.”

Closing Reflection

Basketball was my first true obsession, and it shaped so much of who I became. Even now, decades later, I can trace lessons I use in life back to those days in Aurora and Winona. The driveway practices, the snow-shoveling games, the city leagues, and the college halftime show—they all stitched together a story of passion, persistence, and joy. I played basketball well into 40's. There was basketball in school - from middle school and high school in New Lisbon to intramurals in college at Iowa State. Then there was a basketball league at 3M and the countless pick up games in New Lisbon, Mauston, and Plymouth. Reunion games at New Lisbon and the hard fought games against my brothers, Chuck and Tom. Some of the most fun was either playing nerf basketball in our house or basketball with a tennis ball and a open-ended coffee can mounted on a drawing board (you remember those with the drafting table!!!) in our garage. Those games got rough to say the least.

I didn’t know it then, but every shot I took, every game I played, was preparing me not just for basketball but for life itself. And while my playing days eventually faded, the lessons, the memories, and the love for the game have never left me.