The Old Springville Gym

                                         

     Photo (c) Joni McDaniel 2015

My eyes didn’t want to believe what I was reading on Facebook; it was a simple post which stated “the gym is gone.” The photos that accompanied the statement left no doubt with flames that appeared to be shooting straight to heaven from where the roof should have been. A sacred place of my childhood had perished, and my heart was broken.

It was a cold crisp December evening, snow dusted the ground, and with the falling temperatures mom had bundled me tight as mummy. The sense of anticipation enveloped me when I saw the parking lot of the gym was almost full. I was about to see my first basketball game. I didn’t know what to expect.

Dad found a parking spot, and when I opened the door I could hear the sounds that emanated from behind the closed doors of the gym. I could hear the ring of a basketball being bounced against the hardwood floor. As we approached the door we could hear the opposition cheerleaders urging their team to victory.

It was my introduction to Hoosier Hysteria. We came to see my cousin Danny Banks play for the Springville Hornets. When we approached the door there seemed to be a roar from inside. The visitors were warming up on the floor, and as dad purchased our tickets the hometown Hornets came out of the locker room.

Danny led the way as the hometown Hornets circled the court before breaking down into two lines for layup drills. The local crowd stood as one and cheered. I was hooked on basketball. The old scoreboard straight of the movie Hoosiers would tick down to the start of the game. The place was packed, which didn’t take a large crowd in the tiny gym, but the whole town seemed to be at the game.

It would only be a couple of years before I played for the Hornets as would my brother, as my dad and his brothers. The sense of history, and community was always felt in that small gym.

When I came home on leave from the Air Force in the late 70’s, I knew where to find my friends, and a friendly game of basketball.  Well as friendly as Hoosiers can get playing basketball. The sense of knowing you were home again warmed my soul.

As the years went by, I would still drive by on a December night, and if I listened close, I could hear the roar of the crowd in a tightly contested game from long ago. I’m eight years old walking across a snow-covered parking lot with dad, my heart races in anticipation for what for what awaited me behind the closed door. It was a love affair with Hoosier Hysteria that waited just beyond the entrance. The gym may no longer exist, but in my mind, and stories it will live on.

Joe Glasgow is a former senior staff writer at Fanstop.com, and is the author of the book Play Ball! Growing Up With Baseball  https://amzn.to/2o4M62h

Sunday Morning With Lindsey Nelson

Former Senior Staff Writer

at Fanstop.com. 

Joe Glasgow is a former senior staff writer at Fanstop.com, and is the author of the book Play Ball! Growing Up With Baseball https://amzn.to/2o4M62h

The first crisp Sunday morning of fall brings memories of long ago when the Notre Dame Fighting Irish rarely lost, and my cousin Tim and I relished in their victories. A simple time measured in the success of Notre Dame rather than our personal plight.

When times were hard but our family bonded tight.

Our Sunday mornings were filled the savory smells of frying eggs, grandma’s gravy simmering over on the stove. The call of her homemade biscuits baking would awake us from our sleep. Your stomach would begin to growl as the aroma drifted through the house.

Our grandparents did their best to help their two struggling daughters with seven children between them. My grandfather, who survived marching across France with Patton’s Third Army (a matter he rarely spoke of) would offer up thanks for God’s blessings. It was rare that a morsel was left on the table. It was a time of a lot of talk around the table, and no one needed to be encouraged to eat.

Following the breakfast, my grandparents were off to church. My grandfather was the pastor of a small country church. Dishes were done, and my cousin Tim and I settled in for the replay of Saturday’s Notre Dame football game. The telecasts would begin with Lindsey Nelson introducing himself “Hello, I am Lindsey Nelson.” To us he seemed like an uncle that was about to retell us of the game from the previous day. Unlike now, it was a time when we could only get three channels, and on a good day we could get Channel Six out of Indianapolis.

We would rush outside no matter the weather and begin to let our imaginations run wild with Notre Dame football. We had a well-worn football that was almost too slick to handle with our small hands from years of usage. We would toss the football all afternoon reliving the highlights of the game.

It was also the glorious time to follow the Notre Dame Fighting Irish under Ara Parseghian known as the “era of Ara.” In our minds, they never lost. On that rare occasion that Notre Dame would lose, we would run our plays that saved the game for the old Notre Dame. Occasionally, we would allow our brothers to participate, but not often. It was our imagination, our world. We were fans despite a high school kid telling us we couldn’t root for Notre Dame because we were not Catholic. It didn’t stop us. 

Notre Dame Fighting Irish football on those Sunday mornings was fuel for our imagination. No video games, computers or other gadgets kids enjoy today; just two boys, a football, and a free Sunday in football season.

We have gone our different paths in life. I enlisted in the Air Force, and my cousin Tim joined the Marines. I am quiet and reflective, and Tim is boisterous and quick to opinion. We were and are more than cousins: We are brothers. As I grow older, I fondly reflect on those simpler times and pleasures more and more often.