1979

Some folks are alarmed and distressed when faced with the arrival of a birthday ending in zero. Not me. This was a big one. 5. 0.

The people around me were near frantic. Should we have a party? A surprise trip? What do you want? What shall we do?

Everybody… calm down.

I like birthdays. I like my birthday. It’s a relatively simple process. We’ll eat at home. Hamburgers. French fries. The homemade kind. Fried, not baked. Cooked onions. Cottage cheese with a cherry on top. Birthday cake from Harris Teeter. A quarter sheet cake. White cake. White butter cream icing with roses in any color.

Gifts are fun, but unnecessary. We’ll sing. We’ll play.

As a child, I never had a birthday party. Not in the way we think of birthday parties nowadays, anyway. It was family.

Courtney Craver tried to plan a birthday party for me before she married Michael. It didn’t work. My mother had a conniption. Thankfully, I missed the moment. Courtney cried and my mother was angry.

Y’all. Y’all. Y’all.

I tried to explain to my mother. It was useless.

I’ll forever and ever and ever love Courtney for that moment. It was the only birthday party I almost had.

Anyway. Bring on 50. It’s time I started getting discounts for navigating half a century. I’m ready.

This whole annual festivity preparation set me to thinking. 1979.

I was nine years-old. Groundhog Day. February 2^nd. A Tuesday.

I rode the bus from Old Town Elementary to North Forsyth.

The kids were practicing the musical in what is now Griffin Auditorium. Mrs. Trotter was leading the rehearsal. I walked in the back door and the cast began to sing, “Happy Birthday to you…”

That was neat.

“Your mama is in her room.”

I bolted for Room 150. Right next to the gym. I crashed through door. Mama was practicing with a handful of kids while Trotter had everybody else on the stage.

“Go next door. Leon wants to see you.”

Next door meant the gym. Leon meant Leon Williams. Number 14. My favorite North Forsyth basketball player. Ever. I loved Leon. Leon loved me.

It was not uncommon for me to cry if the Vikings fell behind on the hardwood. It was equally likely that Leon would “accidentally” throw the ball into the stands wherever we were sitting. He would jump into the bleachers, pat me on the head and say, “Jeffrey, don’t cry. We got this. Don’t worry.” And off he would go.

The coach was Olon Shuler. He was never happy when Leon tossed the ball into the stands. It didn’t matter. Most of the time, with rare exception, Leon and company did got this. North won. All the time. That team never learned how to lose.

I loved that team. That team loved me. I went to LOTS of their practices. Coach Shuler would occasionally call my name at the end of practice.

“Jeffrey, come here. One shot. If Jeffrey makes it, practice is over. If he misses, y’all run.”

I invariably missed. I couldn’t shoot then. I can’t shoot now. Shuler knew I was unlikely to make contact with the backboard.

Every player on the North Forsyth varsity basketball team did everything they could to teach me how to shoot the ball. It didn’t stick. I felt bad for them. They ran countless sprints thanks to me. I like to think I helped them win games by increasing their stamina in late-game situations. It’s the little things.

I peeked in the gym. The team was waiting. It was Tuesday. I was ready for the game. North and Page. In Greensboro. I could hardly wait for Mama to get done with practice so we could pick up Nannie and Virginia, eat dinner and get on the road. I was bouncing off the walls.

Leon called my name, “Jeffrey!” I ran into the arms of my hero. He had a basketball. It said, “TEAM – 1979.”

Everybody had signed the ball. Leon. Coach Shuler. Mike Muse. Walter Faye. Mike King. Bobby Kimbrough. Elmer Davis. The ball was mine. The best birthday present. Ever.

“Tonight is for you. This is your game. We’re gonna win this one for you. We got this.”

I was beyond excited. It was Christmas and Disney and birthday cake, all at the same time. I think the players sang.

Dinner happened. Nannie and Virginia got in the car. We headed for Alma Pinnix Drive in Greensboro, home of the Page Pirates.

The game was close. North was down three. Less than a minute to play. Leon got fouled. Somebody hollered, “Timeout!” His mama climbed out of the stands, stood behind Leon in the huddle and rubbed his shoulders while Coach Shuler drew a play on the floor with a piece of chalk. (He would rub the chalk away with his wingtip dress shoes as the players returned to the court.)

I was in tears. It was loud.

The referee handed Leon the ball, “Two shots.” The first shot bounced off the back of the rim, sailed straight up five feet into the air and dropped through the basket.

Down two. “One shot.” The second free throw hit nothing but net. Down one.

Page inbounded the ball. Leon went to the floor. A Page player jumped on top of him. There was a pile of humanity. It got louder. Fans hollering. Coaches waving. Whistles blowing. Leon came up with the ball. The official said, “Jump ball.”

Jump balls in 1979 were not what jump balls are today. None of that alternating possession stuff. The two players fighting for possession would literally jump for the ball at center court.

I don’t know who it was, but the Page player looked to be at least twelve feet tall. And Leon. We had no chance. Everybody knew it. Everybody except Leon, that is. It got real, real loud.

Leon and Shrek jumped. The Page player tipped the ball to a streaking teammate, who found himself all alone with nothing but air between the Pirates and victory. The crowd roared.

10.  9.  8.

The Page player went up for the coronation dunk. My cheeks were wet with tears. This was my game.

I couldn’t hear the ball bounce. The last moments unfolded in slow motion.

7.  6. 5.

The giant in a Pirate uniform missed. The ball clanked off the back of the rim. Mike King collected the rebound near mid-court.

4.  3.

The final pass to Walter Faye, standing underneath the goal.

2.  1.

Dunk. Horn. Vikings win. One point.

The North side rushed the floor. The Page side stood in silence. My mama would not let me join the fracas on the court.

Leon found me. “Happy Birthday! I told you, we got this! Love you.”

Love you, too, Leon Williams.

The best birthday present. Ever.