Our incessant whining finally wore him down. It wasn’t bad really, it only took two years of non-stop begging to convince him to install a basketball goal on the front of the garage. We were relentless, but eventually dad grew tied of our petitions and just did it. After all, we really needed the reps if we were going to turn pro and make tons of money!
We didn’t have much in those days, except what dad built or mom made, and in that particular case the backboard was handmade by dad from wood scraps retrieved from the dumpster at Newell Coach where he worked. Patched together like a quilt with dowel rods, Elmer’s wood glue and staples, it was reinforced with 1” iron straps across the back. The horizontal straps were welded to a box frame made of 1” steel tubing and the vertical braces were anchored to the front of the garage with four 6” lag screws. Yeah, Bob Glover built it to withstand two pre-teen boys who were even more destructive than a Cat 5 tornado.
He work hard on it like everything else he did. If our dad built it, it was done right! Whether it was a make-shift basketball backboard or a spectacular 29’ 11 3/4” sailboat (he built that while we were in high school), the craftsmanship was first rate through and through. He was meticulous with even the smallest of detail and his hands moved over wood like Picasso over canvas. He was a master craftsman if there ever was one. He filled every hole and every crevice in the backboard with wood filler or epoxy and then he sanded, primed and painted it. Two coats, at least. It was bright white of course with the customary red square and when he mounted it to the garage we all stood there in awe admiring it, for a minute.
I seriously doubt that it was regulation height, but we didn’t care in the least. None of us could touch the net anyway. I think it might have been Barry Stinson that made the first shot and earned the right to name the game. He chose HORSE of course, he always did. Barry was taller than all of us then and he liked to launch the big bombs that none of us could make.
The gravel driveway made dribbling difficult, so we just passed the ball mostly, and walked a lot when were were playing two-on-two. (Sorry, I think they call it traveling these days). The rough surface wreaked havoc on our ball, but I didn’t mind, the chunky surface made it easier to palm the ball for my famous sky hook! Hop, skip, jump, swish just like Lew Alcindor. Well, once or twice anyway.
We had a long driveway and on most days we would back up all the way to the street, take off at full speed (no need to dribble) and launch high into the air hoping against hope that today would be the day that we reach the magic 10’6” apex. Sadly, that day never came, at least not for me anyway. Dennis stood an inch taller than me and I think he might have reached orbit once against Wyandotte in the NEO tournament. But that was years latter. Dennis, Rod, Rex, David, Craig and Big Don spanked the Bears that day!
But, I digress, back to the story. I’ll never forget one particular fall day when me, Dennis, Barry and Marlon were playing. The air was crisp so the ball was extra hard and so were the bi-fold wooden doors that dad built for the front of the garage. We kept crashing into them on the way down for extra effect to show how powerful our dunks were (uh, um, maybe they were more like layups).
Dad always told us not to play with the doors open because there were too many things to damage or break inside the garage with an errant shot. But on this particular day we decided to open them anyway. He wouldn’t be home from work for hours, we reasoned, he will never know. Mom was in the house getting things ready for supper so she was too busy to notice too. So, we carefully folded back the bi-fold accordion style doors to give us more room to do cools trick shots underneath the basket.
We had already grown tired of dunking the ball that day so we started playing HORSE again. Marlon liked to do all kinds of crazy layups and Barry favored the long bombs, as I mentioned. We played for at least an hour, retrieving several shots from the interior of the garage before passing the ball to the next trick shot artist. We clanged shots off of all kinds of things that day, yeah we were doing cool trick shots long before the Dude Perfect guys were ever born! But we didn’t break anything, so dad would never know.
We played so long in the cold that our hands started to turn blue, so we decided to go inside the garage and warm up. Dad worked in the garage every night after dinner, year-round, so he had a little gas heater in the back. It was small but it did the trick. Unfortunately, we left the doors open too long and the cold wind had blown out the pilot light. No worries, dad always kept a big box of matches on the window sill for just such an occasion.
I remember Dennis kneeling down in front of the stove, match in hand, looking for the little pilot hole on the side. We had just closed the doors and there was a distinct odor in the garage now. I took a step back and glanced down the side of the boat dad was working on and that’s when I saw it. The 2-gallon round blue gas can that we used for the lawn mowers. A stray ball must have knocked it over and gas had spilled all over the garage floor. “No wonder I feel light-headed,” I thought.
Dennis was on the opposite side of the boat in the back corner of the garage. Down on his knees, leaning forward, he must have been below the vapor level because he didn’t smell the fumes. As if in slow motion, I saw his hand spring out match in hand. And before I could say STOP, he did it. With one quick flick of the wrist I heard the tell-tale sound of a matchhead dragging across the concrete floor. Then almost instantly came the WOOSH! And then the BOOM!
Fire flashed across the garage floor instantaneously and the concussion of the explosion knocked me back into the workbench. Dennis lifted off the floor like a pop bottle rocket and I think all four of us wet ourselves. Countless tools came flying off the shelves and at least a dozen Gerber Baby Food jars shattered, spilling nuts, bolts and screws all over the place. I swear the walls of the garage ballooned out and then rapidly snapped back like a rubber band. The garage doors flew open and four boys exited at warp speed right behind them. White as ghosts, and cold in the seat.
Miraculously the fire blew itself out and thankfully no one was seriously injured. Just a little singed hair on Dennis’ arm and I think Marlon might have lost an eyebrow. We were scared within a inch of our life and I’m quite sure that all four of us had to change pants afterwards. But, thank God, we were not injured. At least not by the explosion…
The blast not only rattled the garage it shook the whole entire house. The windows, the doors, the lights, the tables…and not just ours, but the neighbor’s house too. It took about ten seconds for Mom to appear on the front porch. She came running out, spatula in hand, with flour all over the front of her new apron. I think she even had flour in her hairs but I can’t say for sure because none of us had the guts to look her in the eye.
Mom had been preparing fried chicken for dinner and now she and the kitchen were both covered in gooey egg wash and flour. It was about that time when she utter the words we had heard so many times before but never enjoyed: “You boys just wait till your dad gets home.”
The next hour, sitting there on the front porch dangling our feet, might have been the longest hour of my life. I’m not sure who was more surprised when dad got home; mom or us. Anna Lue, our mom, said “Bob, the boys have something to tell you.” He instinctively said, “What have they done now.” And then we proceed to explain how it was all Marlon and Barry’s fault, but he wasn’t buying it. We expected a secondary explosion would be promptly forthcoming, but it wasn’t. He looked us in the eye and said, “You boys will listen to me next time, won’t you.”
We nodded our heads vehemently in agreement, but we and he knew that would never happen! “Boys will be boys,” he said to mom on his way into the house after a long day of work. That’s when she threw the chicken at him.
So the next time you see, hear or read a story about a flash mob appearing somewhere out of nowhere to surprise an audience. Maybe, just maybe, you will remember the Dirty Little Glover Boys, the original basketball flash mob!