A precious game of basketball behind bars that never took place

A simple game of "Horse" can be a great equalizer

A number of years ago, 51 to be precise, I took a class at UC Davis that inadvertently introduced me to a unique group of athletes. I wrote an essay about that experience and later shared it with readers of The Davis Enterprise.

The athletes in question were able only to practice their skills and few would ever be given the chance to use them in legitimate competition.

These athletes were prisoners, behind bars for a variety of crimes, none of which had anything to do with their athletic ability or lack of it. Those of us in the class were not there for any athletic purpose. Like I said, I met these guys accidentally. Our purpose was in another area, though I'm sure we learned more from them than they from us.

One afternoon, as I walked by the prison canteen where the men could buy such things as potato chips or candy bars - if they could afford these luxuries - I noticed that this prison had a gymnasium. It was a small gym and was strictly off limits to us in our easily identifiable non-prison garb.

I stood by an open door to the gym and watched a group of inmates in a pick-up game of basketball. It didn't look much different from what happens in any gymnasium or on any playground anywhere in the country. There was a lot of showboating and self-interested shot selection, very little passing to one's teammates, and a whole bunch of accidental fouling that was supposed to be self-policed, but wasn't.

There were some good athletes and some not so good ones.

While I watched, one of the inmates caught my attention. He held the ball up high and signaled me to come in and shoot a few. He knew I was from the outside, and I knew he was to be inside a good deal longer. I expected resentment from him, but I found only a smile and a desire to match his skills with mine.

He probably knew he could beat me and then maybe we'd be on even footing, though I doubt that was his motivation. He was simply being friendly to another human being about something as simple and ordinary as shooting a basketball.

I took one tentative step inside and he called out to me.

"C'mon, we'll play Horse."

Now there's a game I could never win. I'd always lose when the other guy got the upper hand and started making layups that I somehow couldn't match. I lost a lot of ice cream bars making nickel bets on Horse games while I was growing up and shooting baskets outdoors on the hardtop at West Davis Elementary.

"I'm not supposed to come in," I replied. "We're supposed to be in the next wing in five minutes."

"Who cares?" he shot back. "What can they do, put you in prison?"

That would have seemed like a sick joke from anyone else, but he was justifiably proud of his humor.

I took a few more steps into the room and toward the hoop. He threw a ball my way and I expected him to bet me a quarter on a 30-footer.

A prison guard approached, shook his head in disapproval, and told me in no uncertain terms to "get outta there."

He suggested that it might be dangerous for me in the gym, and he was right. I was in grave danger of losing a quarter. But never in my life had I wanted so badly to play basketball, and this one time I couldn't.

It wasn't that this guy couldn't get a game. I'm sure he had plenty of challengers. But this would have been a special game. When you win on a basketball court, you can isolate it. It doesn't matter whether you're a prisoner or an outsider. In this case, the past is wiped away and for the length of the game at least, you're the same.

I was sorry I didn't have a chance to show him my best underhanded free throw or to see his best hook shot. Horse is that kind of game. Ordinary shots aren't allowed.

A ball bounded my way again and I rolled it back as I waved goodbye. I could see he was as disappointed as I was, but we both laughed as I left, realizing that the same fate that had put him where he was and me where I was, would now prevent us from playing a simple game of basketball.

It would have been a good game, too. The disadvantages that put him there and the advantages that had kept me out would not have counted once the first shot was taken.

Unfortunately, it never happened.

I returned to the prison several times after that and looked for him in the gym each time. I even wore my high-top basketball shoes once, just in case.

But I never saw him again.

Maybe I just missed him. Or maybe, just maybe, he was shooting baskets on the outside.

On Christmas Eve, I hope he is.

Reach me at bobdunning@thewaryone.com

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