BASKETBALL BO

By ADAM JACK PELLEY

Dive into the captivating world of "Basketball Bo" by Adam Jack Pelley, where the universe itself unfolds within the turbulent depths of Bo Tanner's soul. From the very start, the love for basketball stands as his steadfast companion, an unwavering force that echoes through the tumultuous corridors of his

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hemingway Publishers
• Release date: Apr 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9781961619494

Book preview

Foreword

Adam Pelley, like all true authors, needs to write. He writes about and returns to the good things that are important to him: basketball, for sure, but also love, God, and the support of friends. And then a pull in the other direction, in writing about mental illness, addiction, and bottoming out. He writes about how small seemingly insignificant choices can lead one downhill, but also what it is like to gradually pull oneself out of that downward slide. Adam writes about struggle, then—physical, spiritual, mental—but also of people standing by each other, waiting for each other. His books cover a long time span, years of life, and in doing so they show how change happens slowly—and then sometimes suddenly, in moments of grace.

Basketball Bo develops these themes that have shaped Adam’s writing over the years. His new book bottoms out deeper than his earlier works have dared, with the death of a mother, then a girlfriend, and then mental collapse with addiction, schizophrenia, life on the streets, and hospitalization. Adam has been to some of these dark places. But, like Bo his main character, he has come back. At one point in his novel Adam writes The final sentence wasn’t written. The reference is to the life of Bo, but I suspect Adam may also have been thinking about his own writing and life. We are lucky to have him, and his writing.

By,

Len Diepeveen,

Retired English Professor,

Dalhousie University.

Table Of Contents

Chapters

Foreword

SIT

ROCK

SNOW

BACKWARDS

KICK

FEVER

PATRIOT

DANCE

TRYOUT

HER

MALL

NUMBER

ANGEL

WHERE

RED

BREATHE

SUMMER

BRIGHT

ENCHANTMENT

CALL

PUSH

DRINK

CLEAR

TEAM

READY

PRACTICE

CAPTAINS

POT

GAME

SCREAM

CONSTELLATION

TOGETHER

DRIVE

SPEAK

WHITE

TIP

GLOW

LOVE

TIME

REST

ROYALS

EVERYTHING

NEW

KNOW

NEXT

CAMP

SATISFIED

POSTAGE

DESTINY

AWARD

BEGINNING

ASK

PAIN

GO

FLY

MUMBLE

RAIN

SIGN

HIGHWAY

TORONTO

One

SING

BLOSSOM

OXFORD

GROWL

FREEZE

CLEAN

LISTEN

WHISPER

BRICK

HOLE

NOD

PAPER

GO

AGAIN

SIDEWALK

HUG

ANYWHERE

STEAK

POINT

WARM

NEED

SAME

LEGEND

BANNER

PEACE

RESIDENCE

ANKLE

THANKS

DESERVE

BELIEVE

DRAFT

SIT

He is cold. The freeze floated from his seat to his shoulders, as though the sidewalk was calling him. His hands were so numb that he couldn’t feel his fingers as his palms tried to warm themselves inside of the gloves, cut off at the knuckles so that he could count the small change in his cup.

Over time, he had grown accustomed to this particular seat. The same pigeons he often tried to feed would often gather around him, but he had no money to offer. His belly would grumble, screaming for a charitable donation: food, drink, coffee to warm the body and mind when the snow would fill his beard with memories of the love he couldn’t kindle in his soul anymore.

Although he was empty of a material nature, he still glowed in the light of love and aspiration. He treasures what matters to him. Yet, he yearns for what matters the most. In any case, to the world, he has nothing.

The same people pass by each day, heading to computer screen jobs that take them back home to their digital families, a sense of serenity. Some days, they see the man alive, a glow that could touch every treetop, making the leaves spread to the sun, if there were tall life in the Canadian chill. Most days, he is spiritless, like a dark cloud guarding the sun from making anything grow.

When he is in his dark moments, he sits there, looking at the sidewalk in front of him. He doesn’t talk. It seems like he doesn’t move. Blinking is a strenuous exercise. He just holds out his cup like a statue made for admiration. Admired enough, you would have to pay to see it.

But when he feels alive, recalling his heart in the past and his success with his sneakers, he feels like he isn’t on the streets. Yet, this doesn’t happen often. Experience exacerbates his essence. Psychosis brought him to the streets.

He sits on the sidewalk with his cup and his sign. A sign the people of Halifax have grown to recognize, but few have accepted the invitation. A sign for a person in need,

WILL PLAY BALL FOR FOOD. He has his cup, but he also has his ball. He sets his cup down and spins the old leather ball on his finger for minutes, diverting his frigid mind from the stone-cold streets. People watch, but don’t take him up on the cardboard offer. They think the crazy bum’s conscience spins all the same.

Pigeons are drawn to the sight, getting closer with every rotation. The man stops because pigeon poop would deter pedestrians from giving more than nickels.

He stays there until he has enough for food. Until he remembers the one, he cares about. Until he feels his only real friend in the world come to visit him.

He sees her coming. She scampers near the sidewalk, avoiding any human hindrance. They have gotten to know each other, from the man having a cheap sandwich underneath an oak tree, full of ever-reaching energy, to clouds in a Nova Scotia summer. She just wants a nibble.

Wherever the man sets up on the street, she shows up. She is the reason he rests in that particular spot on the sidewalk. She crawls up his leg, up his chest, on his shoulder. She nods to him as if everything is okay.

The man feels he isn’t alone in the cold. He has his basketball, and he has a friend. How long must he parade a sign and hold a cup? Can he ever find a world without darkness overwhelming him to the point where the street gives him an indigent identity?

He looks to the sky and realizes he can see more stars where he is from than in the city on any night. He wants to realize in all this chaos, there is more light inside of him.

ROCK

The sunlight hit his eyelids like a new flower wanting to grow. The window was a gateway to a new day. He did a sit-up, and he felt it in his hands. It never left his side.

He started playing because there wasn’t much to do in Petite Riviere except watch the waves. They came in and shaped the coast where rocks intimidated the sand as if giants were watching over a kingdom. He got to know these rocks, jumping from boulder to boulder, leaping like a king, ruling what he could of the Atlantic. But he had a special rock, one that was bigger than the others, tougher to take on.

It took him a while to scale his sordid stone. But after he knew the climb, he did it with ease, knowing each lift with his eyes closed, mind aware. He started to become so close to this rock that he had to give it a name. So, why not the same name as himself?

He went to his next-door neighbor.

Hey, Al, do you have some paint and a paintbrush? he asked.

Sure. What for? Al asked.

Just gotta do something, he responded.

Al didn’t hesitate. His neighbor was a good kid.

The boy took the brush and paint and painted his name, and the rock’s new name, in bright blue letters, like the sky and the sea knew since the creation of the rise,

BO

Satisfied with his coastal sanctuary, it was time for his worship. It was not to a God that he truly believed created a cosmos no one could explain. His Sunday morning excursions to the local Anglican church came close. His mother noticed he had an understanding of divine love at a young age. He thought of God many nights lying on Bo, picking stars and giving them names, similar to his favorite NBA players: Jordan, Malone, etc.

But the Bo in human form really worshipped a ten-foot-high structure that was built before he was born. An early childhood memory was his mom hanging a net from the hard iron halo, a basketball hoop Bo considered a wooden angel. The younger his age, the larger his goal was, dominating every dream of fancy and quest. The more he grew, the more the basket grew on him, paint chipping off because the angel taught how grace was given.

But his athletic cross would be nothing without the object of play, the world in his hands that brought his being together.

The basketball: the promise to play, the hinge to hope, the secret to sanity.

He slept with it; he ate with it. His mother would worry if Bo didn’t have the ball near him. Whenever Bo realized a new trick or discovered a new way to score the ball, he would tell his mother. Aside from the ball and the rock, his mother was pretty much all he had.

Bo didn’t know his father, and he never really asked questions. He saw all of his school friends and their parents happy, smiling because they had security. Bo had his mother. She brought him up with little help, working a shift job at the Michelin Tire plant in Bridgewater. Bo was quiet and never caused any trouble. He had a fatherly companion who helped him through the times when he needed advice from an elder. It talked when he shot because it always came back. It would never desert him. Whenever its voice hit the ground, it always returned with silent sentiment. Basketball was his mentor, confidant, parent, and friend. He didn’t call it Dad because it didn’t give birth to him. If it did, his face would look like leather, and he would roll like a rhyme.

Every couple of years, his mother would get him a new ball, but each time, the name on the ball would be the same: SPALDING.

Bo, at the age of five, went to his mother, held up his leather love, and shouted, Look, Ma, It’s Paul!

Yes, it is! she replied.

Where there was Bo, there was Paul. Paul was sent to worship with a kid and an angel.

Al would sometimes hide and watch Bo play until bedtime.

Bo took Paul to the rock and gazed up at the universe.

You and me, Paul, Bo said. You and me.

Bo tossed Paul in the air so he could get a sign from the stars.

You and me, Paul wanted to say as he looked down at Bo, the sand sparkling up at the night. Bo thought he heard something but thought it was just God passing Paul back into his hands.

You and me.

SNOW

He looked out of his window as Paul rolled off the bed and hit the half-opened door, shutting it as if to tell Bo to stay in bed. Bo didn’t realize that his eyes were open. Usually, if closed, everything was black. The only thing Bo could see was his dream of winning the NBA championship, a dream he had at least twice a week. But the window that was staring him in the face was white, like a piece of paper he could write his dreams on.

When the window wasn’t white, and it was a school day, the yellow bus would be sitting in the driver’s driveway. Today, like most days, basketball was his education. Before the school bus swung by the narrow road to pick up the few students who may have already finished their homework, Bo and Paul were at the hoop where the sun touched a calm, crystal horizon, a sun that seemed to want to go into the hoop itself.

But today there was snow - a blizzard. He wouldn’t get to the blue rock, Bo. He was always told to stay away from the cold because his mother was scared that he might get sick. The weather telecast and the living room window said the snow had stopped. But Bo didn’t care. A blown-out blizzard was a brute opponent he owned. The rock he had was in his hands.

He grabbed the two shovels from the baby barn and started the strenuous task of preparing to practice his love in the winter. After one dig of the white gold, it seemed it would replace itself as if the frost didn’t want Bo to feel his focus. Bo had his treasure. The more snow heaved and asphalt was discovered, the more a sense of joy jumped from his mind to his hands. He would finish shoveling with one hand and dribble Paul with the other.

After moving snow on to more snow, the world became even calmer after moving snow onto more snow, as if God told the snow that Bo was meant to play. Bo started shooting. Dust of white would fall to the ground from the top of a now perfect-looking angel as Paul became really cold in Bo’s hands. Bo felt the cold made him tougher, even more in tune with Paul. He stayed outside with his heralded one all day. When the nights came, he continued. The light from the porch illuminated Bo’s court enough so that he could just see the ball in front of him. He thought he knew every part of his life. He knew every part of basketball. The snow this day, playing into a frigid February evening, made the basketball stage a little brighter. The shoveled drifts on the side of the playing surface became his silent audience that wanted to play guard Bo by returning to the court and not letting the ball bounce.

But he fought the snow and the cold, playing through any kind of weather because he found what he loved at an early age. Basketball was his beloved. When he finally came into the house, forgetting the shovels outside because he was so tired from his battle with a bygone blizzard, his mother had warm clothes, warm emotions, and a warm drink. After watching some basketball on television, he went to bed with Paul in his hands. Bo would brave any weather, any circumstance, and any situation. He just wanted to play. Bo was basketball."

BACKWARDS

It was hot—sweltering. Sweat dripped from the sand to the stones on the shore. Families flocked to the beaches, letting the sun transform their skin into bronze before the inevitable burn, masked by a lotion that smelled like fun.

Bo loved the ocean. A skilled swimmer, he often ventured so far out that the thought of sharks lurking beneath, drawn by the scent of blood from a cut on his foot—a small slice from a glass shard on the wet, hard sand—crossed his mind. Yet, he always made it back home. Paul was waiting at home, and swimming served as a reprieve from the ball.

Upon returning home, Bo headed straight to Paul.

Missed you, buddy, Bo exclaimed, embracing Paul as if reuniting with a long-lost family member at a reunion that was years in the making. Bo felt as if Paul winked at him with the black lines that adorned the ball.

The sun dominated the day, and the earth orbited in its light. Bo felt like he held the world in his hands, with Paul being that light. Bo’s day began with the sun’s cracking and ended with the whisper of the moon. Birds chirped at the first shot, and crickets joined in with the last rebound. If the ball didn’t pass through the basket perfectly, hitting the backboard with the right sound, making a natural swish through the net like making the catch any man does when he finds glory, he would shoot again. He would shoot from the same spot until it felt right—the basket, the jump, the release—a sporting pen writing a story of perfection. Paul understood this; it wasn’t an obsession but more than love.

One day, while Bo and Paul were having their routine bonding, kids from up the road, riding their bicycles, spotted Bo not missing a shot, attempting to touch the angel. They thought he was weird because he didn’t socialize or engage with local boys interested in video games and camping stories. The boys dismounted their bikes and stared at Bo, their eyes emitting bolts of pressure, a silent assertion of superiority. Bo picked up Paul and stared right back, a brewing storm beneath his feet—a stormy standoff on an otherwise calm and bright day.

As the two groups faced off, Bo held Paul straight in front of him, his back to the basket, as if on the verge of an answered prayer. With both hands, he threw the ball over his head. Paul soared through the air like a seagull ready to perch on a secret—the secret of Bo’s skills. The ball hit the awesome angel, effortlessly sinking into the hoop as if Bo had practiced the move countless times before, although he never had.

The boys hastily mounted their bikes, pedaling away as fast as they could, astounded by what they had witnessed and perhaps scared because they knew they couldn’t replicate it. Bo watched their wheels spin away, turned around, and saw Paul slowly spin back to his feet. The sun had set, and the moon began to cast its spiffy shine on a secret shot.

Good day, Bo said.

Good day, Paul replied."

KICK

He woke from his dream as he heard Paul hit the floor as if the world was on basketball time. In his dream, he was the master of the world, controlling everything with a spin that only changed with knowledge. The more he grew to know basketball, the more vivid the dream became. With the ball in his hands, he circled a light that was filled with love and leniency. It seemed like nothing failed with that light because that ball never failed to go through the hoop. Bo knew it. Paul knew it.

Lately, however, the dream has changed. He was plagued with a question that made him cling to his friend. The ball comforted him, but he was surrounded by a dark tunnel of uncertainty where he saw nothing, not even the sport he loved. He couldn’t see through it. It was like a night sky with nothing even stars gave up, and the heavens were reachable only with his basketball. But with this new vision, he couldn’t find the sleep-in front of him. The absence of warmth and repose made him search for Paul the instant the day broke. His body hit the carpet as Paul smacked him in the face. Paul wanted to reassure him that everything was OK.

He picked up Paul and dribbled him down each step to the kitchen. His mother had everything ready- breakfast, lunch in his lunch box, and his basketball sneakers by the door. Bo had been wearing Jordans his entire life, but as he grew, so did the style. When his toes started to bust out of the front, his mother would surprise him with a new pair at the foot of his bed. Paul saw them first.

Bo got on the bus and always sat up front. Delores, his pilot to public teaching, watched the game, too. Though not well-versed in participation, she loved to watch the pure action. She would watch games in high school gyms, a place where Bo wanted to play, a goal he practiced for. Or she watched on TV what society has chosen to worship other than the goodness that is only visible through the kindness of a heart. Bo and Delores would discuss morning highlights from TSN, and basketball became a beautiful experience during their bus rides.

Bo didn’t realize it, but he wasn’t looked at the same as the other kids. His peers thought he was strange because he always had that ball that meant nothing to them. All they had were their stories about who was cuter and how the bottle was spun the right way on the weekend.

Bo had Paul at his desk in school, writing his work with his hand while Paul would give him answers to tests from his lap. Bo’s teacher sometimes thought to remove Bo’s basketball from the classroom, but it didn’t cause much distraction as Paul didn’t make any noise.

Recess was a rhyme for Bo. If you ever needed to find him, he would be at the hoop, his poetic praise. Shooting, layups, and dribbling techniques to outdo that invisible kindness he always wanted to thank when they played.

On the day in question, Bo had just started practicing long three-point shots when Paul careened off the hoop and backboard and went toward the swings. He rolled to the feet of one of his classmates, who had witnessed his miraculous shot. The classmate picked up Paul, held him straight in front of him, and smiled a grin that caught Bo off guard.

You like this, don’t you? the classmate asked.

Bo said nothing. Fright started to fill his feet and fingers. This boy had his best friend.

The classmate looked around at the rest of the elementary school’s eyes, excited because an adolescent encounter never really happened on the playground.

If you want this, go get it!!!

The boy kicked the ball high in the air toward the field. A dark trail of empty dust followed Paul as he traveled farther from Bo. Basketball was more than light to Bo. It was existence. He started running after his friend as the rest of the playground laughed and returned to their activities. Bo got his friend and checked him over like he had been in a one-punch fight and had survived a jealous knockout.

All of his peers knew how good he was at basketball. None of his peers were that good at anything else. Bo needed some peace after the confrontation, so he went back inside the school and finished the day. He didn’t make eye contact with his classmates and didn’t speak much to the bus driver. He clung to Paul for comfort.

Bo went straight to his amicable angel and played until the moon turned the stars on. He didn’t need to get even. He had his own court to do that in.

FEVER

He got his seat in the stands. It was the same seat he had the first time he came to watch high school basketball at Parkview Education Centre. It seemed as if he was rooted into the wood, growing into the local game from the day he was planted there. His mother accompanied him, but he left his brother Paul at home. There were several of Paul’s siblings on the Panther court, handled by high school hustlers who earned their place through the sweat they poured during summer practice rather than tryouts.

He watched all the home games, and sometimes, he and his mother would travel to gyms to watch the local legion; their battle was basketball. But this weekend was special – it was Fever Weekend.

Once a year, Parkview hosted a tournament inviting teams from abroad to the school. They dubbed it Fever weekend. The whole county was hot for hoops.

Bo seemed to be sick, too. For at least a week before the tournament, he would wander around the house aimlessly, dribbling Paul between his hands. He would sit down and get up over and over again as though the feverish heat was in his pants. It would grow to his stomach, and he wouldn’t eat much, wanting to give his meal to Paul so his mother wouldn’t notice all the food left on his plate. He would continuously spin his straw in whatever he drank, creating a whirlpool of worry that, somehow, he wouldn’t make the game. This had become an annual tradition, but Bo’s mother didn’t seem to mind.

As the fever was about to begin, Bo was calm. Out of all the things that happen to someone his age, puberty, scholastics, an understanding of what created the breath of every person that packed the Parkview gymnasium, he understood what was in front of him. He understood basketball.