SCOTT LUDWIG: Love and bask… er … spitballs

Many years before the movie “Love & Basketball” was released — if you missed it, it’s a movie about two hoopsters falling in love — the following story was playing out in the bleachers of the Fletcher Senior High School gymnasium in Neptune Beach, Fla. The Fighting Senators were defending their home court against a rival team from Jacksonville.

This is a story about love and basketball … and spitballs.

The date was Jan. 2, 1973. Four of my friends and I, along with perhaps a thousand other fans, were cheering for the home team wearing purple and white. Our eyes were glued to the action as the teams raced from one end of the court to the other.

That is, everyone’s eyes except those of my friend Tim. You see, he was busy shooting spitballs at the long, blond hair of a girl in our class he knew I had a crush on. She was sitting a couple of rows in front of us, which happens to be the reason I chose to sit where we did. Regrettably, I admit that I didn’t know what Tim was up to; otherwise I would have stopped him.

However, I’m glad that I didn’t — know what he was doing or stop him from doing it. That’s because the girl I had a crush on thought I was the one shooting spitballs. That turned out to be to my advantage – even if I had no way of knowing it at the time.

Three days later, those same friends and I were driving around on a Friday night with nothing better to do than drive around on a Friday night. Someone brought up Cindy’s name, the girl I had a crush on. I quickly steered the conversation in another direction by suggesting someone dare me to ask her out on a date. Naturally someone took the bait.

I accepted the dare with no hesitation whatsoever. I had already figured out that one of two things would happen, and neither one would reflect poorly on me. (1) She could turn me down, to which I would say that I didn’t really want to take her out on a date anyway and I only asked because of the dare, or (2) she could say yes, which obviously is what I hoped would happen when I first mentioned the dare.

So we drove to Cindy’s house – we all knew where she lived, incidentally, because it wasn’t far from the high school – and parked in the driveway. I got out of the car, took a deep breath, and walked to her front door, silently rehearsing the lines I’d been wanting to say to Cindy for as long as I could remember. Meanwhile, my posse stayed in the car and ducked down below the dashboard, staying out of sight so Cindy would think I came alone.

I knocked on the front door, and it opened before I could catch my breath. Standing in front of me was the girl I’d been admiring from afar for my entire senior year. Rehearsing the lines apparently paid off, because she said yes. I nervously told her what time I’d pick her up the next day and quickly said goodnight, figuring there would be ample time for conversation later. As I got back in the car, I looked at my friends and said “Piece of cake.” For some reason, I think they knew it was anything but.

The next night – Jan. 6, 1973 – Cindy and I had our first date. Dinner at Burger King, a horror double feature at the Royal Palm Theater, and a long goodnight sitting in the front seat of my parents’ Chevy Nova – all alone at the park right across the street from her house.

Later on, I learned that Cindy had a crush on me as well. Tim’s spitballs – Cindy thinking they were mine – was the advantage I mentioned earlier. Apparently all it took was a couple of spitballs to the back of her head to make her think I wanted a relationship.

Fifty-three months after our first date, Cindy and I exchanged wedding vows. We were married in a church a couple of miles from our high school.

On the day of our first date, Richard M. Nixon was officially declared the winner of the 1972 presidential election. On the 48-year anniversary of our first date, the same was done for Joe Biden – albeit not quite as peacefully.

It seems to me there’s a story in there somewhere, just dying to be told. But unfortunately, our story never found its way to the silver screen. Then again, our story has never been presented on the printed page before as it is now. Maybe there is someone out there who will read this and think, “That’s a story that’s just dying to be made into a movie.” I wonder what John Hughes is up to these days?

Like I reminded myself as I approached Cindy’s house to ask her for that first date many years ago, fully expecting her to slam the front door in my face, there’s always tomorrow.

As things turned out, that particular tomorrow just so happened to be the first day of the rest of my life. All thanks to love and basketball.

And, of course, spitballs.

Scott Ludwig is an Albany Herald columnist and independent writer/author who lives in Senoia. All of his books can be found on Amazon.