Precerpt from Nothing So Broken (Richards)

Available now on pre-order! Nothing So Broken - war, memoir, more. Today we provide a precerpt (an excerpt from a book not yet published) -

-basketball-

Steven and Johnny sped behind the back of the Bott house, past the above-ground pool, then circled round the front yard. Like a gazelle evading a mildly concussed cheetah, Johnny zigged and zagged, keeping his brother off balance just enough to maintain a small lead. Steven’s face blazed, a contorted mask of rage, a small red circle on his forehead from where the ball had struck moments before.

The boys took a sharp turn into the garage and disappeared, the screen door slamming behind them. If my window was open and the nearby highway wasn’t busy with rush hour traffic, I could hear that screen door slam all the way from my bedroom. I would often look out the window to see who was exiting the garage.

We named the Bott’s driveway, the Bott-on Garden, even though it resembled a miniature golf course more than the Boston Celtics’ home court. It sloped 60 feet up from the road, taking a sharp right to the single car garage on the first floor of the house. The basketball hoop stood on the edge of the turn, facing the garage. Behind the basket, scrub tapered into a wooded undeveloped lot, while off to the right of the basket a steep hill covered with thorny undergrowth descended into a brook.

We didn’t lose the ball in the water every time we played, but one errant bounce off someone’s foot shot it down the hill with a pack of screaming kids in pursuit. Johnny or Steven would hop across our makeshift stone crossing at the stream’s narrowest section and follow it along the opposite bank while the rest of us threw rocks at the ball, trying to knock it over to them. Time was a ticking; downstream the brook fed into the wider, deeper, and swifter Blackstone River. Somewhere in Rhode Island a kid ended up with about 20 free basketballs.

Of all the sports we played as children, basketball became everyone’s favorite. We bounced between soccer, baseball, and basketball in the seasonal town leagues, but cheering for the Red Sox back then bordered on masochism while baseball involved a lot of standing around. Soccer required exceptional foot skills, which none of us possessed. Basketball though—basketball was fast-paced for our fast minds and energetic bodies, and the Celtics with Bird, McHale, and Parish contended for championships every year.

Steven, of course, excelled on the court. He was built for the game: tall, long and quick. He was also clever and dexterous, dribbling with either hand, behind his back, between his legs. He could pass to one teammate while looking at someone else. But alongside his jaw-dropping skills came his never-ending taunting and arguing.

That afternoon we’d started with five players, but George, Johnny, and Steven’s older brother had become so fed up with Steven that he quit halfway through the game.

I liked George. He walked and talked like a Bott but differed in many ways from his siblings. The middle brother and lone introvert of the family had interests ranging well beyond the playing fields and gymnasiums and possessed a strong connection with animals. He was also five years older than I and in high school, so it was wicked cool when he played with us.

Instead of us rebalancing into teams of two players with George gone, Steven tried to beat Johnny, Bry, and me—one against three. Pure insanity.

He might have pulled it off, though, if not for a single play; Johnny rushed in on Steven’s blind side just as Steven brought the ball up to shoot a layup, knocking the ball out of his hands and off his rising knee. The ball ricocheted hard off the basketball pole and back into Steven’s groin. He let out an oomph, grabbed his privates, and fell over sideways. Another one of my childhood highlights.

After the giggles faded and the air returned to Steven’s lungs, the brothers got into each other’s faces—you fouled me, respect the call, my ball, get your hands off me, I called it, give me the ball, stop pushing me—and before I knew it Johnny was rearing back with the ball like Nolan Ryan.

That left Bry and me alone in the driveway, wondering if we should stay or head back home. Three years apart in age and worlds apart in appearance, my brother’s blue eyes and blonde hair juxtaposed with my dark features. Adults gave pause when we stood side-by-side, thinking we were pulling their leg. Bry was also growing at an accelerated rate, allowing him to play physical games like basketball with older kids. He passed me in height when he reached seventh grade and passed most of the town’s population when he reached ninth.

Before we could decide what to do, a shrill scream erupted within the Bott house, and the screen door flew open. Steven, red-faced, hair a wild mess, shot out of the garage with George right on his heels. They beelined past us into the woods without a word.

Moments later, Mrs. Bott hurried out into the driveway, hands on hips. I may be embellishing, but I think she was muttering something about how two children would’ve been enough.

Keywords:

New England memoir, Vietnam War legacy, trauma and healing memoir, coming-of-age true story, memoir about father and son, real-life story of resilience, personal story of grief and growth, emotional healing journey, memoir of small-town life, family trauma memoir, impact of war on families, veterans and PTSD family stories, intergenerational trauma, inspirational memoir about loss, adult child of a veteran, memoir set in a mill town, friendship and tragedy true story, memoir about overcoming fear and grief, how to heal from family trauma, memoir about growing up with a veteran parent, finding hope through personal crisis, true story of surviving emotional loss, lessons from a father's wartime wounds, memoir about friendship, trauma, and redemption

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