The Boaz Scorekeeper, written in 2017, is my second novel. I'll post it, a chapter a day, over the next few weeks.

The first home game of the 1969 season was with the cross-county rival Arab Knights.  They had a fast and quick-trigger forward who, along with a giraffe-necked center, scorched our nets for 99 points.  We had 33 less.  The only bright spot was the passing and ball-stealing abilities of our point guard James Adams. He was a sophomore like me.  

The season didn’t get much better.  Boaz lost 32 of its 58 games, losing 18 games at home.  I didn’t miss a game.  I even rode the bus with the team to all Away games even though I wasn’t the scorekeeper.  However, Coach Pearson was a stickler for statistics and the pet spreadsheet that he often called ‘The Shit.’  

During my Sophomore year I only made one mistake.  It was against the Albertville Aggies in the last home game in mid-January. There was less than two minutes left on the clock and we were down only two points when long passes and fast breaks became the mood on the court.  John Ericson scored on a layup and was fouled.  He missed the foul shot but for some reason I unknowingly added the point to the Board and the game continued.  It was some sort of miracle that the referees continued the game even though the Aggie fans were shouting and nearly coming out of the bleachers.  Boaz Center Randall Radford blocked Albertville’s next shot and Coach Pearson called time-out.  Before I could stand up to stretch my legs Albertville’s coach was dragging the head ref over to my table and motioning for Coach Pearson.  It was a tense few moments with tempers flaring.  The refs finally recognized the mistake and ordered me to remove the point from the Boaz score.  Albertville went on to beat Boaz by three points.  Even though one would think that Boaz fans and players wouldn’t have been upset with me, that wasn’t the case.  It seemed everyone blamed me for the loss. Several of the players said I intentionally got the Aggies fired up and cost them the game. 

The Boaz Scorekeeper, written in 2017, is my second novel. I'll post it, a chapter a day, over the next few weeks.

After 8th grade, there were three things I really enjoyed: reading, especially fiction, football, and scorekeeping.  I played football four years at Boaz High School.  I was pretty good at it.  I started as a tight-end and linebacker during my Junior and Senior years.  In the ninth grade, I tried out for basketball but never could seem to develop the necessary skills to dribble and shoot the ball.  But, I was a great scorekeeper.

In the fall of my tenth-grade year Coach Pearson, who also taught Biology, asked the class one day if anyone would like to try out to be the School’s basketball scorekeeper. He relayed that Matt Simmons, the School’s scorekeeper for the past three years, was moving next week to Birmingham. Coach emphasized the importance of this job and told all interested to meet him and Principal Benson in the gym the next morning at 7:00 a.m.   Later that day, the School secretary’s meek little voice made the same announcement over the intercom.  I remember her voice growing deeper as she said, “the trials will be timed.” 

The opportunity resounded in my mind.  I was responsible and good at math.  I guessed numbers figured into the mix somehow.  And, most importantly, I wanted something to do after football season ended this Friday night.  After the last bell, I was at my locker about to head to football practice when I saw Coach Pearson.  Without any hesitation, I raised my voice above the sound of students clamoring to exit the prison, “Coach, I want to be the scorekeeper. I’ll see you in the morning.” He looked my way but barely acknowledged that he heard me. 

All that night I wondered what scorekeeping tryouts would be like.  I could understand why one would have to be quick, certainly never getting behind.  I lay in bed trying to guess how many others would show up for the trials.  At 2:30 a.m., before finally dozing off, I concluded there would be four of us.

I arrived at 6:45 a.m. to an empty gym.  Coach and Principal Benson showed up together a few seconds before 7:00.  We all stood at a table that had been set up at the north end of the gym about 30 feet from the big scoreboard that hung on the wall.  At 7:02 a.m. Mr. Benson looked at me, shook my hand, and announced that I was the Boaz scorekeeper.  It wasn’t because I did a figurative running dunk shot from the foul line with a half-second left on the game clock.  I was the only one who showed up.  Coach told me to sit down at the table as Mr. Benson, in full character, turned and almost jogged toward the exit.  He always had a mind full of places to be and people to see.

Coach Pearson was about as good a scorekeeping instructor as he was a Biology teacher. Neither was very high on his priority list.  I guess he thought any lamebrain could keep score.  But, he did give me a five-minute lesson.  My job was two-fold: maintain the electronic scoreboard and hand-record statistics on a paper spreadsheet.  Coach showed me how to use the control panel that was setup on the table.  It looked pretty much like the scoreboard on the wall, with the words “Home” and “Guest” printed and equally spaced across the top.  Underneath each heading were several colored buttons with numbers written beside them: a green 2, a green 1, a red 2, and a red 1.  Pearson told me to simply press the correct button to add or subtract a score.  He used his best sarcasm and said I would know who the ‘Home’ team was.  He also said that if I made a mistake the head referee would let me know.  At this point I picked up the spreadsheet and Coach said that he had to go but to see him if I had any questions.  I stayed a few more minutes learning that I was to keep up with points scored and fouls committed by player. The spreadsheet form was divided in two sections with ‘Scoring’ on the left and ‘Fouls’ on the right. I didn’t see a big problem in keeping up with who scored and who fouled. I knew all the players.  They were not friends but I knew their names and faces.  The good thing about the spreadsheet was I only had to keep up with the “Home” team.

The Boaz Scorekeeper, written in 2017, is my second novel. I'll post it, a chapter a day, over the next few weeks.

There were no frills or extras around the Tanner household and farm.  Except one.  While in the Army my Dad had fallen in love with GMC trucks.  I remember him and Gramp’s talking about the ‘Deuce-and-a-half.’  This was a GMC model CCKW350 series, two and a half-ton 6×6 truck.  Dad said that it was ‘as stout as a tank and sexier than your mother.’  

In 1954, Dad was working six nights a week at Boaz Spinning Mills and was investing nearly as many hours helping Mother, Mama El, and Gramp’s run the farm.  But, he still couldn’t afford a ‘Deuce-and-a-half.’  Of course, he didn’t need a truck anywhere near that big.  He knew that too but always joked about coming home with one after a hard night at the Mill.  

The story goes that at 9:30 a.m. in late February, less than two months after I was born, Dad drove home in a like-new 1951 half-ton GMC 4 x 4 pickup.  By then, Gramps’ 1929 1 1/2-ton Model AA was on its last leg. Dad couldn’t have been happier knowing that what otherwise would have been a frill was a necessity around a farm.  However, the $1,150 price tag was an almost insurmountable problem, even with Dad’s $100 boot money. 

For some strange reason, a day or two after Gramp’s funeral in 1965, Mother told me about the only argument between Gramp’s and Dad that she had ever witnessed.  It was about that 1951 GMC pickup, or rather, how Dad had arranged to buy it. Mother said that Dad had seen the truck parked at Adams Chevrolet and stopped to look at it.  David Adams insisted that Dad test drive the truck.  When Dad returned he expressed his inability to afford such a high-priced vehicle.  Adams insisted that Dad go see Fitz Billingsley at First State Bank of Boaz, even said he would give him a call as a recommendation.  Long story short, the Banker offered Dad a low-interest loan with an extra year ‘for good measure if you hit the rough.’  Dad agreed, drove the truck home, and met Gramp’s coming out of the barn. 

Mother said Gramp’s was always cool and calm, except when threatened.  That day, he felt threatened by a thing called debt.  He and his father were always against borrowing for anything unless it was a ‘piece of land.’  Gramp’s said that was the only thing that holds its value.  Mother said her and Mama El heard shouting and came outside from the kitchen.  Mama El was the only one who could get Gramps to settle down. She told him that Dad was right, they needed a reliable truck, and Dad had proven himself since the end of the war by working for almost ten years six days per week at the Mill.  Within a couple of days Gramp’s loved the truck nearly as much as Dad. 

Six months after Gramp’s died, the green 1951 GMC, known around the Tanner place as the ‘Green Giant’ had a heart attack of a different kind.  Dad blamed himself and not the Giant.  I don’t think Dad every got over Gramps’ death or what he claimed was his own stupidity for overloading the Giant.  An old Pecan tree had blown over towards the house and Dad had tried to pull it using a long cable tied to the upper part of the tree and onto the rear axle of the truck.  He also used our John Deere tractor but someway blew up the Giant’s motor.  Adams Chevrolet laid out the cost of repair and the cost of trading.  This time, the truck was a 1963 Chevrolet one ton 4 x 4.  This time, Fitz made Dad an even better deal. 

It was after Thanksgiving of my sixth-grade year.  Fitz’s son Fred continued to struggle with his school work.  Fitz had heard of me, through both my Dad and Fred.  The day Dad went to First State Bank to sign the note to buy the 63 Chevy, Fitz introduced a unique banking twist.  He would make the $35.00 per month payment on the truck if I would tutor Fred.  Dad agreed and I had no choice, but I didn’t really mind since I kind of liked Fred. 

For three years, nearly every afternoon after school, Fitz brought Fred to my house.  Dad had suggested Fred ride the bus home with me but Fitz wouldn’t have it.  He didn’t want anyone to know about his son’s learning problems.  The only exception to this schedule was during the late Fall and early Winter in our 7th and 8th grade years when Fred was playing basketball on the Junior High team along with Wade Tillman, James Adams, Randall Radford, and John Ericson.  During these times, Fitz would bring Fred over either after practice or early Saturday morning to stay all day. 

By the end of the first semester of our 9th grade year, Fred was a solid B+ student.  His problem had not been his IQ but his hyperactivity.  When I started tutoring Fred, it didn’t take long for me to realize that his problem was his inability to stay focused.  It was easy to see that Fred could not easily sit still working on a lesson at our kitchen table, but that out by the barn he could shoot a basketball forever without getting distracted one bit.  Fitz never knew it as far as I know but about half the time Fred was at our place, we were outside fishing or hunting, and Fred fell in love with ‘Tannerville’ as he called it.  I created games that helped Fred concentrate, things like tracking a rabbit, and watching one ant for an hour without looking up.  I would tell Fred that reading or writing was like hunting and fishing.  If he didn’t want to be the fish or the rabbit he had to learn the benefit of staying focused.  I think, more than anything, Fred finally made the connection.  By the end of Junior High, and certainly by the end of the first semester of our 9th grade year, Fred chose to be the hunter, the one in control.  One other thing, I don’t think it hurt at all that I used a little psychology on Fred.  I repeatedly told him the only way for him to someday have the resources to own a big place in the country like ‘Tannerville’ was to learn from the ant, with its slow and methodical routine.