The ascendancy of basketball phenom Caitlin Clark to the Indiana Fever for a paltry $76,000, brought me back to the basement of a one-room schoolhouse. I had four classmates back then, I believe, and the most athletic and competitive was Lorlee.
We had seen a few games and now dueled in a basket-less concrete space, with a half-sized basketball, stuffing it into the hole over the center supporting pillar, to score two points. She ably guarded me under the seven-foot ceiling. Having no guidance, we wondered about the rules regarding dribbling. Was it okay to put your hand under the ball when dribbling? We would later learn that was called “palming” and a definite no-no.
As a boy, I would go on to play varsity basketball and experience the thrills, cheers and support from noisy crowds in a huge modern gymnasium. Lorlee would not.
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The baby boom forced the country school board to hire a part-time teacher to help the stretched full-timer instructing the eight grades. Simultaneous instruction took place mornings in that same basement, on a picnic table. For convenience, Mrs. Raap kept all her materials in an unlocked corner cabinet, then left us for the afternoon. Very efficient.
Word got out that persons unknown had peeked into that forbidden cabinet and surreptitiously looked at test answers or something equally scandalous. Brought to her attention one morning by her partner, Mrs. Raap swiftly dealt with the matter.
“Would everyone who went into my cabinet, please stand and apologize?” she said calmly.
That was that. In an act of courage and honesty brought on by an overwhelming conscience and need for relief, three miscreants, I believe, stood and took full responsibility for their actions.
Nothing further was said or done.
It was the worst of times, and yet the best of times.
