(My nephew-like substance Coastal Eddie is now a grown man and college graduate. He wrote me the other week, stating he wanted to be a writer. Part of me would like to talk him out of it. Part of me wishes him many home runs and ten thousand rowdy cheers. I wrote this essay 11 years ago, when Eduardo was but 12 years ago and still possessed a fetching speech mannerism akin to Elmer Fudd’s insights while stalking wabbits. Eddie is in Colorado right now, selling cigarettes on Indian reservations. Well cripes. Someone has to smoke them.) (Photo: Last known photo of my nephew-like substance, Coastal Eddie?)
“The highlight of my childhood was making my brother laugh so hard, food came through his nose.”- Garrison Keillor 

We both drew blood. On the backyard basketball court, overly big and foolish me accidentally elbowed my nephew-like substance, Coastal Eddie. Coast is 12 and a young magician of a basketball player. I didn’t see him behind me and that cursed joint of mine swung without malice right into the bridge of my dear boy’s little button nose.

He excused himself politely and non-chalantly announced his nose was bleeding. His hands cupped the blood. I rushed for towels.

Almost instantly, the universe’s best doctor, Nature, took its course. In a few moments, the bleeding stopped and Eddie was already thinking of not so much revenge, but Old Testament blood-for-blood restitution.

His dad’s a lawyer.

Like unsleeping water seeking the lowest ground, Eddie good-naturedly searched for a way to make a buck.

I can tell a lot about a person by the way they approach this playground game. Whether you’re an all-star or have never even picked up a basketball before, give me 15 minutes, maybe an hour for the difficult-to-read cases. I can tell what makes most people tick. Selfish? Cocky? Good-natured? Petty? Aggressive? Overly-litigious? Psychotic? Fair-minded? Mentally tough? It all comes out on the basketball court.

Years ago, we had a neighborhood game where the participants ranged in age from five to about 50. I was the only real “player” in the game. Most of the others were athletic, but were unclear on both the rules and concept of the game. Still, a few minutes into it, the person who knows diddly is vehemently quoting blacktop scripture and verse that didn’t quite exist. Some laughed and enjoyed the game. Others dug in as if it were a death match. Someone on the other team passed the ball to the 5-year-old and, in good sportsmanship, the key cleared like the Red Sea for Moses. Everyone on both teams let the little kid double-dribble without boundary, encouraging him kindly to shoot.

Well. Almost everyone.

One young woman athlete ran up to the kid, viciously yanked the ball from his grip as if she were a frontier dentist pulling a molar, then dribbled the ball to the other end for a lay-up. Some stood with mouths agape. Others — mainly, members of her family— looked away in embarrassment.

Just two months back, when I was up in Santa Rosa for Eddie’s mom’s 50th birthday, I played a game in the street with friends and alleged family.

My Coastal Eddie Thiele was lighting up the nets with his lay-ups and long-distance jumpers. As he’d dribble by, some of us would rub his short hair vigorously. Eddie would smile sheepishly at the attention from the big guys.

Eddie wanted the ball when it was crunch time. It was not my pride to feel, but nonetheless, I felt proud of the kid’s guts and confidence. I could have literally died that day the most happy and complete man at what followed.

There was one kid, a friend of Eddie’s and on his team, who was very shy and not yet adept at this particular game. Eddie was on the opposite team and I whispered to him in the heat of battle that we had been playing awhile and his bashful teammate had yet to shoot the ball. Coastal nodded once and, for the rest of the game, dedicated himself to making sure his friend got a chance to play.

There, I suspect, goes the making of a fine young man. Eddie’s got big heart. And focus. He sees the big picture.

Darn if I didn’t give him a bloody nose last Sunday.

Eddie later feigned dizziness and headaches. It was part of his ploy to make me feel guilty and ream 20 bucks from me for compensatory damages. He spun this marvelous tale, trying not to smile, about how his junior high studies might be affected by the blow. He told a story about how some beautiful girl he knew in 6th grade got bitten by a snake right in the face. It left a scar, Coastal said. After that, her popularity plummeted. He said his blood-stained clothes were ruined, but $20 would go a long way in building a new wardrobe. I said, “Club soda.” He said I should settle now for that “ridiculous low price” before any future symptoms reared their ugly head. I told Coastal that if it was that serious, he’d just go into a coma and forget who elbowed him and besides. What’s a boy in a bubble going to do with something so transient as money?

I like what I see when Coastal plays basketball. So many kids take competition so seriously. Eddie has the rare gift of kindness and humor. He focuses in the crunch. He seizes every moment.

I know as years go by, he’ll be trying to scam me out of $20 in fake guilt money. He actually should hold out for a lot more. The kid’s worth billions.

John Boston is the preeminent local writer and humorist who has won 119 national writing awards. He is a wonderful human being and it is a privilege to call him a friend. John will continue to live in the Santa Clarita Valley and write about anything and everything. His commentaries represent his own opinions and not necessarily the views of any organization he may be affiliated with or those of the West Ranch Beacon.