Set The Floor Afire

Basketball, backdrafts, and a mama with a missile drumstick.

Begging for the Dream

All we wanted was a place to shoot hoops. What we got was a physics lesson, a gas explosion, and a fried chicken missile to the chest. This is the story of how four barefoot boys turned a garage into a launchpad—and why you should never underestimate the power of a match, a spilled gas can, and a mama covered in egg wash.

Turns out, all it took to set the world on fire was two years of nonstop whining—and a homemade basketball goal.

Built by Bob

We wore Dad down, one beg at a time, until he finally gave in and mounted a hoop on the front of the garage.

It wasn’t fancy, but it was ours. Built from dumpster scraps, stubborn hands, and the kind of love that didn’t need a speech to be understood.

The backboard was patched together like a jigsaw puzzle—dowel rods, iron straps, and wood glue holding dreams in place.

At least now we had something solid to aim for while we waited on our next near-death experience.

We didn’t have much in those days, except what Dad built or Mom made. That backboard came from wood scraps scavenged from the dumpster at Newell Coach where Dad worked. Patched like a quilt, bolted to a steel frame, and anchored with four six-inch lag screws—Bob Glover built it to withstand Category 5 tornados or two barefoot brothers, whichever hit first.

Dad built things right. Always. Whether it was a scrappy backboard or a 29-foot sailboat stitched from dreams and sawdust. His hands moved over wood like Picasso over canvas—meticulous, masterful, and full of quiet pride.

Backyard Glory Days

I seriously doubt that thing was regulation height, but we didn’t care. None of us could touch the net anyway.

Barry Stinson made the first shot and, as tradition dictated, earned the right to name the game. He picked HORSE—he always did. Barry was taller than the rest of us and loved launching bombs we couldn’t come close to replicating.

Dribbling on gravel was nearly impossible, so we mostly passed. (Sorry—“traveled.”) The ball’s outer layer didn’t last long, but I didn’t mind. That rough surface helped me grip it for my legendary sky hook. Hop, skip, jump, swish—just like Lew Alcindor. Well, once or twice.

Most days we backed all the way to the street, sprinted toward the goal full-speed (no dribbling required), and launched ourselves into the air, hoping this would finally be the day we touched that elusive 10'6" rim.

The Day It All Went Boom

One crisp fall afternoon, it was me, Dennis, Barry, and Marlon playing. The air was cool, the ball extra hard, and the wooden garage doors even harder. We kept crashing into them on our dunks for extra drama. (Okay, layups. But we sold them hard.)

Dad always told us not to play with the doors open—too much stuff in the garage that could get busted. But that day, we opened them anyway. He wouldn’t be home for hours. What could go wrong?

The shot contest was on. We bounced balls off everything in sight—shelves, benches, boat parts—like we were the original Dude Perfect. But miraculously, nothing broke.

When our fingers started turning blue, we wandered inside to warm up by Dad’s gas heater in the back corner of the garage.

One Flick Too Far

The bifold doors had been open too long, and the cold wind had blown out the pilot light. No biggie. Dad kept a big box of matches on the windowsill for just such an occasion.

Dennis knelt down, match in hand, looking for the little pilot hole. That’s when I caught a whiff. The air smelled... off.

I turned and spotted the blue 2-gallon gas can for the lawn mower—tipped over, a dark slick spreading across the floor.

“Uh-oh.”

Before I could shout, Dennis struck the match.

WOOSH.
BOOM.
LIFTOFF.

Flames raced across the floor like lightning. The explosion knocked me into the workbench. Dennis launched skyward like a bottle rocket. Tools, baby food jars full of bolts, dreams, and leftover snacks rained from the shelves.

The whole garage seemed to inhale and exhale like a metal lung. The doors blew open—and we followed.

Flour, Fury, and Flying Chicken

We tore out of that garage like ghosts, our pants not quite as dry as they’d been five minutes earlier.

Inside, the blast shook the whole house. Not just ours—probably the neighbors’ too. Within seconds, Mom burst onto the porch, spatula in hand, covered in flour and egg wash. She had been prepping fried chicken. Now she was the chicken.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t have to.

“Just wait till your father gets home,” she said. And disappeared back inside.

Judgment Hour

The next hour on the porch was the longest of my life. Dangling legs, pale faces, no eye contact.

When Dad got home, Mom met him at the door. “Bob, the boys have something to tell you.”

Without skipping a beat, he said, “What have they done now?”

We blamed Marlon and Barry, naturally. He wasn’t buying it.

We braced for the aftershock, but it never came.

“You boys will listen to me next time, won’t you?” he asked.

We nodded like bobbleheads in church. Everyone knew we wouldn’t.

“Boys will be boys,” he said as he walked past Mom.

And that’s when she threw the chicken at him.

Didn’t say another word. Didn’t have to.

The Floor Still Smells Like Smoke

We were the original flash mob.

We didn’t just light up the court.
We set the whole dang floor on fire.

But it wasn’t just about hoops. It was about home. That patchwork backboard, like the town itself, wasn’t built to last forever. But for a while, it felt like it could.

We didn’t notice the cracks—not in the backboard, not in the town, not in the ground beneath us.

But they were there. And they were spreading.

Bulletproof (for Now)

We probably should’ve learned our lesson that day.

But we didn’t.

If anything, surviving a homemade garage detonation just made us more invincible.

Bulletproof. And clearly short on adult supervision.

Your Turn

Got a backyard disaster that still makes your parents twitch? Share your story at facebook.com/RealChatRat.
Bonus points if fried chicken or propane tanks were involved.