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Our Opinion: Pittston’s smart moves on Main Street pay off with college tenant

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Dustin Hettrich receives silver status at Motorworld Acura

<p>WILKES-BARRE &#8212; Every kid has a dream.</p><p>Some dream of becoming a doctor or a lawyer or a fireman or a cop.</p><p>Many dream of sports. Of being at bat in the bottom of the seventh in the World Series. That was one of my dreams.</p><p>I was supposed to supplant Mickey Mantle, my childhood hero, to be the center fielder for my beloved New York Yankees. And I was on track to do that, until I turned 13.</p><p>I was 6 feet tall by the time I was 11 years old. Because of my largeness, I dominated the Plymouth Little League, hitting &#8212; by Little League standards, mind you &#8212; tape measure home runs of Ruthian legend. For two years, I wreaked havoc, hitting homers, striking out batter after batter and not allowing many hits.</p><p>At least that&#8217;s the way I remember it. We get that way as we travel through life. Our memories tend to go on auto-embellishment and, over time, we do play center-field for the Yankees and await our enshrinement into the Baseball Hall of Fame.</p><p>It happened to me in basketball, too. Because I was tall, I could score at will. I averaged, oh I think, 81 points a game or something like that. Anyway, I was a budding star and, at 6 feet tall by my 11th birthday, surely I would grow at least another foot or so.</p><p>UCLA here I come, although I may have chosen Michigan State or Indiana because I liked the Big 10. I was an avid reader of the Chip Hilton books. Chip played for State. I could, too.</p><p>Back in the day, the Wilkes-Barre Barons of the Old Eastern Basketball League played at the Kingston Armory. In the early 1960s, somebody decided there should be a Junior Barons team &#8212; an All-Star squad of sixth-, seventh- and eighth-graders &#8212; to play before the Barons games.</p><p>&#8220;Pop&#8221; Hughes gathered the team together and we practiced a lot. &#8220;Lay it in like a basket of eggs,&#8221; Pop would shout.</p><p>We were good, us Junior Barons. We never lost. We won most games by a lot of points. Some visiting teams insisted we play on 8-foot baskets. That was a mistake. We had a group of kids who were the middle school version of Phi Slamma Jamma.</p><p>Our success, as I look back, was attributed more to the fact that we were a collection of the best local players in our age group. We should win and we should win big &#8212; every time out. And we did.</p><p>During these formative years, my dad received two letters from legendary UCLA Coach John Wooden. They meant everything to me. In reality, they were probably sent out en masse to every kid who ever grabbed a headline before his 14th birthday. But I believed I would one day wear the Bruins&#8217; powder blue and gold and jump center in the NCAA Tournament.</p><p>Needless to say, it never happened. I stopped growing vertically and continued to expand horizontally. I went from a dominating center on those Junior Barons&#8217; teams to a marginal point guard who reached some level of stardom in the Kingston Rec Center&#8217;s &#8220;Goons at Noon&#8221; daily pick-up game.</p><p>On a visit with my family in Southern California, we visited the UCLA campus. We went to Pauley Pavilion. I walked onto the floor and stood at center court, looked around and imagined a full house of screaming Bruins&#8217; fans, cheering for me, wearing the UCLA uniform with the number &#8220;0&#8221; on the back. My plan was the number would also stand for the first letter of my last name.</p><p>I&#8217;ve also had the opportunity to walk onto Yankees Stadium and feel the hallowed ground under my feet. I stared out at centerfield and envisioned myself tracking down a fly ball out near the monuments that once stood in the old ballpark.</p><p>Those dreams come back to me every year when I watch a Yankees game or tune in to the NCAA tournament.</p><p>Sometimes reality bites, but dreaming can soothe the pain of that reality.</p><p>Where would any of us be without dreams?</p><style>
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<div class="neCaption">Bill O&#8217;Boyle </div></div><div class="metaInfo"><photo0>https://www.timesleader.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/03/web1_Columnshot-1-1-2.jpg</photo0><caption0>Bill O&#8217;Boyle </caption0><photoCredit0></photoCredit0></div></div>
<div class="metaInfo"><bylineMeta><p>By Bill O&#8217;Boyle</p><p>boboyle@www.timesleader.com</p></bylineMeta></div><div class="metaInfo"><shirttailMeta><p>Reach Bill O&#8217;Boyle at 570-991-6118 or on Twitter @TLBillOBoyle.</p></shirttailMeta></div>

Bill O’Boyle: Sometimes dreams are all we have