Much of my enjoyment growing up stemmed from playing sports, of either the organized or pick-up variety.

Many of these games occurred after school had let out and the summer of 1994 still holds a special place in my memory.

I was 16 and along with a group of six to eight of my friends, joined a dek hockey league near Greensburg that year. I was not a big fan of watching hockey, but loved playing it. That summer, if we weren’t at the dek playing a game, we were in my hometown at the basketball court, which adequately served as a street hockey venue.

In May, a young guy in town named Jim — he was four or five years older than us — asked if we had interest in playing in a dek league.

Jim offered to be our coach and enough kids showed interest that the wheels were set in motion. We soon received T-shirts with numbers on the back — I was No. 43. The shirts were red, so we decided to call ourselves the Devils.

Jim proved to be a bit of a deadbeat as a coach. He passed us off to a friend of his named Bill.

We really didn’t need coaching, but there were times a few of us needed a ride to and from a game, which was a good 45 minutes away. Plus, a game could not start until both teams had a coach on the bench. I remember Bill fulfilling those roles more than Jim, or Mr. Reliable as he came to be known.

I remember one instance in particular, we were at the dek, 15 minutes from having to forfeit because we had no coach. The clock was ticking — 10 minutes .... five minutes.

Finally, just as the referee was going to declare the other team the winner, we hear the groans of a motorcycle rumbling toward the dek. It was Bill. He parks his bike, sits on our bench and, wearing sunglasses, proceeds to fold his arms and lean back against the wall.

It was clear our leader was up until the early hours of the morning, uh, reading. But he was there and that’s all we needed. We went out and thumped the other team, not that Bill saw a second of it.

We went on to win the championship, beating the Regulators in a best-of-three series, 2-1, that was played about a week before school started.

We had raised money for dek and registration fees by holding car washes throughout the summer. But as league champions, our trophies were to be paid for by the owners of the dek.

They made the mistake of giving the money to Jim, who miraculously reappeared. He said he would have the trophies made, but instead took the money with him on a vacation to the beach with his girlfriend.

Even if we had received trophies, where would mine be right now? Probably packed away in a box in a closet somewhere, or maybe in the garage.

But the memories I have from that summer, bonding with friends and living the carefree life of a teenager, I keep those upstairs where they are easily accessible.

Derek Pyda is a staff writer for the Butler Eagle