Last week, I took a spin down Melville Street to view the ongoing demolition of the former Catholic Youth Center. During my boyhood days in the 1950s and ’60s, I spent many enjoyable hours playing pingpong, caroms and billiards in that historic building.

The CYC also was an annex for nearby St. Joseph High School. As a student, I’d often attend dances, social hours and rallies there. It was the place to be following our school’s football games at Wahconah Park.

But basketball was the biggest draw at the CYC, and scores of future St. Joe stars developed their skills in its well-organized bantam and junior leagues. As I watched workers chisel away at brick and mortar, I recalled my own fleeting basketball career in that storied gymnasium, reputed to be the busiest gym in New England.

It started at Sunday Mass at St. Charles Church in fall 1958. Our beloved pastor, the Rev. John Foley, announced from the pulpit that tryouts for our parish bantam basketball team, ages 9 to 12, were to be held the following Saturday at the Catholic Youth Center.

I slouched in my pew, having no interest in yet another tryout. That April, I had failed to make the North Little League for the second year in a row. I faced a similar fate at the annual CYC Spelling Bee that pitted the five city parochial schools against one another. I was a top speller in my class and would’ve made the team hands-down if not for one nettlesome hiccup: I always mispronounced my b’s and p’s. For example, if I were asked to spell the word raspberry aloud, I’d spell it, r-a-s-b-p-e-r-r-y.

The final straw came at the Old Armory on Summer Street. At the time, I was enamored by the Pittsfield Boys’ Club Cavaliers — a top-ranked Drum & Bugle Corps. During the audition, I was given a French horn to play. I took up the brass instrument and gave it one tremendous blow and simultaneously passed gas. The instructor snapped the horn from my grasp and dismissed me, saying, “Sorry, son, we’re not looking for any double-tooting buglers at the moment.”

Nevertheless, my older brother Jimmy, age 11, insisted we try out for the parish basketball squad. The following Saturday, we found ourselves among other hopeful schoolmates from St. Charles. Neither Jimmy nor I had ever played the game before, so we were quickly axed. However, we were asked to play for Holy Family, the Polish parish, since they didn’t have enough players to fill their roster. When a few of my classmates heard I was playing for Holy Family, they started calling me O’Harski and asked if I ate “ghoulish” (their mispronunciation of goulash) for supper.

Games were held on weekday evenings, and they were a big to-do with diehard parents and fans packing the bleachers. It was hard for me to fathom why dads were so passionate about seeing their sons throw a stupid ball through a high hoop.

We had a lackluster team, and were easily beaten by the Italian ragazzi from Mount Carmel and the French garsons from Notre Dame. Powerhouse teams, such as St. Joe, would turn us into cake batter. The talented Clark brothers of St. Mary’s — Jimmy, Jackie and Paul — lit up the scoreboard one night and trounced us 71 to 9.

The only chances Jimmy and I had to practice were on Saturday afternoons. We’d hang around for pickup games of shirts vs. skins. I’d eagerly join in if chosen a shirt, but if picked a Skin, I’d hightail it through the door, too embarrassed to expose my birdcage chest to such brawny athletes.

Finally, it was the last game of the season, and good riddance to it. Up to that time, I had played a total of three minutes and had never made an attempt at a basket. On that night, though, half our team had fouled out or were at home nursing the flu. With no other option, our coach reluctantly called me into the game.

We were down by a point, 18-19, with a minute to go on the clock. I wasn’t long on the hardwood before the Holy Family dads were screaming at me to cover my man. What man? There were five of them running around like crazy out there! I went huffing and puffing up and down the court until I doubled over beneath our basket, suffering from side-stitches and shin splints. With the seconds ticking away, Danny Oboyski grabbed a defensive rebound and passed the ball to Jimmy who, in turn, heaved it in my direction. I caught the bouncing ball as a thundering herd of enemy jerseys came barreling toward me.

“Shoot it! Shoot it!” Jimmy cried above the raucous fans.

I tossed the ball as high as I could before being buried by an avalanche of sweaty bodies. Beneath the carnage, I never saw if the ball went in the hoop or not. But by the angry elbows of opposing players and the awestruck look in my brother’s eye, I knew I was going home a hero.

Kevin O’Hara, a longtime Eagle contributor, is the author of “Ins and Outs of a Locked Ward: My 30 Years as a Psychiatric Nurse.”