JUST HAVE FUN!
When Michael was cut from travel basketball, his rejection led to frustration and confusion. These emotions were new to him, and as parents there was pressure to prevent our children from feeling those things. That, however, was not my style. So I faced his tears, and there were definitely tears from Michael. But they were short lived. I wasn’t sure if the tears were from embarrassment or disappointment, but either way, they came and went. I openly said that this was a good thing. I quickly downplayed the importance of travel basketball and made it clear that the seriousness of it all was too much pressure in today’s world. Those players were caught in the web of Highridge childhood, where overcommitted schedules led to burnt-out athletes and was, simply, no fun.
While I may have said those things, I didn’t think those things. I knew it was all a bit disingenuous. I secretly longed for the chance for Michael to feel the thrill of competition and the unique rush of athletic prowess. I definitely felt the short end of the competition among fifth-grade parents as they talked about who made the teams and who didn’t. I pushed it all to the back of my mind. Truly, regardless of my inner feelings, I just wanted Michael to have fun and for him to enjoy the sport. I was trying to figure out how to give him that revised experience.
Flashback 1978
I was ten years old playing rec basketball at Treat Regional Tech school in Rockford, Ohio. I remember running around the court and had athleticism that others did not have. I was tall and aggressive. That was enough for me to be “good.” Basketball was fun. That’s all I knew. A couple years later, my father was coaching me in Darkhead, Ohio. It was the fall of 1979, and my rec team was undefeated going into the last game. My father told me stories of his strategy of drafting good kids, not great players. He didn’t want the kids with good skills and a bad attitude. So, he passed on some of the most talented players. Fortunately for him, or maybe it was his world-class coaching, but our team jelled and played great “team” basketball. That was the best recipe to win at that age (or any age). I was one of the best players in the town and went up against perhaps the most talented kid in the final game of the season. It was our chance to go undefeated, and my father had us play a special defense against that team. At the time, I had never heard of it. It was called “box and one,” and my primary job was to stop their best player. Our eventual victory sent my dad into retirement from coaching following a perfect rec season. I remember it as special on multiple levels. I loved playing for my dad, I had fun, I gained confidence as an athlete, and we won.
My hope for Michael was to play, laugh, and score. I wanted him to experience competition. He needed time on the court, and the only way for that to happen was to get him into another rec program. Two relaxed leagues (Highridge and Longview) would be great for him. These experiences were really about Michael “playing” basketball. I loved watching him. It was genuine. He smiled a lot. I was grateful that these games were for “the other players” to experience hoops.
Michael gained confidence during these two years. He was able to experience success on the court. The Willcrest league in Longview was weaker than the rec league in Highridge. Michael had a chance to play against a range of talent (all well below the travel-team level). He was improving rapidly. But he clearly had a long way to go.
It was a classic Sunday, and Michael was killing it at Willcrest. He was bigger and faster than the other players. He had the advantage of being able to get a rebound, miss, get the rebound again, and finally make the shot. I even remember him going coast to coast for a score. It was like watching a super-slow-motion film with the stands erupting as the shot was made. He scored several points that game (and others) and had a level of dominance that gave him confidence. After the game, the players mulled around as the parents gathered their things to leave. This particular day, a referee came up to me and told me he never saw any big-man have such great footwork. I puffed my chest out and thanked him. It made me proud. I loved that moment and believed there were many others to come. It was just the beginning of his journey.
I remember those games in Highridge when Michael squared up against any of the kids in Highridge who were also on one of the travel teams. Most of the time, because their schedules were so busy, those kids didn’t even show up to play. For many of them, the competition in rec hoops was too weak. But every once in a while, one of them was there, playing against Michael.
I made sure Michael knew. I made sure Michael had a chance to measure himself against those players. I made sure Michael understood he should try to outplay them, to show himself that he was good enough to make the travel team next time. I was trying to get him mad. I was trying to get him to develop that chip on his shoulder that he would need if he ever wanted to get to the next level.
Was this wrong of me? Was I misplacing anger by hoping Michael would kick those kids’ asses? When he scored on them, why was I so pleased? When they acted smug and entitled, why was I so irritated? There is a big part of me that was represented right there, on the court, in my son. My competitive juices were flowing. I hate losing! And more importantly, don’t mess with my kid!
I hoped over time, through some process that I had not yet figured out or just because I willed it to be so, that Michael would develop as an athlete on the court. I did not want anyone to get the best of him. I went through it, and if I had success, I believed Michael would as well. Someday, he would rise up and ball like his dad. Someday Michael would be better at ball than his dad. I believed in him. But is wasn’t going to happen this year. Not any time soon. Not yet. This wasn’t his time.
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