Glad to be wrong

Part II of this story is here.

The first game of Spencer's season was a scrimmage-- a practice to help acclimate the kids to basketball. Before each quarter, the coaches lined up the players and paired them with a member of the opposite team for defensive purposes.

At this scrimmage, I knelt next to Spencer and whispered a few reminders about staying with his man. Then I turned to look at who he was paired with-- and saw the embodiment of fear.

The poor child was distraught. His eyes were red and swollen. His lips trembled, and he clasped and unclasped his hands repeatedly. His breathing was irregular, and his legs shook. My first instinct was to reach out and hug him. Instead, I asked,

"Hi, sweetie. What's your name?"

"M-m-m-Michael." he gasped.

"Well Michael, this is Spencer. You two will be guarding each other. Spencer, can you say hi?"

"Hi."

"Hi." he sniffled.

It became obvious rather quickly that little Michael was way out of his comfort zone. He flinched away from the ball and avoided the crowd of players. He was mostly a non-participant, much like... much like Spencer! In fact, they were a perfect match.

Each time the ball changed possession, Michael and Spencer would run to the opposite end of the court, face each other, and fold their hands neatly in front of them. The rest of the game would swirl on around them.

Over the course of the regular season, we played Michael's team two more times. Every time they were on the court, Spencer and Michael were paired up by what was an unspoken agreement between the coaches.

When Spencer's defense would lapse (which was-- ahem-- quite frequently,) Michael was able to catch passes from his teammates and try to score. The spectators would go wild. I had a sense that he didn't get this chance very often.

Sometimes I wondered what Michael's parents thought about the situation. Did they find it insulting that their "normal" child was always paired with a child who had a disability? I knew it wasn't my problem, but I did think about it from time to time.

We ended up playing Michael's team for the fourth time, in the second round of the playoffs. I saw a different child then. Michael was confident and tried hard. He and Spencer were, yet again, a perfect match on the court.

We lost that game, and were out of the tournament. But as we lined up to give the other team high-fives, I saw a man standing at the side of the court. He was waiting for me.

It was Michael's dad.

He wanted to let me know that Michael used to hate basketball. But when he played our team, Spencer changed his mind. In fact, before every game, Michael would ask if he would be playing Spencer's team that day. That fact was the only thing that mattered to him. Then Michael's dad said,

"Spencer is the reason why Michael now enjoys basketball. Thank you so much."

I was speechless. Here, I had thought that Spencer's performance in the game was the highlight of the season. But I was, happily, so very wrong.

Winners

Part I of this story is here.

A few games into the basketball season, I realized just how confusing the sport must be to my special-needs child. His teachers and therapists (and parents!) had spent years teaching him proper social behaviors. Don't hit. Don't steal. Don't bump into people on purpose. Don't knock them down.

And here we were, nullifying all that.

You should have seen his face when I told him that all those "improper" behaviors were generally okay on the court. And when I emphasized that he was allowed to steal the ball,

"I can?" his voice went from incredulous to elated at light speed.

However, that still didn't translate to much when he was in the game. One time, his teammate was dribbling the ball down the court as Spencer stood next to the basket, wide open for a perfect pass. The moment that Spencer realized this opportunity, he whirled and fled off the court. There didn't seem to be much motivation for him to participate.

So I tried a different tactic. I bribed him.

"Stay next to your man during the game, and we'll go get a milkshake afterward." He seemed mildly interested in this idea, and he tried harder to guard his man. But it wasn't quite as motivating as I thought it would be. So at the next game, I tried something different. Our team was in the second round of the playoffs, and I hoped to at least keep him from being a liability on the court.

"What reward would you like to get if you play hard?" I asked him. He mulled it over.

"Umm... I want to eat some of my Valentine candy." I accepted his request and reviewed our goals: Stay with your man. Put your hands up if he tries to shoot. It's okay to steal the ball.

The game started, and nothing really happened with Spencer. But I began to realize just how far he had come this season: he no longer ditched his teammates and hid in my lap. He only rarely twirled pirouettes in the corner. And he was always in the midst of the action, even if it was just as an observer.

I marveled at the change. And during a time out, I reminded him of his Valentine candy waiting for him at home. He gave a little giggle and ran back out on the court. And then, something amazing happened. Maybe it was his choice of motivation, maybe it was something else. But something clicked.

Suddenly, he was on his man like glue. He sprinted up and down the court. He put his long arms up on defense and intimidated everyone around him. He jumped for rebounds and even stole the ball-- twice. I was floored. And so was everyone else in that gym.

Spencer's change was so astounding that I couldn't help but laugh hysterically. Where did this kid come from? It seemed that the hours of practice and nudging him back on the court again and again were finally paying off. And he knew he was doing well! He even pointed out his great moves to the referees. They were kind enough to congratulate him.

Granted, he was no Michael Jordan. He still couldn't dribble. But the referees let that go. And in one grand play, Spencer surprised us all. He grabbed the ball at the far end of the court and sprinted with it to mid-court (the ball didn't touch the ground once.) Then he heaved the ball over his head and chucked it at the basket from the half court line. Everyone cheered-- and laughed.

We lost that game, and we were out of the tournament. But did it really matter? I think everyone in that gym would have given the same answer.

Part III of this story is here.

Life coach

As the mother of all boys, I cherish the moments I get to spend with girls. Mind you, I am also bugged by little girls. They tend to drive me crazy. I do not have any sisters, so the whole female dynamic is rather mysterious to me. When I step outside and watch the neighborhood girls, I am completely flabbergasted by how catty and downright cruel they can be. So I'll keep my boys.

I'm sure those girls' moms feel the same way about my living, breathing, destructive ping-pong balls I have for children. To each his (and her!) own.

So being a basketball coach means that I get the best of both worlds. My first year, I had one girl on my team who didn't make it through the season. The second year, I had two, and feisty ones at that. It was great.

This year, I have three. Bonus!

I tend to spend a little more energy coaching and refereeing girls. I adhere to the theory that in order to improve the world, we need to improve the lives of women. And what better time to start than when they are little women! That one high five, that one word of encouragement, could start them on the path of self-worth, belief in self, and leadership.

Of course, that doesn't mean I don't coach the boys, and just as hard. But having a woman bust their butt down the court is good for the world, too.

So before our first game of this season I was jazzing my players up. I was pumped and ready to yell for the next hour. I turned to one of the girls and asked, "Are you ready?" It was going to be her first basketball game, ever. And her face was green. Literally. She looked as though she would vomit at any moment. She shook her head.

"I'm so nervous!"

I smiled and assured her, "You're going to be great! I know you can do it."

She did not look assured as she turned to watch the game. I patted her shoulder and hopped down off the bleachers.

Partway through the game, I turned to her and gave her an assignment. She would be point guard. (For those of you unfamiliar, this means she would be dribbling the ball down the court and initiating play with her team.) After I reviewed what her job would be, her eyes grew wide and she shook her head. Again, I reassured her. Be tough, I said.

The referee handed her the ball and she worked her way down the court. She was unsure at first but gained some confidence throughout the quarter. I hoped that I hadn't scarred her by giving her such a responsibility at her first game. The buzzer sounded, and we gathered by the bench.

I was short a couple of players so I had to choose someone to stay in the game. I scanned their faces, trying to make my decision. My gaze settled on this neophyte, her hair sweaty and matted to her bright red cheeks. Her eyes pleaded with me as she huffed,

"Please, please can I stay in? I want to dribble!"

How could I say no? It was moments like these, after all, that define the reason why I coach in the first place.

Small moments

My oldest son's basketball season is winding down. As the coach, I will miss my little athletes but I am also ready for the end. It's been a long season.

The first time I met my players I was a tad concerned. One of the kids was too young to be in the league but the organizers had placed him on my team because they knew me. I took it in stride. As for the rest of the players, it seemed that most of them were in a perpetual state of withdrawal from a massive dose of Ritalin. Weeknight practices certainly didn't help any.

One of the athletes really caught my attention. His parents never came out and told me that he had an attention deficit, but it was quite obvious. I never needed an explanation from them. I just dosed up on some extra patience before each practice and game.

I've come to love this slim, strawberry blond bundle of frenetic energy. At first, if he found the ball in his hands, he would turn into one of those wind-up toys and frantically tap dance down the court, forgetting to dribble. He entertained the entire gym with his earnest, forgetful attempts. He still has a hard time with remembering to dribble, but he has improved.

He struggles to focus on my instruction and I need to constantly redirect him. At times I have to physically turn his head toward me so that he will hear me. His eye contact is fleeting, but I am used to that. I can tell that he is eager to please and really loves to play.

I spend much of my vocal energy on reminding the players to stick with the person they are guarding. This young man is no different; in fact, every time he runs down the court, I need to remind him. He tries so hard and during a recent game it was no different.

We were in the thick of play when suddenly I saw him launch his body at a rebound. Little people were everywhere as the rest of the players did the same. He emerged triumphant and passed it to a teammate. He knew immediately, as did I, that he had done something great. I saw his head pop up out of the crowd, searching. Not for the referees, not even for his parents. For me. He stood rooted to the spot while the others ran past. Finally we made eye contact and he beamed at me.

I'll never forget that joyful expression on his face as he searched for validation. And I hope he always remembers how I celebrated that small moment with him.

You never know

Last year I signed up to coach my oldest son's co-ed basketball team. Upon entering the coaches' meeting, I discovered that I was the only female head coach in the league. I tried not to let my nerves get the best of me; after all, this might be my first time, but the kids were just six and seven years old!

I have no daughters with whom to share my skills and philosophies. Basketball would be my chance to make a difference in girls' lives! I would be fun! A knowledgeable and enthusiastic teacher! A great role model! I got my roster-- and one girl graced the list. ... No matter! She would be my star!

Or so I thought. Minutes into the first practice, I could tell that she would be a challenge. She was not at all motivated or even interested in touching the ball. I took a deep breath and crossed my fingers.

During games, she was content to stand in the middle of the fray, twirling her long blond hair around her fingers. Don't get me wrong-- she took it well when someone plowed her down on the way to the basket. But her parents and I continued to hope.

And then: oh frabjous day! It was the middle of the season and my ridiculous sideline antics spurred her to dribble the ball. She barely made it past half court and the referee gave her MUCH leeway in the double dribbling department. But she was able to pass it to a teammate! We cheered! We clapped! Progress!

At a subsequent game, there was a "loose ball" (no one had possession of it at the time) that caught her eye. She pondered it for a moment before seizing it and dribbling through the crowd. I don't even remember what happened next because I was overcome. Initiative! Aggression! We were getting somewhere!

I never saw her again.

Her father called a few weeks after that game to tell me that she had lost interest in basketball. I was heartbroken. What had I done wrong? He assured me that it wasn't me or my coaching skills. It was just his daughter being herself. I tried to shake it off, but it was difficult.

Sometime later I was packing up after a practice with my all-boy team. Families had arrived to pick up their little athletes so there were extra people milling around. I turned to address my son and for a fleeting moment, caught a girl staring at me. She was probably ten or eleven, too old to be playing in this league. Our connection was so brief that it took a moment to process the look on her face. But it was staggering.

I admire you. I want to be like you.

Maybe I was just trying too hard. All I needed to do was be there, for all the little girls in the crowd.
___________
This year, I have two girls on my team. And they have stuck with me all the way.