I’ve never been what you’d call a “great athlete” although I’ve been into many different sports in my life. From team sports to individual sports, I’ve tried – and got hooked on – lots of them. The one that stands out above the rest though is basketball.
There was a time in my life that there was nothing I wanted more to do than play, watch, talk about, draw pictures of, wear the apparel of, and collect the cards of the players of the professional league of basketball.
I loved the Lakers. In junior high I was so into them that I would go to bed unable to sleep because I couldn’t wait until morning to find out in the paper* how they did. The first thing I’d do when I woke up is run out to the driveway, bring the paper in, and check the box scores in the sports section. If the Lakers won I was in a good mood for the day and if they lost I was in a bad mood for the day.
My love for basketball eventually got me to face my fears and jump in a lunchtime ball game. The first time I touched the ball I froze. Someone passed it to me, I caught it, bounced it on the ground one time, caught it with two hands, and froze, unsure if I had just double dribbled. As I pondered the rules of the game, a kid on the other team slapped the ball out of my hand, ran down the court, and scored a fast break layup. My buddy Jason who was on my team looked over at me and groaned, “Aww, Eli” and just shook his head.
Because the love of the game was so intense, I kept trying. Shortly after the lunchtime debacle, I signed up for city league basketball. I got about 17 minutes of playing time that year and we came in last place, but I learned how the game is played. I did it again the next year and got on a team where our best player was a girl. She was really good for a girl (and a guy for that matter) but we came in last place, again. Nevertheless, I improved enough to think that I had a chance at the big time: the freshman team at Yucaipa High School which I would be attending in the fall.
Average ability, puffy haired, and lacking upper body strength, I showed up for the tryouts that fall along with another fifty or so 14 year olds. I made the first few rounds of cuts and found myself in the top 20. The way it worked was this: the day after each practice, the coach would hang a list in the locker room with two columns: those who made it, and those who are to continue to try out. Every day, the best performers of the day would get transferred from Continue To Try Out to Made It, and those who the coach wasn’t sure about yet, would stay on Continue. If you didn’t see your name anywhere, that meant you got cut. As the coaches got closer to their final roster, the Made It list grew to about 10 or 12 while the Continue list shrunk to about two or three. Where was I in all this? Continue To Try Out. At the bottom. Every time. I wasn’t safe, but I was still on the list… barely.
This is where my dad comes in. In sports, I was the opposite of most kids: I didn’t long for my parents to be involved in my sporting endeavors. In fact, I preferred that they didn’t show up to the games or really know what was going on in general. It wasn’t that I didn’t like them or get along with them; I just didn’t want them to go to a game where I might be on the bench most of the time. I guess I didn’t want them to be embarrassed. Regardless, with these basketball tryouts, my dad was somehow up to date on the happenings and knew that I was fighting for my life to stay on the team.
He didn’t know anything about basketball, but he knew about human interactions and gave me a piece of advice that touched on the relational aspect. He told me to talk to the coach after practice and ask how I was doing and what I could do to improve. So that’s what I did, after every practice. And the coach would tell me the same thing each time, “Just keep doing what you’re doing,” to which I would nod my head and say, “OK” and leave. It wasn’t much. It was the same three-sentence conversation repeated every day for three weeks, but I’m convinced that’s what kept me on that list. And when the final cut came, regardless of the caliber of my skills, I just don’t think the coach could bear to cross out the name of the kid that talked to him every day after practice. The kid with average ability, puffy hair, and little upper body strength.
I ended up playing two years of high school basketball and only quit because my interests had moved on towards other endeavors like piano and ping pong. But those two years of basketball were valuable in many ways, definitely in my top five experiences of high school, and if I could go back I would have continued to play the final two. So thank you, Pops. Neither of us are ballers, but I made the team and I couldn’t have done it without you!
*the paper was this primitive form of transferring information. Rather than digitally, words and images were cast on to very thin sheets of wood pulp – otherwise known as “paper” – with ink. They smelled funny and sometimes the ink would rub off on your hands. You didn’t know anything that was happening in the world until a human being delivered a bundle of said paper onto your doorstep. Sometimes if it rained, the paper would get wet and you would have to open it up and dry it out, or borrow a paper from your neighbor, which meant you would have to physically walk over to their house, ring their doorbell, and talk to them! We’re so much better off now.
Great story son (oh, no bias here), you met your goal! I’m honored to have played a small part in it.
Totally just fell more in love with you!!! I adore that puffy hair and those skinny arms ???. You’re my hero!!
I love your story and your dad’s advice. We can all make use of it as we try to get better at doing anything we care about. Asking for feedback can be scary sometimes.