“There’s still six minutes left in the game, why is he passing up on his shots?” I sat on the edge of the bleachers, hands shaking, stomach half way up my throat, as my 15-year-old son, Sean, fell back onto defense.
Mind you, I had not always suffered from what I am calling “SSDS,” or scholastics sports derangement syndrome. Seeing one’s progeny excel in any domain, however, is a powerful intoxicant. And so, as Sean became interested in team sports in third and fourth grade, and ran for 50-yard touchdown after 50-yard touchdown in pee-wee football, and was one of those miraculous 10-year-olds who could both shoot and crossover dribble in basketball, I was sucked in.
The kid excelled in everything he tried. Even in a one-season stint as a little league pitcher, he ended up with an 8-and-0 record and countless strike-outs. But as he approached adolescence, dark clouds began to gather.
Ghosts of Adolescence Past
Funny how the ghosts of one’s past can come back to haunt. I was a late bloomer—a real late, late bloomer in high school. Overnight the boys around me became men. They were crashing through walls of 240-pound lineman and going out on dates. I was still playing with Hot Wheels. It took until senior year for any coach to take me seriously. For a kid who lived for sports, it was all a less-than-palatable experience.
Determined to save my son the same indignation, I became his relentless personal trainer—and nag. I pushed him hard every free moment I had. He had to eat more, run more, lift more, shoot more, read more (of the great works of Pele, Jordan, and Bird). Never satisfied with his games, I critiqued every moment of every contest, and angered at any sub-Herculean effort. For I knew it was coming. It was in the genes. He was young in his class, skinny, and well behind the developmental curve. Despite his natural athleticism, he too would have to face the oft-moronic world of high school coaching that saw only the hormonally advanced.
Benched
The first blow came from an unexpected source. After excelling on the school’s seventh-grade basketball team as one of those plucky guards with an incessant in-your-face defense and a deadly outside shot, his basketball career abruptly was iced by his new eighth-grade coach who apparently saw no basketball aptitude in him. In the blink of an eye, Sean went from star to scrub. Game time became limited to the hapless melee of the last minutes of a 30 point blowout.
There seemed to be no plausible explanation. True, the coach’s son was vying for the same position on the team, but I wouldn’t, couldn’t believe that nepotism would/could have an influence on junior high basketball. When said eighth grade coach went on to replace Sean’s ninth grade coach, Sean considered quitting the team.
Epiphany
I, in an epiphany about misguided parenting, was overwhelmed by crushing ambivalence. If he quit basketball, I could make up for so much wasted father-son time. We could go hiking and play guitar together, and tinker in the barn and go fishing. I could cease being the task-master and be a fun dad again. Like when he was 9 and we used to wrestle or play one-on-one for hours on end. But alas, he was 15 now. He hurt me when we wrestled. He beat me with embarrassing ease one on one, and he seemed to enjoy time with his friends more than with his creaky old dad.
Sean decided to persevere. And so here I was at another game night, stomach in knots, watching him warm up. With the coach’s son and three other “starters” down with the flu, Sean actually got a starting nod and came out of the blocks on fire. He scored 14 of the team’s first 16 points. He passed accurately and shot with confidence. He made several steals and tied-up his opponents for jump-balls half a dozen times.
Off the Wagon
All the time, up in the bleachers, his old man sat like a tightened spring, silently screaming at the coach “in your face” every time a basket dropped or he forced another turnover. Yes, the reformed parental sports maniac had fallen off the wagon. All my thoughts of an exegesis on the role and reason for scholastic athletics—how we Americans had lost our compass; how sports should be more inclusive in this ever-more-sedentary society; how the lessons of team-building, cooperation, shared effort, and resilience in the face of adversity should be the point, not winning at all cost; how we dads needed to let our kids find their own ways, not be forced to live out our dreams—had evaporated in the joy of seeing Sean back in action. He was in damn-it, and he was making a mockery of his detractors…
Entering the fourth quarter, I pleaded with the gods for Sean to run up his box score. To my horror, though, he started passing up on shots. I counted at least three open threes, and several wide-open driving lanes that he ignored. The lump in my throat grew and I began to tremble.
“He’s Giving Jonesy the Ball”
Parenting Essential Reads
“There’s still six minutes left in the game, why is he passing up his shots?” I blurted to my wife. She provided the answer in an instant: “He’s trying to give the ball to Jonesy.”
And, of course, that was what he was doing. Jonesy, a victim of the same type of treatment as Sean, only worse, now stood at the low post muscling off his defender, and Sean was repeatedly zipping passes into him. When Jonesy converted and the team retreated to defense, a grinning Sean gave Jonesy a quick fist-bump then resumed his attack on the ball.
With four minutes left in the game, Sean took a seat on the bench. He apparently had requested to be taken out of the game. Not due to injury or fatigue, but so one of the lowliest of the scrubs could get some minutes on the court.
Class
Later that night, I thumped his shoulder in the usual father-son, no-hug, goodnight ritual, and I told him how much I admired him—not for his play but for his actions toward his teammates. I told him that in those acts, he exhibited more class, more maturity, more humanity, than had been shown by the many adults around him—his father included.
