It’s really OK to just let kids be kids
“OK, everybody, huddle up, huddle up!”
But nobody really seems to want to huddle up. Our point guard is standing at a slant, hands on his hips, looking at the scoreboard with a seething contempt. Home 2, Guests 12. We’re the home team.
Our power forward looks at his shoes as if he has them under surveillance, as if they are about to make a break for it. If they do, it will be our first fast break all day. His shoes do not move. And yet they seem to be fascinating.
Our shooting guard and center are playing some kind of game that they seem to be inventing on the spot. It involves elbowing each other, some obscure fifth-grade catch phrases, and a lot of giggling. They are not, in my estimation, fully aware of the gravity of this situation. Their team — the Guests — is beating our team up and down the court, chasing down every loose ball and every rebound, scoring on easy put-backs due to our utter failure to box out.
We are more spectators than participants, looking on with mild interest, like a group of kids at a birthday party watching an average magician. “Playing with energy” is an old basketball cliché, one that we apparently have not heard of. We’re playing with all the energy of a garden slug. Imagine five garden slugs watching a magic trick. That is how we’re playing.
“Huddle up! Huddle up!”
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We’ve got two minutes and 38 seconds left to make our “halftime adjustments.” One adjustment would be to make at least one pass that someone on our team could catch. Another would be to get off more than one shot per quarter.
“OK, team,” says our head coach. “We need to move the ball and look inside. We have to space out a little more and work on getting open for the pass.”
I am the assistant coach. My job is primarily to be supportive, offer whatever insights I can muster, and be sure that the players’ shoes are tied. It is my job to find the silver lining, regardless of how poorly we play, even if we end up losing 24-4.
“Look, team,” I will say. “You’ve got your whole lives in front of you. You’re nine or 10 years old. Who is going to remember this in five or 10 years? And look at your shoes — every single one of them tied and double-knotted! Well done, team!”
Unfortunately, despite our carefully orchestrated halftime strategy, the second half was more of the same. The Guests continued to thrash us, scoring on their possessions while we dribbled our way into basketball oblivion. From what I could discern, our offense consisted of one of our players dribbling the ball near half court for about five minutes until two or more of their defenders closed in for the trap, at which point there would either be a jump ball or a wild scoop pass aimed in no particular direction.
On possession after possession, we would dribble, dribble, dribble, and the Guests would close in like cheetahs chasing a gazelle. It was like watching a National Geographic special. Cruel, relentless nature. The survival of the fittest.
I chanced a glance into the crowd of 50 or so and noted in the third quarter a certain restlessness among our fans, one that gave way in the fourth quarter to a sense of doom, the inevitability of defeat. The gazelle would not escape. Nor would it pass the basketball. Dribble, dribble, dribble.
When the final horn sounded, both teams lined up and did the ceremonial “good game/hand slap” dance, and then cleared out of the gym and into the lobby to get snacks and juice. Bitter, bitter juice.
The parents were all standing around waiting on their players to get their snacks. Everybody was pretty quiet. Under different circumstances, I might call the prevailing mood “reflective,” but in these circumstances, I would describe it more as mild shock. What had they just witnessed? It was hard to say.
“Tough game, coach,” said one of the dads on his way out the door and into the blinding December sunshine.
“Only thirteen days until Christmas,” I said. “We’ve got the rest of our lives to look forward to!”
(It is rare that I feel a need to “explain” a column, but I want to be clear that this week’s column is a satire of adults’ often warped perspective of youth sports, and not in any way a criticism of these young basketball players. They are a pure delight, win or lose. It is easy for parents and coaches to get caught up in wins and losses, but we should all remember that the real goal should be to let these children learn the game and to have fun while they are doing it. Let’s allow these kids to be kids. It doesn’t last long.)
(Chris Cox is a writer and teacher who lives in Haywood County. His most recent book, The Way We Say Goodbye, is available on Amazon and at regional bookstores.) This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..
