December 4, 2007
My son FINALLY got to play in one of his school basketball games yesterday.
Joaquin is on the school “B” team/2nd string so he hasn't
played in any games and he’s been expressing his disappointment
to me. In a lecture sounding mysteriously familiar to me, I explained
he would have to try harder and do better in practice. He was not
guaranteed playtime just because he was on the team – he had
to earn it.
I’m always afraid this type of tough love will douse
his enthusiasm for sports and it kills me to speak to him in this manner
- but I know it’s needed. I think he got the message.
Yesterday I was not feeling well and contemplated whether I should attend
Joaquin’s
game at 5:30pm – maybe I should just go home and rest. Another night in
a stuffy gym, sitting on uncomfortable bleachers with referee whistles/buzzers
blasting (immediately followed by the groans and verbal challenges of father
coaches in the stands) was not going to help my head cold. But I decided to go
anyway for Joaquin. I’m glad I did.
As the game began to wind down, the coach benched the entire 1st string and called
up the 2nd string. Was this head cold getting the better of me?
Nope, I was seeing true - Joaquin and the other 2nd string team mates
were circled around the coach. I could see the look of determination
on Joaquin’s face
as listened intently and watched while the coach drew out the last plays of the
game on his clip board. A buzzer sounded and the circle broke - the bounce in
Joaquin’s step was evident as he raced down the court to play offense.
A referee whistle broke the stillness and suddenly the gym was once again filled
with squeaking shoes and crowd cheer. In a flurry of blue and white jerseys,
I spotted Joaquin as he blocked out players, passed the ball, moved to the corner
and asked for the ball. He caught the ball, lined up his toes, looked up at the
basket (while chewing one side of his lower lip) and bent his knees to attempt
a shot. My fingers dug into my kneecaps and I gasped as he let loose the ball
just before a defender reached him with an outstretched hand. As the ball sailed
towards the rim - in my head I could hear dramatic trombone, cello music and
see photographic strobes illuminating the ball.
The ball bounced off the rim and I released my trapped breath – he
missed.
My discontent was brief as the other team got the rebound and fired the
ball down to the other end of the court – an opposing player was
trying to break free but Joaquin was racing with him. Joaquin managed
to keep up - matching the player stride for stride, never taking his
eyes off the ball and his hands in the dribbler’s face. The opposing
player would not have an easy lay up if Joaquin had anything to do with
it.
Is that my son? I’ve never seen him move so fast and he looks
so serious…
Seconds later a sharp burst of the referee’s whistle signified
that Joaquin had fouled the player negating the easy lay up. Regardless
of the minimal time left in the game, emotion took over and Dad, heart
swelling with pride and grinning ear to ear, yelled out, “YOU’VE
GOT FOUR MORE FOULS TO GIVE! USE THEM!” It was my turn to
be a Father/Coach.
Those 60 seconds of regulation play lasted over three minutes and I barely noticed
the buzzer end the brief sports bond between a father and son. We lost the game
but I exchanged proud looks with the other 2nd string parents. Our badge prominently
displayed as a big toothy smile.
Although Joaquin only played about three minutes – we euphorically
chatted the entire drive home from the game. The conversation was sprinkled
with pointers on performance and accolades from me with Joaquin asking
if I had seen the shot or block he almost made - barely a breath between
the both of us. The conversation trickled to an end as we pulled into
our driveway but Joaquin stated he was going to improve his performance
at basketball practices so he could play again. I reached over, tussled
his hair, then told him I was proud of him.
It’s funny how one minute of my eleven year old son’s basketball
game can put things in perspective.
G-man