Pure elation swept the Tiger sideline as the third quarter ended.
“We’re actually going to do it!” the team uttered excitedly.
To appreciate how my group of third and fourth graders arrived at this moment, you have to understand the journey. I signed up to coach my son’s elementary school basketball team. I wanted to offer my knowledge and love for the game. Plus, I’d get to spend more time with my son.
While some of my 11 players were seasoned competitors, many had never played organized basketball before. We were green, but I felt we had something. And wow, they were something, alright.
We didn’t have all our teeth but played with all our heart.
There was Joey, whose greatest joy was hiding in the empty rubber trash bin. There was Doug, who danced while he dribbled. There was Missy, who in the middle of a drill stopped and alerted me she lost a tooth.
“Do you want it?”
No, Missy. I don’t.
There was Aaron, who late in the season informed me he was trading himself to the “other” team that was winning games. Sorry, general manager, but you’re stuck with me.
As for my son, he was excited for the social part of the team. Playing basketball just happened to be the thing he’d put up with to hang with his best friend and classmates. His main goal? Score at least one basket. And, at the start of the second game, the ball took a strange ricochet right to him and he hoisted up a shot. Swish.
He stopped and watched the scoreboard change from “0” to “2” with such satisfaction. I gave him his moment, and then promptly reminded him to get back on defense.
The message in most practices was about having fun—and patience. You know, that thing all 9- and 10-year-olds have loads of and are great at? Nice move, rookie coach.
We went over a zone defense. We talked about being aggressive. Mostly, however, we got to know each other. We talked. We listened. After a few practices, they even stopped in complete silence when the whistle blew. Magic.
And so, try, we did. And get better, we did. Win? Well, we did not. In fact, we lost all the regular season games. After each one, I took stock of how they reacted. As more and more losses piled up, I worried they would lose heart. To their credit, they continued to show up with positivity. Their resilience was spectacular.
Finally, the weekend of the playoffs arrived. We were placed into the consolation bracket with one final game. And then, it happened.
Everything we practiced for weeks came together. We made shots. We played more aggressively. Our zone defense was phenomenal. We didn’t have all our teeth but played with all our heart.
As the buzzer sounded at the end of the third quarter, we had a huge lead. Cue the elation. I wasn’t their dad (well, one of theirs)—not even their wacky uncle, but as their coach, I felt something akin to fatherly pride. Not for our inevitable first win, but more importantly, in the feeling of accomplishment they earned together. Their moment had arrived.
As the fourth quarter was about to start, we huddled. I felt like Gene Hackman in Hoosiers before the championship game, when he looked around the room and said from the huddle, “I love you guys.”
That may have been a bit heavy for this group. But, wow, was I proud of all 11 of my resilient players. They grew. They showed patience despite defeats. They got the triumph they deserved. So, I said the only thing that captured this wondrous moment.
“Proud to be your coach. Tigers on three.”
Josh Farnsworth is a national-award-winning parenting columnist who lives with his wife and two goofball sons. You can reach him for column ideas at josh.farnsworth@yahoo.com.
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