Defensive

I grew up playing basketball. We walked down to the park every day. Four or five of us, joking and laughing, chasing down the ball when someone dribbled off their foot. At the court, you had to wait your turn. First, watching the older guys play, waiting to get our chance. Once on the court it was time to prove you could play. You know the story.

There were no parents on those courts. No refs, nobody to make sure everything was fair. Some kids were nicer than others. It’s life.

Now six, my son has taken a sudden interest in basketball and football. Sports is something I’ve never pushed on him. In fact, I’ve always liked his engineer like mind. When he started playing soccer last year I laughed because the coach was telling the kids to be aggressive, to fight for the ball, when most of them only wanted to pick dandelions.

But right now, it’s all about ball. And the adjustable basketball goal that’s been sitting at the end of our street is getting some use. Rain? Let’s go play basketball. It doesn’t matter.

I love it, I teach him what I can, only what coaching he wants to take. I never push because again, it’s not important. I’m just happy to be spending some time outside with my kid.

So yesterday he invited the kids down the street to join. Brother and sister, eleven and eight. Two on two. We had ourselves a game. 

My first mistake was agreeing to be on teams with my kid. We usually play against each other. That way I can control—yes control—the situation. But this was different. It wasn't long before we found ourselves in a clash with this formidable brother/sister combo. And while it began fun, Simon playing defense and laughing, it soon became something else. Something too much for him.

The eleven-year-old boy, doing what eleven-year-old boys do I suppose, decided he wanted to come out and double team the little guy.

They pressed. They stole the ball. The eleven-year old blocked and blocked and blocked Simon’s shot. I directed things the best I could, set some picks and worked to get him open, but after a while it got old. I’d had enough.

So I did what all mature adults would do. I gave him a dose of his medicine.

I blocked the big kid's shot, twice. Maybe three times. Any time he decided he would take the ball from a six-year old, I did the same to him. Okay, not quite, but enough to get the point across. I mean, come on, the kid was double his size. And maybe I'd had a bit too much March Madness but it seemed like the right thing to do at the time.  

The game ended. I gave my kid a pat on the back. I was proud of him, but I could see how upset he was.

I tried to explain how it would help him, playing against bigger kids. He gathered up his bike and helmet and nodded. But he was upset. And again, I realize it’s okay to lose and be upset, trust me. I can't always be there to guard the rim. He'll have to learn on his own how to deal with jerks, adversity, failure. And I can’t come down and remove every obstacle in his path. 

But he's six. And we are teammates, after all. So while I’m not proud of what I did, I'm not exactly ashamed. Besides, in a few years, when he's eleven, he'd better do the same for me because I'm going to need some help down low. He'll be the one protecting the rim. 

I'm getting too old for this...