The Coach

I walk into the gym at 5:29, having changed clothes in my car after a long day at work then the slog of a commute to the local Y. Not for the first time I second guess my decision to coach youth basketball—I’ve been skittish since Meet the Coach pizza night a few weeks ago.

Now, as I walk in, clutching a clipboard of all things, the freshly opened Walmart whistle around my neck, I take inventory of the group.

Fourteen of them. All between the ages of 5-7. Everyone with a basketball, launching it at the goal, balls ricocheting every direction. I realize the clipboard will come in handy for banging against my head.

“Hey guys,” I start. No one looks. I have grand plans for these guys. I have a speech, somewhere, in the recesses of my head, about hard work and discipline. Fundamentals and the results of drills and routines. But that will have to wait, because two kids are licking the floor.

I clear my throat. “Over here, Suns.”

The Suns, our team name. It seems fitting because this whole thing is about to crash and burn. Even my own kid isn’t paying attention. In fact, he may just be the worst of the lot because unlike the others, he knows my true colors. He knows I'm not, ahem, exactly Mr. Disciplinarian.

I reintroduce myself, trying not to stare because some of the kids are almost rabid. One monster is eating Skittles by the handful, a rainbow of color around the lips, a glittering, Apocalypse Now sort of craze in his eyes. Two twins—because of course I’d get twins—are tumbling around the court with cones on their heads. Cones my wife brought for dribbling drills. The only dribbling is the line of spit flowing from Skittle Kid’s mouth.

“Okay, um. Let’s run some layups. Or better yet, just run.”

I line them up. Or, I try to line them up but that would take four men on horseback and a couple of Australian Shepard’s. But eventually I get them to one side of the gym. All have a basketball and no intention of dribbling it. In fact, they look like foot soldiers about to charge a battlefield.

I get out my whistle, give it a little spurt, and they erupt.

They come in waves, screaming, laughing, shouting, tripping and pouting. I’m pulled one way because Will took my ball, then the other because, Is it time to shoot yet? Someone unties my shoe, I’m kicked in the leg then spun around. I yank my arms free from all the little reaching hands because I’ve only just finished the two-hour Appropriate Touching video and there are some clear violations taking place.

I blow the whistle again, then again, desperately, like a traffic cop in Times Square until for the most part they get lined up again, minus the kid licking the wall.

I check the clock. It’s 5:34.

There’s no way. I can’t survive this. Practices. Games. Team pictures. A quick glance at my wife, a second grade teacher, who either cannot or refuses to hide her smirking.

“Let’s take a water break.”

Only they don’t want water. These kids are out for blood.

We regroup. Mia, the only girl on our team makes a layup. I tell her that was great and try to coax her back to the line. “Who’s nex—"

She’s crying. Head down and sobbing. I rush over to her. I’m not used to little girls, but this one is devastated. I look over to her mother, who’s on the phone and making the most of her reprieve.

“Would you like, would you like another turn?”

In a blink Mia breaks free and skips to the front of the line, where she grabs the ball and winks—I swear she winks—then flits to the goal.

A teaching moment for Mia. She's learned the coach is a sucker.

Eventually I corral them. I teach proper form, the bounce pass. A basketball hits my head. We practice dribbling. We take another water break. We huddle up, and I look over the panting faces. This is my team, huddled and squirming, reeking of sugar and feet, looking to me to lead them through the season. And so I set my hand out and they set their little hands out.

“Suns on three. Ready?”

They all nod.

“One…”

“Suns!”

The Diaper Derby...

About a month ago, I entered Simon into a fun little event called the Diaper Derby at the University of Virginia.  The derby, as it’s called, takes place during half time at the basketball games.  It’s a race from the foul line to half court, with the winner taking home a $529 Virginia 529 college savings plan voucher.

I was surprised to take the call that we’d been selected.  To be honest I thought they might as well give us the cash.  I’ve seen my guy crawl, the dudes like a gazelle…or more like a bull really, but they’re pretty fast too.

As we made the one hour drive to Charlottesville, I was content to smile to myself. A sort of reposed, cocky grin, because I knew it was in the bag.  At 12 months old, Simon was just sliding through the 6-12 month deadline.  I’d asked the girl on the phone if this was okay.  She said sure, as long as he wasn’t walking. Suckers...I almost felt bad for the other parents. The only thing I was worried about was that Simon would jump up and take his first steps right there on the court, sprinting to the finish line like a track star and voiding his college savings... 

So you could say I was confident, perhaps overly confident as we'd spent the previous evening working on his Richard Sherman-like post-race speech.  I’m the best crawler in the game!!!!  He's getting there.

We arrived at will call, picking up our much sought after and yet complimentary tickets. Virginia was playing Virginia Tech and the game was sold out. I held my breath.  How would Simon do with the crowd?  With over 15,000 in attendance I was scared he'd get out there and start melting down right there in front of---hey, Simon?  I turned to find him and Mom chatting up the door guys before we even made it through the turnstile.

Okay, let’s find our seats.  But before all that there’s a couple things you should know: 

1. I've always been terrified of people.  Especially if the people were watching me. (Drunken karaoke notwithstanding.)  I've gotten better, but still, I'd probably never leave the house but to go to work, play basketball and walk my dogs if it weren't for my wife's dragging...
2. My wife and my dad are probably the two most outgoing people I've ever met in my life.  They're the kind of people who are comfortable in a TSA checkpoint on Labor Day weekend.  More people to meet...

Okay, carrying Simon, we hiked up the bleachers to our seats in the high altitude section and it was quickly evident that he had the Mom and Grandpa gene--not the Daddy freak-out gene.  Because he wasted no time pointing and howling and finding friends.  We sat down and settled in.  Simon took it in and loved it, spinning around and charming the couple behind us.  He turned it on and they melted in his hand, which he promptly used to point at them.  Daddy smiled nervously.   

<----Seriously, look at that.  I'm holding that kid like he's the last life vest on the Titanic.  But Simon was into it, clapping and cheering and I'm pretty sure he even heckled some opposing fans.  Then, with six minutes before halftime, we descended the stairs to make our way to the race. Simon left with two fans in section Q tucked firmly in his corner.

Race time.  We met the other parents and babies just before halftime.  I kept having to tell my wife to stop saying "the completion."  But inside I knew, I knew this was a cake walk….crawl….whatever.  We got this.

The other babies were tiny, Simon looked like he drove there in comparison.  Anyway, blah blah blah, we went through the rules.  Then we headed down to the tunnel. 

As a sports fan, and a longtime UVa fan, heading down to the court was special.  As happy I am to have a kid, because of course I love him, I kissed his head for granting me the opportunity to get down to the court. 

But I could tell something was off.  It was like Secretariat’s first time at the track. The lights, the buzzers, the cheering crowd wasn’t bothering him, it was distracting him.  He stared off to the giant scoreboard, attracted to its high definition like a fly zapper.  I shot his mother a look of concern.  We were in trouble…

A deep breath.  I even made a few preemptory jokes to another Dad out of guilt because Simon was so much bigger than the other babies, something about how his girl had the advantage because boys get distracted so easily.  Oh what a visionary...

We exited the bowels of the arena like gladiators.  Well, parents coddling their spoiled rotten babies, carrying phones and cameras and diaper bags, but still, like gladiators.

Suddenly it was go time.  They rolled out the Va. 529 banners.  Mom took her place at the finish line—a planned strategy that hurt Dad’s ego but in the end was necessary.  Who would he crawl to?  Ouch.

A well-manicured lady fired up the crowd, a blur of faces and orange, and then we were off……and then we were off……..and then we were off…..Simon wouldn’t budge, that damned scoreboard had sucked him in and wouldn’t release its grip on his stare.  In his defense, it was really, really cool.

“Simon, go to Mommy.  Go Simon, go!”

Nothing.  I pointed and yelled and coaxed but my son just sat in the starting position like Husain Bolt posing for a marble statue.  Meanwhile, the little ankle biter to my right was off, halfway there already, probably because her Dad had left the staring position and walked beside her, baiting her with puffs or some other illegal contraband.  But we weren’t cheating.  We didn't need to because we're fast.

And then Simon started.  For a minute I just knew he'd only given her a head start, you know, to make it fair like we’d discussed. He took a beautiful stride and I thought he was going to give the sold-out crowd a show to remember.  But no.

He turned around, plopping down on his rump right there on the hardwood and looked at Daddy, those big blue eyes reflecting the scoreboard above.  Yeah son, it's pretty cool isn't it? 

Man I love that dude.

We gathered our free swag bag and headed for the stairs.  I’d discovered new parenting territory, I didn’t care about winning.  I cared that he enjoyed the game, that we'd had a family day.  That even though his mother mistakenly wore a maroon jacket, which, combined with my orange UVa shirt perfectly composed the arch rivals’ team colors, it was okay.  When we were leaving a lady at the door told me how beautiful my son was.  Oh yeah, and Virginia won big, 65-45 in a game that was never close.

What a day... 

So what happened when we got home?  Well, we greeted the dogs, unloaded the Trader Joe’s groceries and Mom's wine--which as I drink now isn't that bad.  Then we set the little dude on the floor and he immediately scorched up the hallway, crawling faster than most Volkswagens can coast before turning around with that lovable gleam in his eyes and giggled that little giggle that makes it all worthwhile.

What a winner.

 

 

 

Executive Decision...

I’m constantly trying to talk my wife into downsizing, into getting some of this stuff out of the house instead of hauling it in.  It seems all we do is unbox stuff that we may or may not really need.  Especially since the baby, we have accumulated so much crap. We don’t need all of this stuff, I tell her after reading about a family of 4 living in a 68 square foot treehouse. But she doesn't listen, and for the life of me I don't know why.  Our house hasn’t been clean in nine months, and all this junk doesn't help. I try another angle, We need to simplify our lifestyle!! I yell during a commercial break of a feature on Amish lifestyles on 60 minutes. Again nothing..

In all seriousness, we do need to comb through our belongings, sort out the necessities.  But with a wife who collects scarves like a snowman museum curator, then of course the two dogs, stupid cat, and let's not forget the newest member of our household, Mr. Two of Everything, it's easy to see that I'm fighting a losing battle. 

Because I'm honest, I'll even admit that I'm not completely without blame. The other day I was given the simple task of buying a replacement diaper genie (yes, I’m aware of how utterly domestic my life has become). Walking through the store I stopped—as do all adults—and made a beeline for a display of basketballs. 

I was testing the air in one of the balls, just a few dribbles, when I caught a disapproving glare from the store employee. And that’s when I spotted a little piece of magic in the form of a plastic toy basketball goal. It seems the diaper genie had granted my wish. 

After some thought (would I still want this in the morning? Yep), I grabbed the box, snatched the diaper genie and made my way to the register. Waiting in line, I smiled to myself at my wise decision.  At $25, this little contraption could theoretically lead to a college scholarship.  It was my first executive parenting decision, and I was feeling pretty good about it.  

Arriving home, I presented my wife with the boring old pamper bucket. And then, unable to contain my goofy dad grin, I presented the basketball goal.

“Seriously? He just started crawling."

I’d anticipated this antiquated line of thinking and launched into my presentation. Fearing a veto,I handed her a PowerPoint presentation, referred to statistics I’d invented, and talked endlessly about the benefits of hand eye coordination. I tore into the box like Christmas morning, handing the ball to my son—which he promptly ate. Unperturbed, I assembled the goal with hoop dreams dancing in my head.  I hung the net and, swish, christened it with a  turn around jumper from the dinner table. Yeah, my wife is going to love this. 

So what if the box says 1.5 to 5 years old? My son will be 9 months old soon, and once he quits crapping himself he'll be ready for the big time.  Besides, we’ve got our work cut out for us if we want to compete with that Titus kid. But no pressure, if he doesn’t care for it, I suppose I’ll find something to do with it.

No Pressure...

The Daily Press, March 16th 2031

Charlottesville, Va. Simon Fanning, the freshman phenom for the University of Virginia knows how to draw a crowd.  Leading the Cavs' basketball team in points, rebounds, assists, and steals, Fanning is having one of the more memorable seasons in school history.  During last night’s route of the Duke Blue devils at John Paul Jones arena, Fanning set a freshman record with his sixth triple double this season season.

“I’m just trying to get everyone involved.  Tonight was a team effort, just like every night.”

With all the right answers, the 6’4” combo guard is enjoying a sensational streak, leading Virginia on a late season surge towards a #1 seed as the conference tournament approaches. Fanning is averaging a whopping 28 points, 14 rebounds and 8 assist over the last 5 games, and with March madness looming, excitement is swirling over the historic grounds in Charlottesville. Uva head coach Chris Paul explained just how special his young star has been to his team.

“This kid comes to play, whether its practice or crunch time, he’s out there doing everything in his power to help the team win.”

His on court success comes after a breakout season on the football field.  The duel sport athlete threw for over 3,000 yards last season, leading Virginia to its first conference championship in over twenty five years.  His 42 touchdown passes shattered both school and conference records, as Fanning showed the poise and skill set to excite both fans and nfl scouts sitting in the stands.  One of those scouts, who wished to remain anonymous, gushed about the chance to nab the Heisman trophy winner

“I’ve been doing this for a long time, and I’ve never seen such a combination of foot speed and accuracy in a college quarterback.  This kid is the real deal, we’d take him 1^st right now if we could.”  

Juggling two sports, most kids would have a difficult time focusing on their studies, but Fanning--a physics major, has little trouble shedding the cleats and hitting the lab, maintaining a perfect 4.0 gpa.  Whispers of a potential Rhodes scholarship have surfaced on campus as Fanning is an active member of the Jefferson Literary and Debating Society. Following the footsteps of notable members such as Edgar Allen Poe and Woodrow Wilson, Fanning participates in weekly sunrise sessions, reading prose and poetry or taking part in vigorous debates on matters ranging from the impending oil crisis to often humorous critiques of current President Ben Affleck’s blunders in office.

Fanning is no stranger to the limelight. Following his rousing high school graduation speech, covered by C-Span and featured on The Today Show, Fanning spent the summer participating in a highly selective internship with Nasa, where he received the Milton award for his work on the Mars water-monitoring app that will be utilized with Apple’s forthcoming Ikitchen.

Fluent in French, German, Spanish, and Zulu, Fanning says he plans to spend the upcoming offseason taking part in the construction of a maternity ward for a remote village in South Africa. 

Simon’s proud father, Pete Fanning, says he knew there was something special about his son from the very beginning.

“We came home from that there hospital and I says shoot.  That boy there, he’s gonna be a smart one.”

And a smart one he is.  Fanning attributes his success to his upbringing, praising his mother and father for their support in all of his interests, mentioning how thankful he is that his father never wrote outlandish blog posts chocked full of unattainable standards. 

With all of his first year success, Fanning says for now he just wants to enjoy college life and help others in the process.  From Rhodes scholar to future Nba star, Simon’s future looks full of promise.  And who knows? Perhaps his next venture will be to tutor his father.

Fighting it...

I think a lot about age these days.  At 37 I’m in that gray area (I refuse to say middle age) where I’m no longer a young guy, but I’m not old.  Sure, the kids at the mall (or wherever they hang out) may disagree with that statement, but still, I’m not old.    

 

I’m also not quite sure where all the time went, it seems like yesterday that I was in my twenties and doing things that would make older me scowl and shake my head on my morning commute.

I still have my health, but as I found out over the weekend, these days there are some limits. 

I was invited to play in a charity basketball tournament.  Four games in two days, doesn’t sound like much. Our first game would be at 10 Am on Saturday, I arrived at the gym alert and chipper.  Bouncing through lay-up drills like a kid.

After the first game (we won!), I felt good and ready to do it again. After the second (we won again!), I was still okay, but breathing heavily and sucking down water.  On the way home that evening, age set in.  Old people thoughts entered my mind.  I thought about stopping for some Bengay or Icy Hot, and was contemplating the upside of using a walker.  I took a shower and changed into pajamas and then looked at the clock.  5:30. Wow.

With a grunt, I scooped the little guy into my arms and watched the much younger college kids on television for the rest of the evening, wincing every time I stood up and my back ached or an ankle popped.

The next day, I took two aspirin, as my ankles were still hurting and my back was a bit stiff, and I’m sure my wife was tired of me whining.  Back at the gym, we won the semifinal game in dramatic fashion on a last second shot.  The championship game wasn’t for three hours, so I limped around the house in an effort to stay loose, and even managed to take the dogs for their run because well, I’m an idiot.

Our luck ran out in the championship game, as we lost in an overtime thriller--at least for the 6 people in attendance--but I left it all out on the floor, and it wasn’t until Tuesday that I fully recovered.

I fell into the car, drove home, and once again was in my pajamas before the sun went down.  No shame.

Maybe it’s stubbornness, but I will continue to fight off age for the rest of my days, running up hills and skipping stairs while I'm able to do so. And for all of the soreness and limping, as we posed for our second place trophy pictures I was asked if I was playing next year.

Of course I am.

Hoop Dreams

I'm not going to be the dad who pushes sports on his son. He'll be free to pursue what makes him happy, unless it's one of those trends I'm too old to understand.  Like milking, or planking, or owling, or whatever bewildering trend is looming. With that being said, there's an old basketball goal at the end of our street. The pole shows some rust and the plastic backboard is weathered and faded, but when I was a kid a hoop was a hoop, (until your dad comes down with a tomahawk jam that rips the rim off of the backboard, but that's for another post).  When we moved into our house a few years ago I tightened up the rim and replaced the dry rotted net that had been blowing in the wind since the Reagan administration.  

The goal may not look like much, but I can already envision a little Simon bouncing the ball down the street to join dad for a game. I know, it may be a few months.  It’s an adjustable goal so I will lower it for him.  I don’t expect anything spectacular, nothing youtube worthy anyway, just some good old father-son bonding time.  Who knows, maybe we’ll let Mom join us.

As much as I want him to like basketball, I won't force it on him. If it's not his thing, no big deal, there are plenty of other hobbies out there. So down the road if I end up at a chess match or a debate, or even...gulp, a soccer match, I’ll be just as proud (and maybe as loud) as I would cheering him on the court. 

Whatever he decides to do I'll support it, even if it's hockey. I'm game for whatever the journey brings. But one thing is for certain; the kid will have to get outside.  Whether it's riding his bike, playing in the creek, or even reading a book, I want him to come home dirty.  Just like dad.

Love and Basketball

I've made my return to basketball night after a brief hiatus, coming back as a dad  with with a heightened sense of maturity and composure. 

Okay, not quite. Coming back as a dad, I felt a bit guilty enjoying a couple hours of playing ball while my wife sat at home, her only exile from the house in the past month being a trip to the grocery store.

But I was on a roll, and it was only for two hours. Two.  Out of 168 hours in the week, minus the 40 for work of course.  That leaves all those other hours to hold, bounce, change, and make up songs for my son.

A few of the guys were surprised at my quick return. Others were more impressed with my wife and her allowing me to return. This made me start to question my being out there, and I began to wonder if I should be helping out a little more?  (At home, not on defense).

So I asked my wife again when I got home, and she confirmed that she is cool with basketball night.  Even if it does mean that she'll get no relief until I come home, sweaty and tired, and being of little use. 

I thought that was the end of it, but then a few days ago, as our son was pooping in the tub and screaming for all the neighbors to hear, I slithered off into the night with my gym bag tucked under my arms. Now that I type it, I do kinda suck...

Before Simon was born, I used to play two or even three nights a week.  I know that is not an option anymore, and I wouldn't want to leave him anyway.  I only ask for that one night to get out.  Is that too selfish? 

And this debate rages on, not between my wife and me, but between me and that little voice in my head...the one that sounds like hers. 

I’m getting exercise, in effort to prolong my life, isn't that a good thing? Why, it's not like you're helping out, deadbeat! 

I’m letting off some steam, getting out of the house is good for my well being. It's all about you isn't it? 

It's not like I can breast feed him.  No, but you could clean up while your wife keeps your son alive!  

Man, it's exhausting being me...

I'm looking forward to when he's two or three, maybe then he can come along and work on his game with dad.  He's already boxing me out on the boob.

In all seriousness, I fully understand that life will ever be the same, I knew that going in. In the end, I guess my question is this:  As parents, what happens to our time?

Is it too much to think that we can carve out time for ourselves, or did our time end upon delivery?  Does it resume after a year, after two, 18? I'm not sure my jumpshot can endure that much time off.

OH JEEZ!

Author's Self Portrait

My language isn’t all that bad, but lately I’ve been working to clean it up before we welcome a little one into our household.  I know that the baby won’t understand all of the obscenities hurled around as I watch the game, but it's just something I would like to do.

Now what could be wrong with curbing some bad language?  Well, let me explain how it came back to haunt me a bit on Sunday as I headed out to the basketball court.  This is where guys are among guys and there is all sorts of bravado and one upmanship going on.  Now I'm usually one of the oldest if not the oldest guy out there so I know I'm not going to be the hippest, but...

Shooting around before we began playing we were discussing the football games of the day and at some point, before I could think better of it, I let fly with an Oh Jeez.  Or maybe it was an Oh Boy, I don't remember exactly which one but you could almost hear a record skip somewhere as everyone stopped and looked at me as if I had just sat down with a gas can and immolated myself. 

So now, on top of being the old guy and not to mention the only white guy out there, I had just said Oh Jeez. Oh Jeez, seriously?  I'm not sure I have ever said Oh Jeez in my life, it just sort of came out of nowhere.  This was not going to help me get picked.  After we laughed it off, and by we I mean that I joined everyone else in laughing at me, we began playing and all was forgotten, except by me.  During the game I made sure to drop some four letter words that would make my stepmother proud.  

So what's next for me, Holy Cow?  How about a Gee Willikers?  Maybe I need to go wash my mouth out with dirt.  As I rapidly approach middle age and prepare to become a family man, who knows what will come out of this clean G-rated mouth of mine next, Sheesh!