Goodbye to the Quiet Man

I lost a basketball game today. No, not the team I coach. Neither was it a recreation or church league team with which I was playing. Nope, it was a one on one game. No lousy teammates to blame and no inept officials. Depressingly, there is simply no one to blame but myself. What is the big deal you may be asking? I lost to an 8th grader. Granted, he is a very gifted 8th grader but he is an 8th grader nonetheless. To understand why I’m so upset you will have to travel back with me quite a few years.

Competitive basketball has been part of my life since I was in 3rd grade. I started playing for a YMCA team and never looked back. I wasn’t particularly good that first year. I was tall and thin (ok, skinny and weak) and wasn’t exactly a scoring machine. My feet were big and didn’t seem to be proportional to the rest of my toothpick body. Try to imagine Shelley Duvall in clown shoes loping down the court and you get the general idea as to my appearance. I got better though. In 4th grade I made the Little Dribbler’s All-Star Team. I still didn’t score a lot but I had started to get some fundamentals like boxing out and using the backboard down. Our little All-Star team traveled to Livingston, Texas for a tournament one weekend. We played two games and, to be honest, I don’t remember if we won one of them or not. I do remember getting a nice hand from the crowd when I was taken out of the contest late in the fourth quarter of our second game. I hadn’t scored much but had played pretty well defensively and grabbed quite a few rebounds. I remember thinking it was pretty cool that those folks were clapping for me.

My first two years in junior high I played behind a big fat guy named Joey. He wasn’t very good but was tall and strong. I remember thinking I should be playing in front of that tub of goo. My coach didn’t see it that way, however. My game was sound and my skills probably were better than Joey’s. However, I was not an aggressive player and didn’t have a lot of confidence in myself. So, I lived the life of a second stringer for the mighty Bullpups my 7th and 8th grade year. Something changed my freshman year. I matured a good bit physically but it was more than that. Suddenly, I began to understand the game. I could anticipate when someone was going to break open or where a rebound was likely to carom after it hit the rim. The game slowed down for me. Big fat Joey would never play in front of me again.

As a sophomore I led our J.V. team in scoring and really started to come into my own as a player. Things only got better my junior year as I started for the varsity of my 5A high school. I will never forget my first varsity game. We played Bridge City at home. I scored 19 points and played really well. The next day this tall drink of water named Dana stopped me in the parking lot on my way into school. She asked, “Are you number 44?" I nodded. She smiled a big smile and said, “You’re really good.” She winked at me, spun around, and sashayed her pretty little self into the building. It was then I began to suspect that this basketball thing might have some fringe benefits I had not yet considered. My high school career turned out to be a very good one. We weren’t very good but I led our team in scoring, rebounding, free-throw percentage, and, unfortunately, technical fouls each year. I made All-District twice and got some attention from the local papers. One local reporter even gave me a nickname. He called me the "Quiet Man". He wrote that I didn't woof and trash talk like so many other players but, instead, just went about the business of playing hard quietly. It wasn't the best nickname but it was mine. I really had a lot of fun playing in high school.

I did manage to play a little in college but was hampered by injuries. I had never really been hurt before but once I injured my right knee in a pick up game during the summer between my senior year in high school and my freshman year of college I was never the same. Something always hurt and I just couldn’t stay healthy. I finally hung it up and worked as a student assistant for two years. Once out of school, I began coaching.

I’ve coached for years now and from time to time I will play a pick up game with one of the kids. They have always seemed to enjoy it and many is the time I would play 7-8 games in a row against kids who were lined up to take their best shot. Never in all my years of doing this had I lost to one of them. Not once. Then today it finally happened. As I’ve mentioned already, this young man is extremely gifted. He is a full inch taller than I am (I’m 6’3”) and probably twenty-five pounds lighter. He is quick as a cat and destined to be better than I ever even thought about being. Still, he is only an 8th grader. I had a chance to win but this time my last shot, launched from a base of two very heavy legs, came up short. He rebounded and scored for the win. It was a battle and he was breathing just as hard as I was when it was over but he had won. I had lost.

I know in the grand scheme of things it isn’t a big deal. It was just a pick-up game of one on one. He probably won’t even remember this day a couple of years from now. Yet, as I think about how he was mobbed by his teammates, who had stayed after practice to watch us play, and the huge grin he had on his face, I wonder if I’m wrong about that. Please don't misunderstand me. I’m quite proud of the young man. He’s a great kid. Despite how all this may sound, I’m really not in some sort of huge funk. However, something did change today for me. Some sort of milestone in my life was reached. I’ve got a feeling my days as the best player on the floor whenever I play a pick-up game are over. It was inevitable, I suppose. As of today, I’m no longer a good player but, instead, a good player for my age. I’m now in good condition for a 42 year old instead of just being in good condition. I now come with a caveat. Will that young man remember today? Maybe. Will I? Yes, I will remember.

My best…