by Melissa King
We took the lead, and we stayed ahead, and the game felt like riding a horse that could either buck me off or suddenly vanish out from underneath me. It had to be managed, hung on to moment by moment.
Tonya’s dad sat on the bottom bleacher, absently rocking the baby’s carrier with one hand and never letting up on Tonya. At one of our substitution breaks, Tonya ran over and complained, “I can’t concentrate . . . my dad is yelling too much!”
It was one of her more direct cries for help. I said, “That’s okay. Just try to put it out of your mind,” and I think she did try.
When I met the dad’s eyes once, he gave me a thumbs-up and grin showing all his teeth. He was giddy as hell, now that we were winning.
And we did it. We stayed ahead, and when we won, the girls yelled and the parents cheered and it was all a blur except for one very small moment of intense clarity when Beth’s dad found a second to look me in the eye and say, “You are a good coach.” He said it quietly, without a trace of his usual irony, and his blue eyes were newly noticeable as he seemed to search mine for confirmation of something he now suspected.
We all have our moments.
In the days following our second victory, I became prone to telling innocent bystanders about the team, which was now calling itself the Ball Hawgs.
“How’s it going?” a coworker would ask, meaning in general, and I’d say well, did you know the fourth-grade girls’ basketball team I’m coaching is two and one?
“Wow, really? That’s great,” the waitress would say, thinking that was the end of that as I stared off into space, gearing up to utter a wealth of sentences beginning, “You know, the key is . . .” or “The thing to remember about this age group . . .” or “My own theory . . .”
I’d stand up tall, stopping just short of hiking up my pants, anxious to explain a success I found inexplicable.
As we warmed up for our fourth game, I overheard Beth reporting that Tonya’s stepmother was so mad at Tonya for fighting at school that she might not be back for like the whole year.
Amanda was missing, too, leaving us with only five Ball Hawgs.
So far, each of our opponents had substantially outnumbered us, but I thought our small roster reduced mayhem and wasn’t a disadvantage as long as we had at least one sub. We wouldn’t for this game.
There was a league rule that any team with ten or more players could request an extra four-minute period to give everyone more playing time. The other team’s coach took this option, so we had nine four-minute periods ahead of us. To make matters worse, standing out among the dozen girls warming up on the other end was a player so big and solid and menacing, she seemed like a redwood tree compared to our team of decorative Bradford pears.
I called the girls around to huddle and reminded them about shot selection and hustling for the ball. As I saw them cutting glances toward the other team, I said they’d been outnumbered the week before, and the five we had were our starters for that game, and look how we did, which didn’t really mean anything, but it sounded good.
I mentioned that Beth would jump.
“I want to do the jump ball!”
“Sweetie,” I said to Brittany, “the tallest girls do the jump because they’re the ones who have the best chance at getting it.”
“Oh,” Brittany said.
The big girl used her two-inch vertical leap to bat the ball easily to a teammate, but after a few plays, it was apparent that the girl’s size was the only real advantage she had. The poor thing was slow as a redwood, too.
Beth kicked ass to an even greater extent than usual, scoring, rebounding, getting steals, and making good passes. Our star player was talented, pure and simple, but she also listened and worked hard, she wasn’t small or timid, and she was well liked by the other players. There was nothing stopping her.
I thought of our strategy as a solar system offense, with Beth as the sun. She generally threw the ball in and helped the guards get the ball down court by moving constantly to stay open, so when a teammate picked up her dribble and got stuck, Beth was there to bail her out. Then, once we made it down and things were relatively stabilized, Beth headed for the post area, where she usually got the ball for the shot and, if she missed, was likely to get the rebound.
It wasn’t the sort of thing you’d find in a book, but it worked.
Allison’s game wasn’t as comprehensive as Beth’s, but she was the second most powerful member of our team. She played strong defense, and she was an outstanding passer, but from the woeful looks she gave me when I bragged on her, I gathered that she took her gift for granted, and the feeling of a beautiful assist couldn’t compare to sinking a shot.
With no subs, we maintained a modest lead throughout the game, and with three periods left, we were ahead by six. We had the advantage, but when the girls came over to huddle, they looked exhausted and a little desperate, like it wouldn’t take much for the momentum to change, and if it did, fatigue might get the better of them.
I told them to pay attention, because I had a plan. I began to speak very slowly and punch my words like a newsreader.
“Now listen, everybody. Because we’re ahead and we’re tired, I want us to do something. For the next four minutes, on offense, I want you all to pass and pass and pass, and don’t take any shots unless you’re just wide open. Just pass and pass and pass, for as long as you can. What I’m saying is, we want to run time off the clock, and that’s why I’m telling you not to shoot, okay? Just pass and pass and pass, and really limit your shooting. That’s my point here. This isn’t how we’re going to play from now on, but it’s how we need to play right now, because we want to maintain our lead, and we need to conserve our energy and not run up and down the court so much. Okay? Everybody got it? What’d I just say?”
I went around the circle, making the five of them say it back to me. Pass the ball, slow down the game. Pass the ball, slow down the game. Pass the ball, slow down the game.
The buzzer sounded. Beth took the ball out on our end and passed it in to Allison, who promptly shot an air ball from her favorite position three feet outside the lane. The other team got the ball, ran down court, and scored. Ten seconds had elapsed.
“Allison!”
She ignored me.
“Allison!”
She looked over with her head down and her eyes up. I didn’t say much beyond giving her a confused, palms-up shoulder shrug, like I was a little hurt.
The refs allowed coaches to step out on the court “for instruction” as long as we didn’t interfere with the game, and I always took advantage of this rule in lieu of a team prescription for Ritalin. For the remainder of that period, I maintained a position four feet inside the out-of-bounds line, and I ran up and down the court with my team, shouting, as we came down on offense, “Remember what we’re doing!” “Remember what we said about the clock!” “Pass it pass it pass it!” “Don’t forget!”
And they did it: they passed the ball, worked our stall plan, took a few good shots here and there. At the end of the period, we were eight points ahead, and the girls didn’t seem so frantic and tired.
“Did that seem to work?” I asked, rubbing it in a little.
Beth nodded and said yeah, it did, and I told them well, all right, then, let’s do it again.
My favorite ref was calling the game. He was awake-looking and well over seventeen years old, which singled him out among the shaggy, unenthusiastic high school boys who typically called our games. He made sure the girls had found their matchups before he started the play, and he coaxed players out of running with the ball, saying, “Come on now, you gotta dribble a little bit.” When a girl held on to the ball too long, he encouraged the other girls to grab it away, promoting a healthy aggressiveness and keeping the game going.
Once, when the big redwood girl got the ball and hung on, Brittany got her in a mean-faced tugging match. Brittany looked like a chipmunk wrestling a bear, but she hung on, and when the whistle blew, she let go, a little
confused, like she was thinking, Was that me? Did I do that?
She looked at the big girl, and then she looked at me. I laughed a little and clapped just for Brittany and praised her. I could almost hear her thoughts: Damn, I’m aggressive. She seemed calm, an uncharacteristic countenance for Brittany, and happy.
I glanced into the stands. Beth’s dad laughed and gave Brittany’s mom a light punch on the arm. The mom, who had told me recently that Brittany’s tae kwon do coach had suggested she try St. John’s Wort, shook her head and smiled with qualified pride. Gordon was right there, wearing Ball Hawg green and swirling a noisemaker.
We managed to keep things slowed down, and by the end of the period, our win was pretty much in the bank. I got off their backs a little for the final four minutes, and we won, twenty-three to sixteen.
When the game was over, the girls stood around me while I told them they were amazing, incredible, unbelievable, all the words you use to describe great women. Then I stepped outside the gym, and I had to blink a little, in the sudden daylight and solitude, like leaving a theater after a good movie.
Every close game had a turning point that allowed us a few moments to get our brains right or start losing. The first sign was a panic that came over the girls’ faces when the other team had a run and we felt a lack of control, the coming of our own relinquishment. After a few games, the emerging panic was familiar to me. I recognized it, and I knew, when I saw it on my players’ faces and felt it in myself, that it was not time to nag the girls about turnovers, but to help them manage their chaos and vulnerability. When the win hung in the air, preexistent and waiting for someone to snatch it, it wasn’t about what they were doing as much as what they were thinking.
One of those moments came in the seventh period of the fifth game, with the score tied. The other team had started doubling up on our guards at the half-court line, leaving the rest of our players open but impossible to access, and after a few turnovers, I saw that panic.
It was a league rule that there were no timeouts until the final period, so I couldn’t do much to break the momentum or talk to my team at any length. All I could do was walk out on the court a few extra feet to make sure the girls could hear me shout the words I hoped might make a difference. “It’s okay,” “We’re doing fine,” “Let’s calm down and focus,” “It’s okay . . . we’re okay.”
Allison had hurt herself early in the game, so I’d taken her out temporarily when I wasn’t planning to. This had altered my lineup, resulting, now, in a situation I tried to avoid: Beth and Allison sitting out at the same time. I walked over to the two of them and said get ready, because I knew they were going to make a difference when they got in there. I could see them scramble a little at my words as they prepared for action, feeling proud to have confidence placed in them. I’d meant what I said, but it felt a little manipulative to try to control their mindset like that, like something a preacher or a politician might do.
We were behind by six when the last four-minute period started and Beth and Allison went in. For a while, things remained as pell-mell as ever, even with my two best players in the game. You could tell by their faces, even Beth’s, that my team was ready to lose.
I called my only timeout. The girls came over and huddled around, crazed, wild-eyed, shouting about this or that.
“Everybody put your hands in here,” I said, sticking my own hand in the middle of our circle. A few of them quieted, while others continued to shout.
“Shhhhh, nobody say anything. I want you to all be quiet and focus for a minute.”
Allison kept on until I touched her mouth lightly and said shhh-shhh-shhh, like I was soothing a baby. She gave up and hushed.
I said it again. “Nobody say anything. Let’s all be quiet for just a second, please. Just focus and be silent for a few seconds.”
Possibly they were going to think I was a big dumb-ass, but I didn’t care. I glanced at Beth, who had gone so far as to close her eyes. As usual, she was listening, taking what I said and making it her own, wanting, more than anything else, to play better and win, and willing to let me help if I could.
I think that’s what the Zen folks call a beginner’s mind. It’s an amazing thing, especially in someone who’s already the best.
I waited a few seconds and said, “It’s okay. It’s just a game. If we’re gonna try and win, we have to stay calm. It’s okay.”
I smiled at them, hoping that if I didn’t seem stressed, they would settle down. I wanted them to remember that what we were trying to hang on to was just a damned fickle win, not love itself, not something vital. I wanted them to believe it, because it was the truth, because it would make them feel better, and because it was our best chance.
Beth opened her eyes and smiled, back to herself. The gym was roaring, but the Ball Hawgs were a circle of quiet. For a blessed moment, we were home, family, relief, and gratitude. We couldn’t hear the crowd.
And then, when we got back in, things were different. The Ball Hawgs had regained some mastery over themselves, and Beth went crazy getting steals and rebounds and speeding the ball down court for points. There was no doubting that this was her world, and with two minutes left, she had a lot of work to do. The other players, as usual, followed suit.
We were behind by one with ten seconds left, and we had the ball on their end. Felicia passed it in to Beth, who hustled it down court. Seconds were ticking, the crowd was going nuts, and I was screaming, “You have to shoot! You have to shoot it, Beth! Shoooooot iiiiittttttt!!!!!”
She took an outside shot with two seconds left, she missed, the buzzer sounded, and the game was over.
We lined up and told the other team good game. When the opposing coach extended his hand, he laughed and said, “It was a barn burner, wasn’t it, coach?” It wasn’t too hard to take his hand and agree that it sure was.
One night at practice, I was having a harder time than usual getting the girls to listen. As I tried to talk to them about defense, they performed various cheerleader moves, shoved one another around, and played piggyback. I kept saying, “Come on, girls, listen up, please,” but they acted pretty much like I wasn’t there.
Patty was helping me that night. She looked vacantly into the stands and ambled around, waiting for me to get a handle on the situation.
I started thinking uncharitably toward the little ingrates, inappreciative as they were of my time as a volunteer coach, and I said, with what I thought was authority, “Girls! Hush up now, I mean it! I need you to listen!”
They giggled.
“You’re acting like a bunch of puppies.”
The notion of themselves as dogs was quite hilarious, especially when portrayed by Beth, who got on her knees, put two bent wrists in front of her chest, and began to pant and howl.
Then someone shoved Felicia, and she shoved back, laughing. With this, Patty’s reverie came to an abrupt end. She gave her daughter a lethal mother-look that silenced not only Felicia but the rest of the team as well. To my astonishment, not only did the team get quiet, they stood at attention.
“All right then,” I said, trying to shake off a feeling of exhaustion. “Let’s work on this defense.”
We won the next game, making our record four and two. The week after that, I was standing on the sidelines waiting for our seventh game to start when two skinny arms entwined themselves around my waist. After several seconds of Brittany’s clinging like an infant monkey, I began to feel embarrassed. I gently pried her off.
Tonya, apparently out on early parole, had reappeared the previous week. Between her scouting other teams and getting in trouble, her presence at games and practices had been spotty and tense all season, but today she was all smiles, and she said to me, in a voice so sweet it made your teeth hurt, “My mom said to tell you thanks.”
I’d agreed to give Tonya a ride after the game. God only knows what self-esteem issues made me say I’d do it, when her absence was always good news, and lately she’d taken to crying every time I t
ook her out. It made no difference when I explained the rotation process and told her that everyone got equal playing time because that was the rule, and not even my rule, but the Boys and Girls Club rule.
It was a straightforward concept to everyone but Tonya, who continued to cause a scene when it was her time to come out. For this game, I’d written the lineup down on a piece of paper and taped it to the wall. “Look, everyone,” I said, talking to Tonya, “here’s today’s lineup. Here it is, written down, not gonna change, cut in stone.”
Not only was Tonya unable to come to terms with being taken out of the game; she’d also refuse to return to the court four minutes later when it was her turn to get back in the game.
In practice, Tonya was prone to walking off the court any ol’ time she felt like it, looking back at me to make sure I was noticing her insubordination. When we worked on a drill, she often took off with the ball and went to shoot on another hoop, leaving me and everyone else standing there looking at her. She complained about who she had to guard, and she complained about who was on her team, and if she fell, she put on a show that would have put even the theatrical Gordon to shame. Every scrape caused Tonya to scream and wail like she was in labor with a twelve-pound baby.
I’d stopped pondering or caring whether Tonya was spoiled, abused, neglected, crazy, or all of the above. In practice, when she’d whine, “I don’t want to guard Beth!” I’d say things like, “Really, Tonya, this isn’t about what you want.” The idea seemed to shock her, and my tone shocked me. I hadn’t expected to be snapping at a ten-year-old that way.
I should’ve known something was up before the game, with Brittany hugging me and Tonya so sticky sweet. A parent or teacher would have recognized such unnatural events as a reason to sniff the air a little harder, but I just thought, Hey, it’s really shaping up to be a nice morning.
A ref I’d never seen before approached and began to clue me in on his reffing philosophy. “All right,” he drawled, using his tongue to rearrange the wad of smokeless tobacco in his cheek. “The way I do things is, I’m gonna call some walks, and I’m gonna call some fouls. I’m not gonna call every walk, mind you, because you know and I know I can’t do that.”