Life lessons from the basketball court

I watched a kid trying to shoot baskets last night in the gym. He was small, and eventually got tired of missing the mark, so he started heaving his basketball against the wall, practicing for the day when he would be tall enough to play above the rim.
The bigger boys and a couple of girls were scrimmaging full-court style, still playmates, these boys growing into men, caught on the tender edge of adulthood. They look young, 14 or 15 maybe, half have taken off their shirts signaling a split from backyard playmates to competitors.
They race, sylph-like, back and forth, shouting at each other, not quite men, but seemingly eager to get there. At night they drift off to dreams of being the next Isaiah Thomas or Michael Jordan, leaping into the air to slam one into the basket, the spotlights gleaming, the fans screaming.
Perhaps Isaiah is inspiring our young friend, again attempting to sink a basket, leaping and jumping, then bending down to dribble under each leg, imitating the pros.
Shoes squeak on the polished wood, the shrill sound of stops and starts, quick moves from side to side. Two men watch from the sidelines, crouched, Indian-style, studying technique, planning strategies, calling fouls, perhaps seeing what kind of players these boys may one day become.
The little guy is forced out, now, as the big boys practice free throws. Just the right movement of knees and wrists, the proper propulsion to knock the ball gently into the basket. Too much power, it bounces off the backboard. Too little, it falls short.
Once again, the players run back and forth, each taking a role in the game, trying to blend into a single team personality.
Their lives are distant from ours. These boys are standing at the edge of summer vacation, their worlds no bigger than the basketball court in the high school gym, their concerns no greater than how much practice time they can squeeze in before going home to take out the garbage and mow the lawn.
There are no such timeouts for adults, no summer vacation filled with games and bicycle rides and forts in trees. It’s the great irony of life—to spend so much of our childhood wishing we were older, and so much more of our adulthood wishing we were children, and longing for the sweet safety of playtime, of lying in the backyard staring at the clouds for no particular reason except that it felt good.
As I watched these boys running up and down the court, I knew if I asked them why basketball, they would shrug and say “because it’s fun.” Their enjoyment of the game, of sprints up and down the court, of a world that exists only inside the boundary of the court, that is all that matters.
For their parents, days of summer are long forgotten, replaced by worries about the mortgage, the car payment, how they will fund braces for these soon-to-be men so that they can step into the world with perfect Hollywood smiles, walking billboards of parental sacrifice. All parents want their kids to have better than they did—the competitive spirit of basketball is translated into an unconscious need to be recognized as better parents than their own had been.
The quest for perfect children and the overpowering enjoyment of the game swirl around the court, played out in an elaborate succession of leaps and shouts; clad in Nike wear, the players show off NBA-inspired moves, fortifying their parents’ dreams.
In the bleachers, parents watch, shouting encouragement to their sons, criticizing the referee who dares to call their child on a personal foul, playing the role of protector and defender, unwilling to let their son be hurt by a bad call, blinded to the lesson of accountability that comes with breaking the rules of the game.
Some of these boys will absorb the lessons of life with the skill reserved for sinking three-point shots. Others will huddle beneath the protective armor of parents whose children never make mistakes. Most will grow up and watch their own sons and daughters struggling to reach the rim, praying the ball will tip ever so slightly into the basket.
They may remember the enjoyment of the game, and finally see the lessons they learned as young players: there are rules to govern and penalties for breaking them; there are rewards for teamwork and punishment for discord; there are winners and losers.
Most importantly, there is the lesson of life: it’s not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game—inside the lines or out.

First published June 12, 2003 in The Saline Reporter