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

Posted in Journalism Archives.

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By Renee Collins – September 16, 2009

My Siena: By Renee Lapham Collins, ‘80

I’m not sure how it all started, but somehow, Siena Heights University became a family tradition. My mother, Norma Boxrud Lapham, studied art at Siena in the mid-1950s before she married my father. Growing up, we’d often drive past the campus, with its stately red brick buildings and cupolas and I dreamed of going to school there, too.
Eventually, four of my seven siblings would seek Siena degrees: Mary Catherine Lapham, ’85, Lisa Lapham Huested, ’87; Anne Lapham Micol, ’99, and John Lapham, ’00.
In the fall of 1980, just months after my Siena graduation, my sister, Catherine, started her freshman year. An excellent student, she majored in business and computers — the latter was something pretty new at Siena in those days.
But, in 1982, Catherine developed Friedreich’s Ataxia, a slow progressive disorder of the nervous system and muscles. A genetic disease, FA results in the inability to coordinate voluntary muscle movements. This ataxia is caused by the degeneration of nerve tissue in the spinal cord and of nerves that extend to the arms and legs. Our sister, Carol, also suffered with FA and died from complications of the disease in 2002.
As a student, Catherine consistently gave 110 percent to academics. When she found she had FA, she was determined to do everything in her power to fight it. Late in 1983, she underwent a grueling back surgery at the University of Michigan. Two titanium rods were attached to the vertebrae in her spinal column and ratcheted to straighten her spine. Temporary paralysis and months of therapy followed.
Back at Siena, Catherine threw herself into her studies. The surgery and subsequent recovery proved to be a setback for her academically — it would add a year to her college career. But it proved to be one well-spent as she had her pick of job offers right out of school.
By the time she graduated in May 1985, I had been an adjunct faculty member at Siena more that two years. Catherine wanted me involved somehow in her graduation day and invited me to place the baccalaureate hood on her shoulders after she received her diploma during the annual commencement ceremony. As I watched her walk toward me with the aid of a wheeled walker, straight and tall, her steps measured and strong, I marveled at her strength and determination to overcome her physical disabilities and graduate.
Twenty years later, she’s still full of gritty determination, even as this debilitating disease takes its toll. She has made her home in St. Louis for more than 15 years and recently retired from Electronic Data Systems. She’s active in her parish, works with a number of nonprofit groups like PAWS and with support groups for people affected by FA.
She continues to inspire me with her strength, despite the adversity of her daily life, and shows me always there is much more to a Siena education than what is learned from textbooks and the classroom. Perhaps St. Catherine of Siena said it best when she wrote, “Nothing great is ever achieved without much enduring.”

First published Oct. 19, 2006

Mary Catherine Lapham receives her bachelor of arts degree from Siena Heights University in May 1985. Sr. Sharon Weber and Audrey Parker help keep her steady as her sister Renee Lapham Collins, adjunct faculty in the English Department at the time, places the academic hood on her shoulders.

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By Renee Collins – September 16, 2009

Heidi Cobb: Friends, coworker mourn loss

Heidi Ann Cobb, account executive for Heritage Newspapers in Saline, died Tuesday, May 25 at her home after a 5-year battle with cancer.
Heidi was born March 11, 1954 in Detroit, the daughter of John and Eva (Eschenweck) Cobb. On Aug. 17, 1979, she married David Kinsvater in Ann Arbor. and he survives. Heidi and her husband had made Bridgewater Township their home for 30 years, where she served on the township Planning Commission. She also was active in a variety of community and school organizations, including the Saline Area Chamber of Commerce.
“It’s a sad day for the chamber—for all of Saline,” said Larry Osterling, executive director of the SACC. “Heidi was just everywhere and she came to everything. She was one of the finest—the best people—I ever met.”
Heidi attended Schoolcraft College and the University of Michigan, where she majored in art and was a potter for 20 years, before coming to work at The Saline Reporter in 1995. For the past 4 years, she was an advertising account representative serving the Saline area community.
Michelle Micklewright, advertising manager at Heritage Newspapers, said she always was “amazed by what Heidi could accomplish, even when the cancer had spread to her lungs, liver and bones.
“I had always known that Heidi takes great care with and was dedicated to serving her customers, but this became even more evident when I handled some of her customers for a few days while she was undergoing treatment.
“The majority of her customers were not aware of her condition. They cared about her because she was such a great asset to them and to their businesses.”
Micklewright said that “watching Heidi’s dedication to her job is like making a deposit into our own bank of persistence.
“Being in the office each day, and enjoying the hustle and bustle is the medicine that Heidi prescribed to herself to keep the fire burning inside her soul. She was a hard-working, kind, considerate person.”
In March, Heidi celebrated her 50th birthday, and she was treated to a score of good wishes and a big cake at the annual Saline Salutes program. She also was honored as the Heritage Newspapers’ Employee of the Month for going above and beyond the requirements of her job.
“Heidi was a real professional,” Osterling said. “She gave her attention to everybody and she just had this knack of knowing what helped other people. I’m proud to say I knew her.”
Added Micklewright:
“Heidi taught us all to be strong and never give up. She taught us that dedication goes way beyond coming to work each day. She taught us that no matter what life deals you, it doesn’t mean that you give up what you love.
“Because it just might be the best medicine you can give yourself.”
In addition to her husband, Heidi is survived by: two daughters, Kirstin Kinsvater of Ypsilanti and Piper Kinsvater of Saline; her parents of Westland; and a brother, Bruce Cobb of Columbus, Ohio.
At Heidi’s request, cremation has taken place. The family will receive visitors on Friday, May 28 from 4-8 p.m. at the Robison-Bahnmiller Funeral Home in Saline.
Memorial contributions may be made to Hospice of Michigan. Envelopes will be available at the funeral home.

First published in The Saline Reporter, May 27, 2004

Posted in Journalism Archives.

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By Renee Collins – September 16, 2009

Bob and Woodie Merchant mark 60 years together

The longest ever marriage reportedly lasted 86 years, while the longest living married couple marked their 79 anniversary last February.
Woodie and Bob Merchant of Saline are gaining on the latter record, marking 60 happy years together on June 12.
At the heart of their marital longevity, according to Bob, is never having a fight. Woodie attributes the success of their relationship to Bob, “the sweetest man in the world.” They can’t give each other enough credit for the happiness they have shared.
“We brought each other up,” she declares.
Over a recent cup of coffee at the Merchant residence off Whitlock Street, Woodie reflected on six decades with Bob, remembering their 1943 wedding day in Yale, how she felt, what she wore, and other fragments of the past that remain fresh in her memory.
Take the Daniel Green slippers, for example. The war years meant shortages and sacrifices. Instead of shoes, Woodie wore white satin Daniel Green slippers with a pink satin lining.
“They were lovely,” she said.
That day, said Woodie, she remembers greeting her guests, cutting the cake, and talking with friends. But underneath the trappings of the wedding and reception was a sense of excitement.
“I was really excited that day because I was going to be with Bob forever,” she said.
The Merchants met while students at Michigan State in 1940. Woodie, from Yale, in the Thumb, was studying music while Bob, a Detroit native, was in the agriculture program. A city boy, Bob and his father were unlikely partners in the farming biz, which is how he and Woodie settled in Saline. Their first home was on 190 acres off Maple Road.
Woodie went from the college classroom to the role of farmer’s wife, and Bob went from college to the cultivator.
“We’ve had lots of adventures in this little community,” she said. “We really had a wonderful time with the farm, and we did a lot of traveling and camping with our kids.”
The Merchants have become a Saline legend of sorts in their 60 years in town. Woodie taught scores of Saline children how to play the piano as well as giving them an appreciation for music that they would carry into adulthood. She worked at Storybook Gardens, a preschool operated by Jackie Tull, and she volunteered in many organizations, including the Saline Community Hospital Foundation Board, the Foundation for Saline Area Schools, and a host of others. Woodie also served on the Saline Board of Education for several years, and has written a regular column for The Saline Reporter, “Welcome to the Neighborhood.”
Bob, a farmer for many years, as well as a businessman, has worked as a real estate agent, a job he still does today, and is active in the Saline Rotary Club.
Helping keep their marriage on an even keel is their belief that even married folk need some time away from each other. Bob typically goes to “deer camp” in November, and to the “island” in June.
Bob’s health hasn’t been the best in recent weeks, and he spent a few days at Saline Hospital.
“I asked him if he still planned on going to the island,” Woodie commented. “He said, ‘Hell, yes, I’m going!’
“He’s worked really hard to get himself well, and I’m glad because he needed to go, and to know that he could do that. It really was wonderful.”
She knew she didn’t have to worry since middle son Jim Merchant would be going along with the rest of the male members of the family, and Woodie knew the son would look out for the father.
Jim, she said, “mollycoddles us.” She explained that he considered having his octogenarian parents to move in with him. But Woodie knows that she and Bob are doing just fine in their Whitlock Street home.
Their life together is so intertwined that Woodie doubts she has much to worry about if she does end up a widow.
“I’m not afraid to live alone,” she said. “I wouldn’t be living that much longer anyway.”
Neither Woodie nor Bob show any signs of slowing down. But life now is different from the way it used to be.
“There are things that you don’t understand, but there are good things, too,” she said.
Like the friends and family that have been the focal point of their marriage.
“I loved raising a family and sometimes, I get lonely for my children—not as they are now, but as they were when they were little.”
Most of those friends and family have been witness to the success of the Merchants’ 60-year-old union, celebrating birthdays and holidays together, mourning at their side when son Rob died of cancer in 1998, right around this time of year.
Two days after their wedding anniversary, Bob will turn 83, and no doubt there will be some kind of celebration with friends and/or family, just as there likely will be for a 60th anniversary.
Woodie said recently that she expected to celebrate the milestone quietly with family and without the fuss and fanfare each planned for the other on their respective 80th birthdays.
As she said shortly before reaching her eighth decade,
“This isn’t (our) world anymore and my kids are going to have to get used to that. You reach an age where you realize that this isn’t your world anymore, that you’re passing this world on.”