Let the season begin

Basketball

For more Singular Saturdays go visit its new home at
Finding My Way (aka MoJenn).

Coach's gifts

This past Saturday I finished coaching my fourth season of basketball. I've coached the boys through two years of kindergarten basketball and both years of first and second grade ball.

I've never been one of those coaches to take everyone out for pizza or even give them something like a goodie bag (I won't even give out goodie bags at my own children's birthday parties so clearly I won't give them to a team). However, since the boys play baseball and two seasons of soccer (spring and fall) I've been a non-coaching parent enough to know that with every other sports team I've been asked to chip in for a gift for the coaches. The collection usually gets a store gift card but at times has purchased a coach's jacket or other significant item from the team.

I've never gotten a "collection" present. And this year, with embarrassment, I was bothered by that.

In the past I have gotten several sweet single gifts and clearly the cards written in wobbly second grade handwriting is more sincere (even with mom lording over the kid) than a gift card.

This year's team was an interesting bunch. We started with 8 players and ended up with 7 regulars. Two of the second graders had never played basketball and one of those had never played organized sports. The first graders ranged from complete newbies to one of those phenoms that I always seem to have. A kid who just seemed to be born with the innate ability to get a ball in a basket.

Then my two guys. We had a much better season. They were more tolerant of me giving other kids my attention and towards the end started playing the team captain role - setting up plays, encouraging teammates and even intentionally giving the ball to players who didn't always get a pass.

But my struggle was with the second grader who had never played any organized sport. He was tall for his age and just a natural for grabbing those rebounds. But he would stand under the net with only one hand up and not looking at the ball. He wouldn't run down the court. He walked off the court several times in the middle of plays complaining that no one would pass him the ball.

Each time I explained to him that he needed to hustle. If he would only hustle down the court I would yell to the team to pass the ball. I pointed out that the team ball hog got the ball because he was the first down the court. I pointed out that I yelled for the shortest guys to get the ball because he ran. But this player just wouldn't try. Or couldn't.

At one point I asked him if he liked video games and he nodded with a smile. I guessed that he had to work on some levels and would fail to move up but kept trying. I compared that to basketball.

"Yeah, well, video games are fun" was his reply. Clearly saying that basketball wasn't.

I think that was where I was stumped. I am the mom of three kids who will try just about anything. If I sign them up for something they will do it with full gusto and enthusiasm. The world is big and fun and theirs for the taking. I could not, for the life of me, figure out how to get this kid to see the world as fun. Not that basketball is the world, or that only athletes have fun, but there were kids who would never be professional ball players but just threw themselves into the joy of running, of jumping, of being a part of something.

Saturday came and Mr Born-to-Play-Ball was sporting a new black headband with the hometown team's emblem. He ran up to me, tossed a green headband still in its wrapper and ran away. His dad rolled his eyes and came up to explain they had gone to his first hometown team basketball game Friday night. He asked his dad if they could get me a headband. His delivery was one of the best gift-giving I ever had.

As we started to warm up the guy who troubled me showed up not in his team jersey. His mom explained he wouldn't be playing today but she handed me a box. A box from Build-A-Bear. The previous Tuesday they had gone to the mall and he made me a Bear in the hometown team's uniform with a little basketball. I leaned down and told him he could be a great player. Try to see it as fun. He smiled and walked off the court and out the door.

As the game ended one mom who had been working on a project handed me a recently finished bracelet in our team colors. Another mom handed me a mug with "My Coach is the M.V.P." full of little chocolates wrapped as basketballs.

The final kid walking off the court came up to me to thank me. He had been our littlest player, always trying to make a basket. With a help from the other coach (he yelled at his team to put their hands down), our little guy made his only basket of the season right before the game ended. That little man gave me a hug.

Those are the gifts that matter. The heartfelt ones. The lifting a kid up after he makes his first ever game basket. The hugs. My sons looking out for other boys.

I hope I never get a collection gift.

Today is the first day of 1st and 2nd grade boys'

basketball.

For more Singular Saturdays go visit Jenn in Holland.

"Don't call me sweetheart!"

Brought to you by Alex Elliot of Formula Fed and Flexible Parenting, I'm writing yet another birthing story in honor of her son's birthday. Guess which baby this one is.

***

They came home late from an event. He didn't listen to the radio so he wouldn't know the outcome of a basketball game that would be rebroadcast on one of the four channels on the television. Her belly was swollen from carrying a baby for 9 months.

She went to bed later than usual as he settled down on the couch to watch the replay of the game. During the second quarter she came to him saying she was in labor.

"No you're not." he assured her. He reminded her he had worked at the admittance desk of a maternity ward and he knew what a pregnant woman looked like.

He was desperate to watch the game.

"TAKE ME TO THE HOSPITAL NOW!" she not-so-politely declared.

***

He dropped her off at the front door of the hospital while he went to park the car. Once in the building he decided to go up the stairs in an attempt to find his wife. He suddenly realized he wouldn't be able to locate her this way.

He stuck his head out of the stairwell and into a hallway.

"DON'T CALL ME SWEETHEART!! YOU CAN CALL ME MRS. [SMID's MOTHER]!!!!!"

He found her. Politely reminding the obstetrician the correct way to address her.

And I arrived a few hours later at 2:42 in the morning.

Real fans....

Real fans don't need to change the color of their blogs.

Real fans get their dad and brother on a conference call at 12 midnight and collectively weep as the NBA trophy is handed to the Celtics and collectively gasp as the series MVP is awarded to Paul Pierce. And weep some more.




Real fans go to the parade despite seeing police with riot gear and HUGE wooden sticks (what happened to little billy clubs?). And bring two seven year olds for their first ever championship "rolling rally" aka parade.

Coach "Doc" Rivers.

Real fans coach little kids in the game they love.

Real fans repeatedly point out during the game to their basketball playing sons "See! SEE! Even the pros pass the ball around A LOT and they win championships doing it! SEE! Doesn't my coaching make sense NOW!!!" as they roll their eyes.



Real fans overlook the brazen disregard of public health when seeing every single player in the rolling rally aka parade smoking a cigar on the duck boats taking them through the streets of our fair city. It is a clear tribute to the late, great Red Auerbach, who smoked cigars in the old Garden.

Real fans know they are real.

We don't have to prove it.

Na na na na

Did you hear the Boston Garden during Game 6? Not those wimpy "how do I look?" fakes in the other side of the country. No, this is how fans should sound. Really loud.

And singing songs like this:

Na na na na,
na na na na,
hey hey hey,
goodbye!*

with a full 5 minutes left in the game.

Oh yeah!

Celtics. The 2008 NBA Champions. 22 years since the last one. How wicked awesome are they?

They Beat LA.

*According to Wikipedia "Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye was a song written and recorded by Gary DeCarlo, Dale Frashuer, and Paul Leka; attributed to a then fictitious band "Steam," it was released under the Mercury subsidiary label Fontana." - see, I can even do research while my team is winning the National Basketball League's chamionship.

So close

As you know, I come from a basketball family. My dad played in high school and one year of college. I starting playing in third grade with my dad as my coach. I have coached the boys' basketball team for three years.

My dad got season tickets for the Celtics in 1978, the year Larry Bird was drafted. I spent the 1980's hearing "Beat LA" chanted through our town. I still think the long gone Boston Garden was the best place to watch a game. We no longer have those season tickets and I'll admit we hadn't been paying much attention to the team in recent years. When we took the kids to a game last season, it was like watching the team of misfits who play against the Harlem Globetrotters. And they are suppose to play like misfits.

Below is the video the Celtics play on the jumbotron over the court before home games. I have no idea who composed or performed the music. They are so close to winning it all. Staying up late for game 5 was brutal but I'll be up late for game 6 on Tuesday night.

However, considering how well they've played, Kevin Garnett has every reason to scream.

I have to admit it - I just love big, loud, sports anthems. Don't you?

Basketball has returned

On Saturday I coached the 3rd basketball game of the season. Me and ten first and second grade boys. For the first time I have an assistant coach who is wonderfully patient and fun. I gave a synopsis of nearly every game during last year's season. This is clearly the year where it "clicks" for the kids who have played a year or two. And for their coach as well.

I have thoroughly lucked out with my team and fellow coach. Sure I have some towering 2nd graders who can just pluck rebounds with little effort. I have kids who are so eager to hustle and shoot they fall over themselves, and a third of the opposing team, only to have the ball roll away.

But I have a boy on the team who is notorious in our town. A tiny guy who is a live wire. Other parents moan about how he won't listen and is easily distracted.

He shares a first and middle name with a folk hero. My sons' know the Johnny Cash song sung at Folsom Prison.

But I love this kid. My 3 1/2 year old daughter is almost as tall as him (more a statement of her height than his) so what he lacks in stature as a 2nd grader, he makes up in speed and sheer, brute strength.

We have to play games on only half of a court (don't ask me why several huge school gymnasiums are closed on weekends and we have to play in an elementary school that is over 100 years old). But this doesn't take away that little guy retrieves a rebound, starts dribbling down the court then at mid-court will toss the basketball with one arm toward the net. And a few times has gotten it in. The dads lined up against the wall just shake their heads in amazement.

So this past Saturday I made a point to tell our team powerhouse to actually pass the ball and to shoot closer to the basket. His dad overheard me and reiterated what I said (Thank you!).

And little man brilliantly passed the ball often during the game. So much so that the other players made baskets. He ended up with three assists by the end of the 30 minute game. His dad congratulated him profusely for being such a "team player" (again Thank you!).

I'm excited to have him on our team. He's a coach's dream.

At least this one's.

Well John Henry hammered in the mountain.
He'd give a grunt and he'd give a groan with every swing.
The women folks for miles around heard him and come down,
To watch him make the cold steel ring.
Lord what a swinger!
Just listen to that cold steel ring!


It's Monday so SMID must be writing about music (like how I got basketball back to a song?). Are you singing a song today? Flower Child is recalling favorite records and even shared some JD with us. Who? Go over to her site and find out.

And Jen in Michigan is bemoaning the quality of Hanukkah music (and she is in a position to moan about it). Wholly Burble is writing about a favorite Christmas song while Jenn in Holland is sharing an evening of gift and song with photographs!

Let me know if you are singing a song today as well and I'll link back to you.

Why I don't coach baseball

We're in the throws of the season of two sports. Last year in the spring the boys played both Little League baseball and soccer. Little League was Mondays and Wednesdays while Soccer practice was Tuesdays and games were Saturdays. This year is a tad more civilized - Little League is still Mondays and Wednesdays while Soccer practice is Friday afternoons and the games are Saturdays.

I truly love being a coach. In the winter I coach the sport I probably know the best, basketball. It is a simple, elegant game. A ball, two baskets with nets on either side of a rectangular court. Certainly there are comparisons to soccer but I understand holding, double dribble and rebounding.

I also love getting to know a group of my children's peers. I love that look they give me at the beginning of practice, that look of "I'm going to make you PROUD". I love that they call me "Coach Allison" in the grocery store.

I also love that the only way they can really get hurt is by tripping. Of course, it could be a serious hurt, but at this age nothing that involve stitches.

Baseball is completely different.

Our Little League team has had a rocky start. Essentially the dad who agreed to be the head coach didn't tell anyone he backed out so we had multiple practices with no coaches. A set of dads just stepped up to the plate (yes, I wrote that) to give these 20+ kids a chance to field, hit and run around the bases. It has been just a wonderful example of community spirit.

One dad needs to bring a younger son. This kid desperately wants to be with the older kids so last night he was on the field. According to one of my kids and some parents, he picked up a metal bat and started swinging. Unfortunately, another kid's head was in close proximity.

What I first saw was a mother running to her car and grab a handful of napkins. Then I saw a little boy run to the playground where I was with my daughter. Then I saw the dad chase the kid, barely able to contain his rage while the kid was going higher, and higher up the play set. He finally got the kid and sternly said, "you've got to be careful with the bat".

I asked another mom to go check if it was one of our kids. I watched her toddler and she ran back to say that the mother was with the struck kid so our children were o.k. Then we saw both parents bringing the boy over to the car with a big white towel pressed on the left side of his head becoming streaked with crimson. They were taking him to the hospital.

Play Hurt

Our last game of the season was during the second weekend of February vacation while we were in Philadelphia bonding with ancient Egyptians. Last year the game had been the first weekend in March which was much better since everyone was back from vacation. According to the dad who helped me out, only four of our 11 team members showed up.

I'm actually glad we missed the last game. While I got much more out of this year's team (because I was a much better coach) I didn't want to face the last game this year. During our final game of 2006, my dad was watching. While having a heart attack.

Of course, I rationalized his distraught looks. I thought he was utterly horrified that after 3 months these kids still couldn't dribble, pass or shoot. One kid could consistently hit 3-pointers but he ran down the court like a running back. He was the only player who could make a basket.

My other rationalization was that he was completely dismayed that his child was such a lousy coach. My dad played basketball in high school and briefly in college. He coached both my and my brother's childhood teams. He had season tickets to the town team for years.

At one point during that last game in March one of my 5-year-old players came up to me whimpering he had hurt himself. I then said something I thought would never, ever come out of my mouth.

"Play hurt."

I said "play hurt" to a 5-year-old. He looked at me with opened mouth shock. But he turned around and played. I remembered my own open mouth shock when my dad said it to me as a 3rd grader on one of the downstairs courts of the high school gym. I vowed never to say that. And here I did.

So as we were going back to our cars, my dad panting as he was carrying the 30+ pound granddaughter, I told him my horror at saying to the little guy "play hurt". His response was a half-hearted laugh. He was, foolishly, playing the ultimate hurt.

He drove home the 10 miles back to his house (recently a beloved state representative died after her car crashed while she was having a heart attack). He went to the couch to "rest". Finally my perceptive mother called him on his symptoms and got him to the hospital. My brother flew over from the other coast. Five days later he had triple bypass surgery.

This weekend my dad spent time bonding with their new dog, monitoring his basement for flooding and attending church. He is still very much part of our family. And we are all so glad.

Team photos

We got our basketball photos on Saturday. In January each guy had his portrait taken holding a ball with a backdrop of fans at a game. Then I had one taken of the three of us so I could put it on a keychain. Lastly, the entire team had their photo taken on the court we actually play on.

I played basketball growing up and briefly tried both soccer and field hockey. Something about people gunning at me while kicking or wielding a thick wooden stick just struck me as insane. I remember the fear I felt in elementary school as some girl came down the field with a soccer ball. How I managed to raise two boys who genuinely like soccer is beyond me.

But I played basketball the full 6 years I could in the town youth league and never once was there a day when professional photographers took our portraits. We never had a team photo taken. And we certainly never had the option to put those images on keychains, water bottles, afghans, clipboards, shirts and on and on.

Keep in mind, my guys play soccer in the fall, basketball in the winter and both soccer and baseball in the spring (don't give me grief about "over scheduling" my kids - they are called The Tornadoes for a reason). That means we could have two kids' images on soccer balls in the fall, Wheaties boxes in the winter, and baseball bats in the spring. All for a small fortune.

But we don't buy all those things. They get a team photo and a set of playing cards, complete with their "stats". As many statistics a 6 year old can compile.

Yucky white shirts

We played the green team again this past Saturday. This was the team we played against for our first game of the season. The "White Ghosts" just kept scoring white the green team looked lost. There was even the little guy who circled our team and called us the "yucky white team" with tears in his eyes.

Little green guy was Mr. Confidence on Saturday. This kid, who is shorter than my toddler (more a comment on the size of my toddler), scored two baskets during the game. He got past or around much taller kids and just nailed the basket. He's not on my team. I don't coach this kid. But I was so proud of him. So happy for him. And he looked like he had won Olympic Gold.

Two basketball games

We went to two basketball games in less than 24 hours. Friday night we went to a professional game. It was one of those evenings that made my husband's frequent late nights more bearable. We were in the firm's suite overlooking the court. To give you a sense of where we were, the television cameras were to the right of us.

So we had food, drinks and our own bathroom. We did share the space with 8 people in their 20's. They pretty much left us alone. Or rather we gave them the space to be in their 20's at a game with free beer.

The boys were just thrilled to watch grown-ups play. I would've been too if those grown-ups actually played well. When a teammate threw a pass, and it bounced off the other player's back, in disgust I told the boys they play better.



For the most part, our daughter entertained herself with the Internet access. Which made me realize that is what we need at the little court we play kindergarten basketball on. That or leave her at home with a babysitter so my husband can watch the boys play and I don't have a ruptured disc. Essentially she wants to be held by me while I am coaching. Which means all 39 pounds of her are riding piggy-back as I am running up and down the court. Or else crying hysterically on the sidelines as my husband clutches her. At one point last week he took her to the playground outside the gym. Cars were slowing down because she was yelling at the top of her lungs "Don't take me!! I want my MOMMY!" He brought her back in the gym and I lugged her around so her father, my husband, wouldn't be accused of kidnapping.

Saturday's game with the kindergartners was a good game (especially since Little Miss Internet spent it with a babysitter at home). Lot's of passing and some of them are understanding dribbling. The two superstar shooters keep running with the ball as if they are on the football field, or couldn't be bothered with bouncing it a couple of times. Next week, I become the hard-nosed coach who demands dribbling. Baskets don't count if there wasn't some ball bouncing before the swish.

A Kind [future] Man

Basketball started up this past weekend. Everyone was a bit rusty. One poor kid returned after missing all but the first practice. He had a minor surgical procedure requiring him to lay low for a few weeks. This truly tiny guy just looked so lost as everyone ran up and down the court, passing, getting rebounds and generally hustling.

On the other end of the spectrum was kid with the awesome name. He was also a bit rusty ("only" making three baskets instead of his usual seven) but there were these moments of sheer brilliance as he faked left only to go right (remember this kid, and everyone else, is six years old).

At one point, awesome name had a perfect breakaway and I yelled to him to stop. He looked at me blankly. I told him to pass the ball to tiny guy. He turned toward his teammate, gave him a big grin and gently passed the ball. Tiny guy got it and promptly threw it into the hands of the other team. Perfect breakaway ensued with a basket. For the other team.

What did awesome name kid do? He didn't complain or get mad. He kept passing to other kids. And he eventually got another rebound. I yelled "All yours!" He got his perfect breakaway.

Oops

We actually had a kindergarten basketball practice/game on the eve of Christmas Eve. Mr Reluctant didn't make it again and there were no relatives campaigning that he really is enthusiastic. In fact we only had 6 players. One of the two girls and probably the five most intense of the ten boys (my sons on either end of that spectrum).

Today I asked the team to focus on rebounding and dribbling. Dribbling will be the constant reminder ("hey folks, is this basketball or football?"). Rebounding clearly became every player's obsession. One guy got the "rebound" after the ball successfully went into the basket only to shoot again. Much to the other team's angst.

I had to stifle a laugh when the purple team's coach laid out some ground rules including no reaching in to take the ball while someone was dribbling. Even the timid girl on our team looked confused. Our opposition seemed to be younger kindergartners. We kept getting shots in. One of our guys would get the rebound under the basket, take the ball out and keep making three-point shots. He's six years old.

Then we came to the realization our basket was shorter. By at least a foot. The other coach accused me of rigging the game. I do feel bad about the discrepancy but come on - I sneak onto the court and lowered the net?

The net was raised to the same height. The White Ghosts kept making baskets, even the three-point shots.

Girl Coach

This Saturday's match-up for the kindergarten league's "White Ghosts" (the team voted for that name) was much more even than last week's game. The "Red Sox" were more our size and equally comfortable with the ball. It was a good game.

The two girls finally played. Last week they spent nearly the entire game on their respective mothers' laps, usually in tears. This week, they were still a bit nervous but they played. One even got a basket and a few rebounds. By the end of the game, they acted like they owned the court.

Last week's less-than-thrilled newcomer didn't make it. He had strep throat according to his mom's email. But his aunt found me on the court to tell me he's excited to play. Seems there is a campaign to convince the kid, and me, that he should be playing basketball.

I met the other newcomer's mom. Even as a kindergartner he is a guy's guy. He's got the name of a future drinking buddy. I told her he was a terrific player and I was glad to have him on the team.

She said "Yeah, he told me 'Ma, I got a girl coach. But she's good.'"

What is she thinking?

I try not to judge other parents. I really, really do. I'm so painfully not perfect that I am in no place to judge anyone. I lost it with the boys in the middle of a gift shop at the Kennedy Space Center a few summers ago. It was so bad my husband commented the people were staring at me. I was blind with rage. No one was hit but I can still remember my fury from the constant complaining and nagging. Of course, I should have been the grown-up and stayed in control. I admit this because I know I wouldn't win any best parenting awards.

Two boys joined the basketball team this past Saturday. One seemed to have played before and was very comfortable handling the ball. He consistently made baskets, passed the ball to other players and played defense with confidence.

The other guy was sobbing as his mother brought him onto the court. He cried as she put on his team t-shirt. He sobbed as she sat him down in the team circle. "He's afraid he doesn't know anything and will make mistakes".

Uhhhhh...... you're kidding, right? I'm thinking.

She then walks out of the room. Leaving me with 10 other kids and her sobbing son. After explaining we would practice for 1/2 an hour then play our first game for 1/2 hour, everyone lined up with a basketball to practice dribbling. The other kids start bouncing the balls. Some lost control of the balls while others banged into their teammates. All done with earnest seriousness and concentration. It was beyond adorable.

The sobbing kid let go of the ball to dribble and it bounced off his foot. He simply crumbled. He couldn't see through the tears. Where was his mother? In another room talking to a parent. I scooped him up and charged out of the gym. The mother looked at me like I was doing something wrong.

"I'm alone with ten other kids. I cannot give him the attention he needs especially since he doesn't seem to want to be on the court. You need to keep him until he's ready to join us."

What I really wanted to say was:

If you were a better mother you would have stayed near him and not put me and the other kids in this awkward situation. Maybe you wouldn't have signed him up since he has been a basket case on other sports teams (we coaches talk to each other). Why don't you find something he's comfortable with. A different sport. A completely different activity. Don't make him suffer.

Of course, I didn't say any of that. Before the game I went back into the other room to check on him and he was rolling the ball with a friend's younger sibling. He looked really happy. When I asked if he wanted to come and join us his lip started to quiver. And I bolted.

Let's see how tomorrow goes.

First basketball game

Last year we were the Bad News Bears of kindergarten basketball. All the other teams were pretty much guaranteed a "win" (not that anyone kept score of course) when they played against our team. One of the only baskets we scored all year was because the coach for the other team told his players to back off and let our team get a basket.

Saturday, we were the taller team. The one with the kindergartners who look like 3rd graders compared to the other team. Several guys (my two sons included) were playing for the second year. One guy showed up for the first time yesterday. Aside from not dribbling the kid could shoot, pass the ball accurately, play defense and rebound. He's six years old. After 20 minutes we had 12 baskets while the green team had none. My guys were responsible for half of them.

This time I was the coach telling the kids to back off. You should have heard the green team parents cheer after the ball went into the basket. It was the sweet sound of "you did it!". One of my sons though was devastated that first of all I told them to back off and then I cheered for the green team. He was so upset he started to cry.

After the game, I had a little pow-wow with the team to congratulate them and remind them to practice dribbling ("People this is basketball, not football"). As we were talking, a really small boy in a too big green shirt was circling our team with tears streaming down his face calling us "the yucky white team". He was so upset (where were his parents to help him through this?) that it broke my heart. Which led to a stern conversation in the car.

"We'll play well this year and probably get a lot of baskets. I'll cheer for you and celebrate your good plays. Do not, though, under any circumstances be mean to the other team. Remember how sad you were after every game last year? It is hard to not get a basket. O.k.?"

One guy "yes Mom."

The other one "just don't cheer for the other team."

I've got some work to do.

That first practice

There were suppose to be 13 kids on the team this Saturday. Four girls, eight boys and one name I couldn't figure out. Leaving that message was strategic. "Hi, this is Coach. I'm looking forward to having 'Pat' on the team. So, 'Pat', come on to the school gym at 11 am this Friday." Turns out he is a boy.

For basketball there had been a kindergarten boys division and a 1st/2nd grade division. For girls they were all combined into one division - meaning little kindergarteners who had never dribbled a ball were trying to keep up with players who were entering their third year of playing.

Our town has finally smartened up that kindergarten boys and girls can play sports together. I could never figure out why they were separated for soccer and basketball but play together in baseball. Not that there are any girls playing baseball past 2nd grade.

Earlier in the week a girl who thought she would be on her mom's team asked for permission to be a kindergartener on a 1st/2nd grade team. I couldn't argue with that. Who doesn't want to be with their mom? Now we've got three girls.

Friday before I got two phone calls from a different mother. She kept telling me her daughter was shy and scared to play with boys. But then her language would change and it sounded like she- the mom herself - was afraid to have her daughter play with the boys.

My first thought was well why did you sign her up if you knew she would be uncomfortable?

My next thought was how dare you let her be a wimp. Get her out there. Break the Princess-spell and let her mix it up with the boys.

What did I really say? "Oh gee. Whatever she's comfortable with."

Of course, she didn't show up.

So two girls are on a team with seven guys (two didn't show up). They both were scrappy chicks who ran, jumped, and threw the ball with gusto. One was doing a good job putting the ball in the basket after 38 minutes of practice. Afterwards they both said they looked forward to next week. Their moms said it too.

It's going to be a great season.

Season starts

Me and 13 kids. As if mothering three weren't enough.

I'm starting my second year as a basketball coach. I do think it is completely ridiculous that our town starts basketball at kindergarten. How long have these kids been walking? Who in their right mind thinks kindergarteners can dribble a ball, pass it, deal with defense, and get the ball in the basket? Without crying? I didn't start basketball until I was in 3rd grade.

My guys' birthday is right at the cut-off for kindergarten so they are in their second year of kindergarten. This means they'll be those kids who play pretty well compared to the ones who have never touched a basketball. Last year, half of the green team were repeat kindergarteners (we were the red team). Compared to my team, they played like 8th grade stringers. At one point, the coach graciously told his kids to back off and let our team score. It was our only basket for the entire game.

If we end up being a team with some skill, I hope we are as gracious as the green coach last year. And don't worry, there will be weekly updates about this year's white team.