Saturday morning, Joe's 5th grade basketball team, the Bucket Squad, played their rival, Outkast. Much as it was with the Dirtbags and JP's Dodgers in the early days, the Bucket Squad hasn't quite been able to get over the hump and beat Outkast. Not yet, anyway.
The players and parents on the two teams couldn't be any different. The Bucket Squad, of course, consists of a bunch of white, privileged, private school boys who show up at the game five minutes before it starts and expect to play well without really warming up.
On the other hand, Outkast's players and coaches are at the game 30 minutes before is starts and by game time, the players have broke a sweat and are ready to play basketball. They're well coached. They have white and black players, not that it matters. Basketball is basketball and kids are kids. I'd be shocked if there is a kid on their team that goes to private school. In short, their players play harder and are significantly tougher than our players.
Outkast's parents are loud and proud. Really loud. It's kind of silly for youth basketball but they wear a variety of "officially licensed" Outkast gear. Jackets, hats, t-shirts, etc. I don't think I've ever seen a group of parents in a youth sport with so much team gear. I'm sure their boys play travel basketball, although we generally play them in WNSL recreational league games and tournaments.
I want to be clear about this, though. Their parents seems to be good people, as I've talked to a few of them before or after games. Their kids are good kids, too. Good kids that play hard and compete.
And that's my problem, really. With a couple of exceptions - Joe being one of them - our players are privileged, soft, and not as competitive as they need to be. Our players whine and complain to the referees during games. When a call goes against one of them, the classic move is to hold their arms out, palms facing upward, mouth shaped liked an "O." The universal look of the entitled private school boy. I detest that look. Always have.
As I've said for many years, dating back to when JP was young, the biggest challenge we face as parents is helping our boys understand that the lives they lead are unlike the lives lead by the vast majority of boys their age across the country and the world. As a parent, I'm conscious - maybe overly conscious - of any sign that my sons feel entitled. I want them to work and compete for everything, all the time.
Which brings me to Joe. For the most part, I never see the palms of his hands during basketball games. I can tell when he doesn't like a call because I can see him getting angry but he doesn't complain to the referees or look toward the bench for affirmation that the referee is out to get him. He always plays hard from the beginning to the end of the game, regardless of the score. He competes. In basketball, he's not the most athletic kid on the floor - far from it - but he usually outworks everyone else. And I love him for it.
Saturday wasn't one of the better games for the Bucket Squad. They lost by 20 points or so ago Outkast, which was disappointing, as the more recent games have been closer. This game was a step back, for sure.
It was a solid game for Joe, however. We arrived thirty minutes before the game and waited outside for WNSL to open up the gym at JT Moore. He and I did some shooting drills and got warmed up, long before any of his teammates arrived. When the game started, Joe hit two quick jumpers. I'm convinced it's because he was warmed up and ready to play.
For almost the entire game, Joe was matched up with Outkast's biggest player, a heavyset redheaded post player who is at least a foot taller than Joe. Joe was physical with him and worked hard to front him when the ball was on his side of the floor. Joe's not big - I hope that changes - but he played big, so much so that one of the referees mentioned it to me after the game. He was impressed with how hard Joe worked guarding the big man.
What impressed me the most, however, was not how Joe played in the game. It was what he did after the game. He singled out the redheaded post player with whom he had battled the entire game and slapped on the bag, telling him he played well. He thanked Thomas and Charlie, his coaches. He walked up into the stands and thanked my friend, Alex, whose son plays with Joe, for the instruction he had provided during the game from behind the bench and during timeouts. Then, he jogged across the court and dapped up the referees, thanking them, as well.
I was so proud of Joe. He demonstrated sportsmanship, class, and maturity after the game, all qualities I'm trying to teach him. He's growing up, I think, into the kind of young man I want him to be.
In a game in which several of his teammates whined, played with little effort after they got behind, and gave up, Joe never did any of those things. He competed his ass off with a good, positive attitude, and handle his business after the game like a champ.
Watching Joe post-game is part of what I love so much about being a parent. It's so gratifying.
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