All's Well That Ends Well
I'd have gone with "We Are The Champions," but my daughter's basketball team finished second in its league. And since they don't play post-season tournaments at the upper grade school level (apparently they couldn't land a sufficiently lucrative television deal....), the regular season is all there is.
Not that the kids appear to mind - the coaches might be another story, but they wouldn't let on.
At any rate, here's how the day went.
My son's team completed an undefeated season with a 42-24 blowout of Life Christian Academy that wasn't nearly as close as the score indicates. This was another of those games in which the victors could have doubled their final point total if their coaches had "gone Bobby Bowden" on their opponents. Our kids were on pace to break fifty over the first three quarters, scoring literally at will. But, this being a Christian league and all, we showed the other team mercy. Not that they were good enough to do more than trade baskets (or, more accurately, turnovers) during garbage time.
That meant my little son made it into the game and showed his shooting prowess, burying two baseline jumpers in transition when his teammates appeared to finally notice that he was actually on the court. I was more elated than his box score would ordinarily have indicated because (1) I'm his dad, (2) some friends came to the game specifically to see him play, and (3) I've felt kind of sorry for him being so small and on such a good team that he doesn't get to play all that much and doesn't see the ball much when he does.
I'm not, nor will I ever be, one of those "Stephano Capriati" type of parents that makes an ass of himself lobbying for his children's athletic advancement. Had I been the coach, I would have made the same playing time decisions because, even at fifth grade level, the job is to win ball games. The catch-22 for my boy is that when he first started playing in second grade, his team was awful (didn't win a single game, AAMOF), but he got to be the star because he was the best player on the squad, whereas now he's a bench-warmer on an elite club.
Of course, it hasn't helped that he's not much bigger now than he was three years ago, either. If he shoots up six inches in the next year, we're talking starting two-guard material with his shooting eye (and with, as his coach pointed out at the post-game party yesterday, much harder work on defense, which means, as I've pointed out to him, keeping his head in the game and working hard).
Not much we can do about the growth part, but the focus/work ethic thing is already a constant, ongoing battle.
Sonny boy's game was at 11AM, and the party afterwards lasted till a little past 2. That left an hour or so for a few errands, and then it was back to the home gym for little Sweetie's season finale at 4PM.
About that there was good news and bad news. The good news was that we won the game to complete a 7-3 campaign, a two-game improvement over last year. The bad news was that this was possibly the worst display of basketball I've ever witnessed at any level of the sport.
How bad was it? The final score was 10-6. It was 4-2 at half. When our girls managed to sink a couple of shots in early third quarter, they seemed like daggers in the heart of their opponents from Tacoma Baptist. And ultimately, they were.
Here's how a typical sequence would go: our girls bring the ball down-court and throw the ball out of bounds. Their girls would bring the ball down-court and dribble it off a foot out of bounds. We bring it back and travel. They bring it down and double-dribble. We bring it down, manage to get off a shot, but it rockets toward the backboard as if shot out of a cannon because the shooter tripped just as she was releasing the ball. They bring it down and the ballhandlers flops to the floor trying to draw a foul and the ball rolls out of bounds. We bring it back and throw a lazy cross-court pass that gets intercepted by one of their girls, who proceeds to heave the ball completely over the backboard on the layup attempt.
At least our girls had a ready excuse - both their ballhandlers were absent (one was sick, the other out of town). Of the remaining girls, let's just say their degree of coordination hasn't earned enough credits to get past sophomore status. So far as I know, the other team just sucked.
Yes, "the remaining girls" included my daughter. But she plays small forward, not backcourt, so ballhandling really isn't her role anyway. And she played very well, particularly on the defensive end and on the boards. She only took one shot, but it was a good one, and didn't miss by much, showing how much her touch has improved.
The highlight, though, was her anticipation of a cross-court pass. She timed it perfectly, picking it off and loping down-court, leaping from the foul line and throwing down a spectacular 360 tomahawk jam.
Okay, the Jordanesque dunk part is crap - she got the ball knocked away from behind - but the steal was a thing of beauty. And we have all offseason to work on her dunking, just as soon as I find the right sized wrench to lower the basket in our back yard to a suitable height, and she finds a brand of chip-resistant nail polish.
And so another basketball season comes to a close. My son will play next year, but as my little girl is moving up to junior high, she's up in the air about continuing her hoops exploits. For her it's been more about comradery with her teammates than about the game itself. Starting in a new school next year, mostly without those friends, she might decide to "retire." That would be kind of sad for me, probably more because she's growing up than over any ambition I may have ever harbored to score Seattle Storm season tickets a decade from now.
But I guess that at least ensures that I'll have at least one more season as "Basketball Dad."
Not that the kids appear to mind - the coaches might be another story, but they wouldn't let on.
At any rate, here's how the day went.
My son's team completed an undefeated season with a 42-24 blowout of Life Christian Academy that wasn't nearly as close as the score indicates. This was another of those games in which the victors could have doubled their final point total if their coaches had "gone Bobby Bowden" on their opponents. Our kids were on pace to break fifty over the first three quarters, scoring literally at will. But, this being a Christian league and all, we showed the other team mercy. Not that they were good enough to do more than trade baskets (or, more accurately, turnovers) during garbage time.
That meant my little son made it into the game and showed his shooting prowess, burying two baseline jumpers in transition when his teammates appeared to finally notice that he was actually on the court. I was more elated than his box score would ordinarily have indicated because (1) I'm his dad, (2) some friends came to the game specifically to see him play, and (3) I've felt kind of sorry for him being so small and on such a good team that he doesn't get to play all that much and doesn't see the ball much when he does.
I'm not, nor will I ever be, one of those "Stephano Capriati" type of parents that makes an ass of himself lobbying for his children's athletic advancement. Had I been the coach, I would have made the same playing time decisions because, even at fifth grade level, the job is to win ball games. The catch-22 for my boy is that when he first started playing in second grade, his team was awful (didn't win a single game, AAMOF), but he got to be the star because he was the best player on the squad, whereas now he's a bench-warmer on an elite club.
Of course, it hasn't helped that he's not much bigger now than he was three years ago, either. If he shoots up six inches in the next year, we're talking starting two-guard material with his shooting eye (and with, as his coach pointed out at the post-game party yesterday, much harder work on defense, which means, as I've pointed out to him, keeping his head in the game and working hard).
Not much we can do about the growth part, but the focus/work ethic thing is already a constant, ongoing battle.
Sonny boy's game was at 11AM, and the party afterwards lasted till a little past 2. That left an hour or so for a few errands, and then it was back to the home gym for little Sweetie's season finale at 4PM.
About that there was good news and bad news. The good news was that we won the game to complete a 7-3 campaign, a two-game improvement over last year. The bad news was that this was possibly the worst display of basketball I've ever witnessed at any level of the sport.
How bad was it? The final score was 10-6. It was 4-2 at half. When our girls managed to sink a couple of shots in early third quarter, they seemed like daggers in the heart of their opponents from Tacoma Baptist. And ultimately, they were.
Here's how a typical sequence would go: our girls bring the ball down-court and throw the ball out of bounds. Their girls would bring the ball down-court and dribble it off a foot out of bounds. We bring it back and travel. They bring it down and double-dribble. We bring it down, manage to get off a shot, but it rockets toward the backboard as if shot out of a cannon because the shooter tripped just as she was releasing the ball. They bring it down and the ballhandlers flops to the floor trying to draw a foul and the ball rolls out of bounds. We bring it back and throw a lazy cross-court pass that gets intercepted by one of their girls, who proceeds to heave the ball completely over the backboard on the layup attempt.
At least our girls had a ready excuse - both their ballhandlers were absent (one was sick, the other out of town). Of the remaining girls, let's just say their degree of coordination hasn't earned enough credits to get past sophomore status. So far as I know, the other team just sucked.
Yes, "the remaining girls" included my daughter. But she plays small forward, not backcourt, so ballhandling really isn't her role anyway. And she played very well, particularly on the defensive end and on the boards. She only took one shot, but it was a good one, and didn't miss by much, showing how much her touch has improved.
The highlight, though, was her anticipation of a cross-court pass. She timed it perfectly, picking it off and loping down-court, leaping from the foul line and throwing down a spectacular 360 tomahawk jam.
Okay, the Jordanesque dunk part is crap - she got the ball knocked away from behind - but the steal was a thing of beauty. And we have all offseason to work on her dunking, just as soon as I find the right sized wrench to lower the basket in our back yard to a suitable height, and she finds a brand of chip-resistant nail polish.
And so another basketball season comes to a close. My son will play next year, but as my little girl is moving up to junior high, she's up in the air about continuing her hoops exploits. For her it's been more about comradery with her teammates than about the game itself. Starting in a new school next year, mostly without those friends, she might decide to "retire." That would be kind of sad for me, probably more because she's growing up than over any ambition I may have ever harbored to score Seattle Storm season tickets a decade from now.
But I guess that at least ensures that I'll have at least one more season as "Basketball Dad."
posted by JASmius at 10:59 PM
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