My son, a high school junior, has been playing basketball for 10 years. After months of hard work through summer league, weight room, fall league, open gym, and even Sunday workouts with the U of R men’s team, sadly, he did not make his high school varsity squad this year.
Mind you, I don’t point to malice or unjustness from what is an excellent program, but coming from his biggest critic, I can honestly say my son was one of the best to try out.
No, not one of the best players nor one of the best athletes. Nor one of the best shooters. But he is one of the best workers. One of the best teammates. One of the best practice players. One of the best role players. One of the best at showing up early and often. One of the most coachable. And likely, an even better asset the following year.
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Stock photo.
Alas, all that and a six-pack of Gatorade didn’t end up mattering and the ubiquitous inspirational quotes that dot social media about effort didn’t hold true here.
My preaching ended up an empty lesson, as I stressed how work ethic, attendance, great defense and ferocious rebounding would most certainly give him a leg up on other kids. I fear future advice I offer may now be diluted.
We both had that positive inkling toward the end, knowing that there really was very little separating the “last five in,” except for hustle and attitude.
I’m not sure who feels worse about it, him or me. Of course, I didn’t have to walk into school the day after cuts and face my friends, hoodie up and somber. But I shared his pain watching in my rearview mirror, knowing it was likely one of the harder moments in his lightning fast 16-year existence.
Weeks later, the new white Kyries still lay idle in the mudroom keeping the heartache top of mind. Soon we’ll both be sitting in the bleachers supporting the team, wondering how much time he might have seen or how much he would have improved throughout the year. That will be tough.
I have a hunch he is feeling general sadness right now and not agonizing over the details about missing out on the conditioning, the bench camaraderie, and the pasta parties — but I am for him. I know he’s not thinking that it means more time on his phone or sleeping in on Saturdays instead of being in the gym. But I am.
I know he’s not thinking that there now might be an added void on his high school resume when applying to colleges. Or the missed character-building volunteer activities with the team, which are immeasurable. But I am.
He’s not thinking about an abrupt end to those calls from his grandparents asking where the next game is. But I am. It’s not on his mind at 3 a.m., but it was on mine.
And he’s definitely not thinking about the end-of-season banquet he won’t be attending, where the coach might have noted how much he had improved over the year, what a surprise player he turned out to be, and how he was a pleasure to have on the team — much the way past coaches have. But I am.
My son will eventually be fine, with the comforting words from friends and family, other activities taking over, and time as the ultimate healer.
I’m not so sure about me.
