Basketball history

Basketball in my childhood, most of us were truly unaware of the consequences of the many things happening around us that occurred daily. What is the true meaning of a fire whistle? . . . Of Grandma falling and breaking her hip? . . . Of Dad losing his job? . . . And even of not making a competitive athletic team? A fire whistle isn’t just a fire: it may even signify someone’s barn and cattle have been destroyed without the owner having insurance–equating to bankruptcy. Grandma’s hip fracture medically means a 50% chance of death. Dad losing his job may mean our family having to move to another town. The inability to make an athletic team may cause one to give up on sports at a young age and thereby, pursue forensics instead of athletics. One may even come to hate a particular sport–or athletics in general–the rest of his life as a result of being “cut” from a team. In short, the ramifications of events surrounding our youth can oft en unfold with very little insight on our part.

Most kids are resilient and just move on, accepting the world for what it is. No one at a young age delves into the true meaning of an event at the time, primarily because none of us has developed the cognitive skills to reflect on and assess what has happened from a mature or long-term perspective. If you think an ‘F’ in fifth grade math class meant a scolding when Dad got home, you could be both right and wrong: you’d already been scolded by Mom; but if you don’t “step up,” that ‘F’ could mean difficulty in middle school and beyond. It might even lead to no college admission– statistically ending with a life long job you don’t enjoy. As children we are the product of genetics and our environment, both of which are beyond our control. As we mature though, we can make free will decisions to work harder and make more money. We can study harder and convert a ‘B’ into an ‘A.’ And we can decide to develop an athletic skill through repetitive practice. 

Next to the barn where I picked up my newspapers each day for delivery after school, there was what had to be the world’s worst basketball court. Usually it was frequented by the same high school player, practicing incessantly. The court had a dirt surface pockmarked with large, irregular holes and the backboard was made of old wood with cracks. The rim was bent with no net. Though only paperboys, we all had a basketball goal in our driveway many times better than this one. This court probably qualified as “third world,” but the kid playing on it didn’t seem to mind. Though he was a very good player, he was not a starter at any level at our high school–neither JV nor Varsity–yet he was happy to have a rim and backboard against the side of the barn. Given his abilities, he deserved more. Perhaps it was we who were the poorer given our disdain for his pathetic basketball court.

Over time he began to allow us paperboys to shoot with him while waiting for our papers to arrive. As I got to know him, I came to feel that he somehow had it all together. He practiced religiously for hours. His family never had enough money for fancy shoes, warm ups, practice sweats or a leather ball. Instead, his was a rubber ball from Kmart. He dribbled the ball between his legs when that was taboo. My god, this kid had an entire three-hour practice scheme worked out in his head before he woke up. I was impressed by his organization and acquired skills with the ball. There was no human on the planet that could beat him at Horse. Yet he never started for our high school team and patiently accepted his role coming off the bench. He played well when he had the chance and practiced faithfully until the final high school whistle sounded. That final whistle–as every kid knew back then–knocked his team out of the amalgam of 450 teams who all qualified in ONE division for this state–the standard at that time in many states. Later as an adult though, this off -the-bench sub went on to become a very successful teacher and Wisconsin high school coach. The 1950’s was an era of pickup sports which meant seeking to be picked first when it came to choosing sides as a part of building up one’s standing in the eyes of peers. Kids played “workup baseball” for hours without the (oft en) detrimental effect of PARENT organized sports. If you wanted a turn at bat, you got very good at fielding and getting your buddies out. You were what you were because you knew what you could do with a used mitt that had a hole in the fourth finger slot. As a kid you pleaded your case at Christmas for a Veda Pinson infielder’s glove because you wanted this more than anything in the world. It was embarrassing to be picked last and all the kids I knew practiced endlessly to avoid such a fate. I’ve yet to see better all around athletes than the kids I grew up with, who played–it seemed–every sport imaginable. It didn’t matter the activity; these neighborhood guys played with passion and boundless energy. If the Olympics were on TV, we’d either set up a speed skating course on the frozen river or have a high jump pit with borrowed bales of hay. We were all so unbelievably competitive.

This competitiveness also extended to the classroom. The math and spelling contests our teachers required at the chalkboard forced us to study just to avoid embarrassment. Unfortunately this classroom practice isn’t considered politically correct nowadays for fear of emotional harm to a child. Give me a break! Not succeeding, or not attempting to succeed in everything, never crossed our minds. Somehow, cultural mediocrity has become the norm. Our society has seemingly lost the ability to raise our children to compete and succeed. We seem to have evolved our thinking to conclude our progressive ways are better than those our parents followed. When my four kids were young, a psychiatrist instructed a middle school assembly that it was OK to fail! I told my wife that even if I were on the verge of flunking, I would “step up” as a matter of personal pride. Now kids can apparently go home and tell their parents that a physician at a school assembly instructed them that it’s OK to flunk school.

While coaching my son’s competitive soccer team, a parent came up to me and demanded his child get more playing time. I replied that his son had the potential to be at the top of the heap with respect to skills, conditioning and leadership. All he had to do was apply himself; that playing time was wide open on this youth team. I explained however, that during practice we worked mainly on TEAM skills, plays, chemistry, etc. Early on I instructed the parents that their kids needed three hours of practice at home for every hour of TEAM practice or game time. If their son wasn’t dribbling the ball in the basement or around the house, he just didn’t have the passion for competitive soccer, which was OK—I just could not field a competitive soccer TEAM with kids that didn’t have the passion to develop the skills that soccer demands.

Skills are mostly acquired, and if the passion to develop a skill is missing, don’t complain to coaches. This kid had not experienced the ultimate neighborhood pickup game humiliation of being picked last. If he had, the peer pressure to practice could have changed him forever. As it was, absent a driving incentive to improve, he would never know how good he could be. Parents cannot make kids practice elective extracurricular activities–especially sports. Practicing a sport is hard work and a true passion must be inherently there to stick with it. That passion derives in no small part from the environment in which a child grows up with respect to his or her peers. In many respects we reflect the sum total of our peers. If our peers play hoops, then most probably we will play hoops. If baseball, then it’s baseball. If it’s music, then perhaps we will be in the band. But without that passion, it’s doubtful anyone will improve significantly and enjoy the activity.

Watching some of my youth baseball team kids field grounders was painful as a coach. I actually told one of my teams that, though the neighborhood community I grew up in was less than one percent of the city’s population, none of these kids would have even made a little league TEAM in that town. To build their incentive to improve I converted practice into what Yogi Berra recommends: playing “workup” baseball. Playing workup ball, you’ll soon make a decision to get better at fielding, since it’s a lot more fun to drill line drives than it is to stand forever in right field. Practice can produce improvement, sometimes by leaps and bounds. Moreover this phenomenon of working to improve at a sport can transfer positively into church, school, family, Scouts, and the neighborhood.