Submitted by: Patti Egloff (A true story - about a father and his 7 year old son)
Cell Phone: 720-201-6040
CHOICES
They lost the game by one point.
It was time to go for pizza at Anthony's to make everything OK. "Great Job" and "Attaboys" were poured over our team. The 8 and 9 year olds were sweaty and sad and trying not to cry.
One of the great things about kid's sports is the children learn how to lose: respectfully; with honor; with good sportsmanship and with a continued commitment to their team. Not an easy thing to learn. However, once learned - never mastered - it sets essential platforms for life. This is a given - an experience relived by the children, many times, over and over, throughout their youth and then again as they become parents and then again as they become grandparents.
Tonight, however, was different. Many lessons - too many in my opinion - had to be infused into one little 7 year old.
He was 6 when the season started. His Dad, a teacher at the school - gifted with an unequalled ability to relate to children, was asked to coach the team. His daily schedule was already on max-overload but his passion for children forced him to ignore this reality. In addition he was told that his 6 year old son could play on the team. The rules did not permit this but precedent had been set in years past that appeared to allow these rules to be overlooked.
The 6 year old played at the level of the 8 and 9 year olds. The parents didn't use the 6 year old as a "carrot" to get the Dad to coach. They knew that if they asked, the Dad would agree. They also knew that the 6 year old would be an asset to the team.
The season started. Practice began. The Dad was coaching. The 6 year old was playing on the team.
It is important to note that this 6 year old has an unusual and insatiable passion to play basketball. His ability is either natural or his inability to let go of the basketball makes him excel. To the 6 year old the "why" of it didn't matter. He was playing basketball on the team. Things were good.
It was two days before the first game. One of the parents approached the Dad (teacher/coach) after school and explained that she wanted her son, the 6 year old's friend and classmate, to be put on the team too.
The "rule" - lightly set aside before - now surged up as a multi-fisted monster.
The Dad reflexively explained that the 6 year old (his son) was only practicing with the team and would not be playing in the games because the rules did not permit a 6 year old to play.
The correct answer was provided to the mother. The consequences of the Dad's choice were now inevitable: The team had to be told that their teammate, the 6 year old, would not be playing in the games. The 6 year old's cousin, a 9 year old 4
th grader on the team, would have to be told that his "best friend" would not be playing in the games. And, of course, the Dad would have to tell his son that he could not play in the games.
The reality of all this must have been profound - and perhaps conflicted. Certainly the Dad could tell his son that because one of the parents complained he couldn't play on the team or the Dad could have told his son that if an exception to the rule couldn't be made (as it had in the past) he would resign as the coach of the team. These thoughts must have raced through the Dad's mind.
Dinner was over. Homework was finished. Baths were taken. The Dad had to tell his son that he could not play in the games. The more difficult part was that the Dad had to explain why.
That night the Dad told his son the truth. He explained "The Rule" to his son. He told his son that he knew about the rule and he told him that he thought it would be OK to break the rule because it had been broken before. Then he told his son that he made the wrong choice because there is not a right way to do the wrong thing. The Dad explained to his son that even though he couldn't play in the games, he could, if he wanted, practice with the team, wear the team jersey and sit on the bench during the games. His son cried and pleaded with his Dad to let him play and the Dad held his son on his lap and explained the situation again and then again and then again. It was a long night.
The gift: the next morning the 6 year old told his Dad - his coach - that he wanted to practice with the team and wear the team jersey and cheer for his team on the bench during the games and that he would be the Water Boy and he would give Gatoraide to his teammates.
And that is what the 6 year old did - game after game - throughout the season - even after he turned 7.
There were so many times during the season, during the games, that I would watch the 6 year old put his hand on his Dad's shoulder - not in a need to be comforted but more as being one with his Dad - his coach. I would watch the 6 year olds' cousin - his best friend - come off the court and sit next to the 6 year old as a teammate. I would watch moments during the games when the 6 year olds body was riveted into the game while he was sitting on the bench and I would watch the 6 year old get Gatoraides out of the cooler and hand them out to his teammates; unacknowledged.
Tournament time was upon us. Double elimination. Our team had won the first two games and lost the third. The fourth game was here. It had to be a win or the season was over.
The team lost the game by one point. Of course the team was devastated. Of course the families and friends were supportive and uplifting. And of course, going to Anthonys for pizza would make everything OK. But as the team and their families walked down the stairs from the gymnasium, into the crisp night air, the six year old - now seven - stopped walking. He began to cry - and then sob - and it was obvious this was all too much for him to absorb.
The seven year old was overwhelmed. He had made the decision to be about his team when he told his Dad he would sit the bench in his team jersey and be the Water Boy. It was no longer about him getting to play basketball; his passion. It was about his commitment to his team and doing the right thing.
In that pursuit, he sat the bench, game after game; he handed out Gatoraide and he encouraged his teammates - forcefully stifling his passion to be on the court. And then his team lost by one point. Certainly the six year old - now seven - knew that he could have made at least one point. His cousin and teammate and best friend reinforced this thought when he told the seven year old, sincerely and with love, that if he had been
playing on the team they would have won the game.
It was too much for the 6 year old - now 7 - to understand.
Family members and friends of the seven year old hovered over him asking "What was the matter?" and "What happened?". The seven year old could not offer an explanation through his sobs because he did not have one.
The Dad knelt down on the pavement and placed each of his hands on each of his son's shoulders. The Dad said nothing. He just looked at his son. The Dad stood up and explained to his son that he had to buy ice to take to his son's school for the 6
th grade dance and that he would meet his son at Anthonys.
That was the intention of the Dad but when he arrived at the school, he discovered that several parents who had volunteered to chaperone did not arrive. The Dad stayed at the dance; wanted to be at Anthony's; worried about his son; spent time with the children under his care and made sure they had a fun time. Still, there would be time to get to Anthony's except for the unexpected fact that two sets of parents did not pick-up their children when the dance ended. So the Dad stayed with these children until their parents arrived one and one-half hours later.
The Dad went home. His son was asleep in bed. The night was over.
I was given the undeserved privilege of being able to drive the 7 year old to Anthony's. Tears still pouring down his cheeks and his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath between sobs, the 7 year old climbed into the back seat of the car and put on his seat belt. I sat down on the floor of the back seat and looked up at the 7 year old.
I asked him who he thought had the hardest job on his team. He quickly answered (still sobbing) that it was his cousin, his best friend. I told him that I didn't agree. Surprised (sobbing less) he then offered the name of another player on his team. Again I told him that I didn't agree. The 7 year old was puzzled (no longer sobbing) and asked who I thought had the hardest job on the team.
There was a pause and we just looked at each other. "You." I said. This made no sense to the 7 year old who explained to me that he didn't even play in one game. "Why didn't you play in one game?" I asked. "Because "The Rule" says that first graders can't play in the games." "Then why did you keep practicing and wear a jersey and sit on the bench and hand out Gatoraide during the games if you knew you were never going to get to play in the games?" "Because I am on the team!" he explained. "So you knew you were never going to get to play in the games but you kept doing all that stuff anyway?" I asked. "No, first I thought I was on the team and I was going to get to play in the games but then my Dad told me about "The Rule" so that is when I knew that I would never get to play in the games but I was still on the team." "Is it fun to be on the team even if you don't get to play in the games?" I asked. "Kind-of but it's more fun to get to play." "Was that hard?" I asked. "What?" he answered. "Not getting to play in the games but still doing all the stuff you did?" "Yes." the 7 year old said. "Yes, that was really hard." he repeated, reflectively. "And I could have made at least one basket if I had been playing and then we wouldn't have lost the game tonight." "I bet you are right and I bet knowing that makes all this even harder." "Yes" said the 7 year old, it makes it really harder!" "Well," I replied, "that's why I think you had the hardest job on the team. Lots of times it is really hard to do the right thing and you did the right thing over and over throughout the whole season." "Thanks" he answered. "Are you proud of yourself for what you did?" I asked. "I guess so." he answered. "I am very proud of you and so is the rest of your family." "Thanks." he said.
I got in the drivers seat of the car - started the car - began driving the route to Anthony's and kept shifting my eyes back and forth from the street to the rear-view mirror in order to keep an eye on the 7 year old. I fondly remembered looking at his Dad through rear-view mirrors, many times, over the years past. The 7 year old looked exhausted and pensive as he stared out the window at nothing.
We weren't talking - not a word was exchanged. I wondered what he was thinking about but it did not seem appropriate to ask. We pulled into a space in Anthony's parking lot and the 7 year old undid his seat belt as I undid mine.
"You know what?" he asked. "What" I questioned. "If me and my Dad were the same age we would be best friends." "I bet you would" I said.