We’re going to keep at this! Small steps. I know he’ll make it. I’ve done this before.
My son Travis and I have just discovered a basketball hoop on a dead-end street around the corner. The street is dead-ended by a freight train that runs from the middle of Brooklyn to Kennedy Airport.
Courtesy: Offer Up
We live in a very Orthodox Jewish section of Brooklyn. Most of the people on that street–including children–dress in Orthodox clothing, black pants and suit jackets, and white shirts.
Among the many benefits of living in an Orthodox neighborhood is that we have full access to the laundry room on Friday and Saturday nights. Another advantage is having access to the lonely basketball hoop around the corner from our apartment building.
On so many levels, the hoop is pathetic. The street is often swirling with trash. The street isn’t beautiful in any way, either. There aren’t many trees or flowers, and it seems empty, even abandoned. And with people wearing clothes from a different era, it also feels out of time.
The hoop wasn’t put up by the City. It stands between two houses owned by Orthodox people. I’m not even sure if it’s on someone’s private property. There is about a ten-by-twenty-foot rectangle of space to play. A small fence encloses the sad little court.
What makes all of this even more interesting is that the Q train platform is about ten feet away from the court. Trains come and go every few minutes. You can hear the automated voiced announcing the Avenue J stop. Then, “Next stop Avenue H. Please step in.”
I took Travis to play there because it’s close. But also because it’s often empty.
We have to start from the beginning. Learning how to dribble, how to catch, and how to shoot. I’ve been through all of that with my twenty-two-year-old son, Theo. Theo, now twenty-two, is a very good basketball player. I can’t beat him these days. He destroys me every game.
But here we are. The sun manages to shine through on this lonely little concrete rectangle. As the Q trains rumble overhead, I feel like a man who just came out of sports retirement, but older and stiffer this time, who has come back on the field of play again.
I make a chest pass to Travis, pumping the ball toward him. “Catch and do the same,” I say. He knocks the ball away. “No, catch it,” I say. “That’s why it’s called ‘catch.’”
“I’m trying to catch it like this,” says Travis. “Don’t bat it down,” I say. “It’s not called bat it down. It’s called ‘catch.’”
I know I must sound a little harsh, but I want him to learn how to play, and for several reasons, too. My wife was out with him a few weeks ago, and there were boys playing basketball in the park. Travis couldn’t dribble or shoot.
“He’s ready to learn now. He’s eight. This is the right time,” I say.
And so we’re out playing. Learning how to dribble and learning how to catch and shoot–just the fundamentals. It feels so elemental. And despite my drill sergeant approach, it’s very emotional to me. Here I am on my second round, teaching my younger son how to become better than me at something.
Courtesy: Basketball Dad
And why would I do this? Because this is something that I can give him. I’m not a great basketball player, but I know how to play. I played in the park when I was a kid, and I played pick-up games until only a few years ago–until I had meniscus surgery, that is, and until I developed tears in my labrum and rotator cuff from lifting weights. I played too much football and baseball catch with Theo.
I need to teach Travis how to play. He’ll become stronger from playing basketball. He’ll develop body strength and stamina, too. And he’ll also learn how to compete in a game, to give it everything he’s got. It’s not just about throwing a ball through a hoop. This is about life and learning to fight life’s battles. At least that’s the way I see it.
We’ve only just started. He hasn’t yet scored one point. His tosses barely reach the rim. He shoots. I throw it back to him. He shoots, I throw it back. Then I dribble, passing the ball between my legs, changing direction. Travis chases me, trying to grab the ball, but he can’t.
Not now. Not yet. Then I pass the ball to him.
“Shoot.”
He shoots and misses. “Shoot again. Use your body. Bend your knees.” He shoots. The ball hits the rim.
The Q whooshes by overhead. A piece of garbage swirls from the wind and passes by our face.
“Shoot again,” I say, passing him the ball.
We’re going to keep at this. He’s going to make a hoop. Small steps…. I know he’ll make those hoops and learn how to dribble better than me.
I know because I’ve done this before.
