Once in an interview type situation – not for a job, but maybe something with church? I really can’t recall – I was asked to cite an accomplishment of which I was particularly proud.  Even though I have had prouder moments in my life, I went with the first thing that came to my mind, and that was the fact that I went all the way through 10^th grade without quitting the basketball team.

Many of my stories begin with “I come from a small town in south Arkansas” and this story falls squarely into that category.  Not only did I grow up in a small town, but I attended a remarkably small, county school outside the city limits of that small town.  The school was called Ross Van Ness, named for the owners of the land on which the school was built decades earlier.  This was the school that my father and his siblings attended.  Over the years, the number of classmates in my grade ranged from as high as 15 students to as low as 7.  As you might expect, there were not a ton of extracurricular activities available to such a small student body, but we were oblivious to that fact at the time.  We may have missed out on many of the opportunities and activities found in larger school programs, but the one thing our school did have was Basketball. And it was a big deal.

Basketball was the only game in town, literally.  When I was in Junior High, the school tried to rouse up interest in starting a football team, but the idea was quickly abandoned due to lack of funds and, frankly, lack of interest.  The students really didn’t know football like they knew basketball, and that’s where everyone’s focus was directed. Tuesday and Friday nights during the winter months were reserved for the students and their families to gather in the gymnatorium to watch the Mighty Falcons in action.  Ross Van Ness played other small schools from neighboring towns, but most were still considerably larger than our little school. This unfortunately often translated to a losing season for the Falcons.  The one competitor who was a reliable exception was Fountain Hill, a tiny town about a half hour drive from Ross Van Ness.  This was the school that we played for Homecoming every single year since it was the one team that we had the best chance of beating.  And we often did.  It didn’t occur to me then, but it is a bit of an insult when you show up to another school for an away game and find out that it is their Homecoming.  They are basically telling you upfront that they are confident they can wipe the floor with you.  Ross Van Ness played in a lot of Homecoming away games.

Regrettably, I was not particularly athletic as a young kid.  I was known for being brainy, the smart kid.  Whereas the other guys in my class spent a good amount of their time focused on deer hunting, 3-wheelers, and of course, basketball, I was drawn to history, movies, art, and whatever else I could discover in our tiny, wanting municipal library.  I craved murder mysteries and sci-fi paperback stories and puzzles and games.  When I was in 4^th grade, a teacher started a small chess club at school, and I was on Cloud Nine.   If you looked up the word “nerd” in the dictionary, I would come jumping out of that thing like it were a pop-up book with red neon letters flashing over my head, “N*E*R*D!”.  General convention would say that I should have been bullied more than I was, but the good thing about being corralled with such a small group of kids is that we couldn’t really afford to have cliques – there just weren’t enough of us.  And because of that, we each brought our own individuality to the table and were usually appreciated for it. Even though other students would come in and out of our class through the years, Gary, Larry, and Mark were with me from 3^rd grade all the way through graduation.  We grew up together.   I still think of them fondly, along with my other RVN classmates and am so very thankful for each of them and the fingerprints that they left on my life.

But I digress.

Okay, Junior High sucks.  It just does.  Parents should start telling their kids this fact early on in their childhood development.  It’s just better that they know up front what they are walking into.  And if I’m honest, it may not really even be all that bad, but it most definitely feels like it is.  For me, 7^th grade was pretty miserable.  I was still an unathletic nerd, but now I had the added worry that comes along with unexpectedly packing on several extra pounds.  These were my pudgy years. While my classmates were beginning to mature and grow UP, I was growing OUT.  My friends were all preparing to buy their first pair of Levi 501 button-fly jeans, a rite of passage into rural adolescence, and I was still sporting my husky size Dickies (with the reenforced knee). 

During the summer before 9^th grade, things started to turn around for me.  I leaned up, thanks to my summer job of mowing half the lawns in town, plus the assistance of some teenage testosterone. I started getting taller. My nerd factor came down by about 20% or so – still solidly nerdy, but maybe in a more endearing way.  And when I went back to school in the fall, I even caught the eye of a girl or two.  True, there weren’t a lot of girls there to give me the eye, but there also wasn’t a lot of competition among the guys either, so it worked out.

All through 9^th grade, I was separated from the other guys in my class during PE.  Gary, Larry, and Mark all played basketball, so their PE was spent in the gym with Coach Pace running drills, practicing their shots, scrimmaging, while I was regulated to the “other” PE for those not participating in the school’s one and only varsity sport.  The other PE was usually a series of general calisthenics or some pointless activity that could easily burn 50 minutes so that the teacher didn’t have to pay close attention and could get back inside as quickly as possible.  I get it.

Through 9^th grade, my confidence level steadily grew.  I was less awkward, less self-conscious, and slightly more comfortable with who I was and who I was becoming.  Even though I had played relatively little basketball recreationally, I decided that I would try out for the basketball team in the next school year.  I use the term ”try out”, but joining the team required less effort than the term “try out” might indicate.  The try out basically consisted of raising one’s hand and expressing interest in playing on the team, which is what I did.  And just like that, I was a Mighty Falcon!

Coming back to school from the summer break between 9^th and 10^th grade was eye-opening.  All the guys had grown and had probably just about hit their permanent height ceiling, and some even came back with some scraggly facial hair.  The girls were all beautiful, and to me, looked like they were 25 and miles out of my league.  The speed at which we are all becoming adults was a bit overwhelming to me but exciting at the same time.  And of course, I assumed that I was the one with any anxiety at all, when in fact, the words “anxiety” and “teenager” are practically interchangeable.  We just didn’t know that then. 

The first day of basketball practice under Coach Pace consisted of running.  And running a lot.  In August.  In an un-airconditioned gymnatorium.  Around and around in a big loop skirting the perimeter of the rectangular court marked by a blue line painted on the wooden gym floor.  Over and over.  For the first five minutes or so, I felt like a pro.  I was meant to run.  I was keeping up with everyone around me, even passing some of my slower teammates.  Maybe running was my thing. That cockiness died a sudden, horrible, and devastating death at about the ten-minute mark.  My heart was racing.  My side was cramping.  My breathing was fast and shallow.  My feet were slapping the floor from pure determination, pushing me forward.  I did have to stop and walk a few times to try to catch my breath which Coach Pace met with a “Let’s go, Boys” in a whispery shout which, although not loud, was effective and surprisingly intimidating.   This practice was the first time that I considered quitting basketball.  There would be many others over the coming months.

Soon, practices became less about running the life out of us and more about teaching us the skills necessary to act as a team on the court.  I actually enjoyed the drills and learned a lot in those first several weeks of practice.  Honing my own individual skills was more to my liking than scrimmaging.  With the skill drills, I was competing against myself to improve my own talent in dribbling and shooting.  Scrimmages, however, were a different animal.  This is where the teamwork came into play, and your true worth as a link in the chain became more apparent to the coach, your teammates and yourself.  Many of the seniors on the team would often roll their eyes or throw out a wise crack or two when I made a bad pass or misunderstood where I was supposed to be, but by and large, the team was very accepting and supportive, especially the other 10^th grade players who encouraged me and, I believe, liked the idea of having me on the team.  At least I like to think that.

I vividly remember the day we got our uniforms.  My number was 55, which was the highest number of all the uniforms, which I took as some sign of cosmic importance.  Even the first-string stars didn’t have a number as high as mine.  I realize the ridiculousness of that thought, and I’m sure I did at the time as well.  I was just looking for something to build my confidence in this confidence-shredding situation in which I had voluntarily put myself.  Sadly, that was the best I could come up with.

When it came time for the first varsity game against a competing school, I was a ball of nerves.  I can’t remember who we played against, but I do know that we were expected (and expecting) to lose this game.  We dressed out in our blue and white uniforms with the very short, very tight shorts and knee high athletic socks with two blue stripes circling the top.  We all had to buy the same blue Converse basketball hightops, which were the nicest athletic shoes I had ever owned up to that point.  In the locker room, Coach Pace gave us the obligatory pump-up speech and sent us out onto the court to run layup drills until the buzzer sounded to indicate the beginning of the competition.   

I have to admit, even though I was fully aware that I was the absolute worst player on the team, in that moment, I did truly feel like part of the pack.  It was a sense of belonging and camaraderie that I hadn’t experienced in any other setting. We were a united front heading out to defend our school’s honor.  Emerging from the locker room, running to half court to begin our layup drills, we were welcomed with screams and cheers from the student body of Ross Van Ness, as well as local friends and parents.  Our bleachers consisted of two wooden platforms on either side of the court and was usually enough seating for the audience, including the few die-hard fans of the opposing team who drove over to see how their team would fare. (It is probably noteworthy to point out that my parents did not come to my games.  The reason is simple –  I asked them not to.  They reluctantly obliged. Looking back, I’m not exactly certain what motivated me to ask them to stay home, but I think, due to my consistent lackluster performance on the court, I thought it might be embarrassing – for both of us.  I realize now that would not have been the case for them, but kids don’t know what parents think until they one day become parents themselves.)

Once we were at the top of the hour, the buzzer would announce to the players and the fans that it was time to play ball.  The teams who had been running drills on their respective ends of the court would drop the basketballs and head over to circle up with their coaches.  A few grade school kids would be assigned to run out onto the court and gather up the loose discarded basketballs that were indiscriminately bouncing around and put them up in their racks until the half time drills.  Those kids had the best job.

The buzzer was also the beginning of my anxiety.  Before the buzzer, I was one of the team, an equal partner, a Mighty Falcon, faking his way through the layup drills and acting like he belonged on the court, but now that the game was about to start, I was about to be found out as an imposter.  This was another recurring point when I knew I had to quit basketball.

During the season, I always prayed for close games.  As long as the games were close, or at least not a blowout, Coach Pace would keep alternating the A and B string players to give the Falcons the best chance at a victory.  But when the game was indeed a blowout, mostly unfavorable for RVN, Coach Pace would give the last few minutes of the game to the players who hadn’t had a chance to play yet.  I always strategically placed myself at the very end of the bench, thinking that maybe Coach Pace would count out the needed players to go in before he got to me, but that was a failed strategy.  I would always go in.

It’s incredible to me that this cycle of end-of-game walk ons by me, plus a couple of other guys who were almost as bad as me, did not mess with my psyche. When the fans in the bleachers saw us coming out onto the court with three minutes left in the game, they knew that the Falcons had given up the ghost and we were now simply running out the clock to the end of the game.  They weren’t happy to see us.

In those last few minutes of the game, I would pray over and over in my head, “Please God, don’t throw me the ball.  Please God, don’t throw me the ball. Please God, don’t throw me the ball. Please God, don’t throw me the ball”.  But invariably, the ball would come my way, and usually, to my surprise, I would catch it.  When the ball is passed, the receiver has a few options to quickly consider.  He could drive to the basket, take the ball back out toward half court to reset, perform a jump shot, or pass the ball on to another player to keep the play going.  It took several games for me to even consider the first three options.  My immediate goal was to just get rid of that ball as quickly as possible.  It was like my own private game of hot potato. I became the King of the Quick Pass.

One particular game that stands out above all others came toward the end of the season. The Falcons were way ahead of the opponents going into the final minutes of the game, so I’m assuming that we had to have been playing against Fountain Hill.  Coach Pace reckoned that the other team could not feasibly get ahead of us in such a short amount of time, so he figured it was safe to bring in the end of the bench.  I could see him leaning forward from his seat at the half court sideline looking down the line of anxious teenagers who were hoping to catch his gaze and be sent in.  As he leaned forward more and more, I leaned back more and more, but to no avail. He saw me. “Cain”, he shouted, and I jumped up and ran to the center court sideline to await instructions.  “You’re going in for Michael.”  I, along with two other subs, was sent in to replace 3 of the 5 players on the court.  In this instance, the fans in the bleachers were not as crestfallen as they usually were to see us come on the court because in this case, they knew that Coach Pace believed the game was locked up.  They welcomed us more enthusiastically in this scenario. 

The game went on as usual with me successfully avoiding the basketball while making my petition to my Keeper to please deliver me from certain embarrassment and humiliation.  And then, as was usually the case, the ball flew across the court and hit me right in the hands.  Again, to my surprise, I caught it. Naturally, my initial instinct was to get rid of this ball as expediently as possible.  The focus of all eyes in the gymnatorium were now squarely on me, but before I passed the ball along to the closest teammate, I quickly sized up the situation and noticed that I had a clear shot to the basket from where I was.  It suddenly occurred to me that I was probably up against the worst players that Fountain Hill had to offer since their coach could likely see that a victory was a lost cause at this point – this end-of-the-bench last call wasn’t just a Ross Van Ness strategy.  I suddenly felt myself dribbling the ball – ala, our layup drills – and then up I went, letting the ball roll off my fingertips in a perfect (for me) layup.  The ball rolled around the rim for what had to have been a full seven minutes, and then simply fell into the basket.  The ball went in the basket.  I made a shot.  I had scored two points for my team.  The Falcons fans in the bleachers went wild – partly because they were rooting for their home team who was about to land a W, but there were some spectators in the stands (and on the bench) who had been pulling for me as well.  That felt good. This was one of the few games from which I went home not thinking that I would be quitting the team the next day.

Once the season was over, practice became more about strength and conditioning.  Stations would be set up throughout the gym that we would rotate through, ten minutes at a time.  This is where I was introduced to a systematic weight-lifting regime which ultimately would become a huge part of my day-to-day life.  I did not consider quitting the team during this off-season training.  I actually discovered that I even almost liked it.

Now that I have bared my soul regarding my pathetic stint as a Mighty RVN Falcon, you might be confused why I deem staying on this team as one of my proudest achievements.  If this were a Disney movie or an after-school special from the 80’s, the story would end with me scoring the winning point in the big game or ultimately becoming a big NCAA star – some huge achievement that would punctuate the virtuous manifestation of “sticking with it”.  This, unfortunately, was not my experience.  However, I did learn some things about myself and about life during my short turn as a Falcon – lessons I might not have learned so well had I thrown in the towel on any of those occasions when I wanted to so badly.

1.  Up to this point, I enjoyed being good at several things, maybe even the best among my peer group.  I liked how that felt and was not keen on opening myself up to new undertakings where I was not the best.  My experience as part of the team showed me that my previous mindset had been isolating and limiting.  There is no shame in starting on the first rung of the ladder, even if others are well ahead of you; the shame is to not get on the ladder at all.  10^th grade gave me the confidence to jump on new ladders and to stay on them – some were as tragic as my Falcon experience, but others weren’t.  And those were the ladders that broadened who I am and how I think.

2.  Being part of a team is a feeling like no other.  To be accepted and included under the banner of a common goal or purpose is both exhilarating and motivating.  I have felt this galvanization in civic organizations, my fraternity, church groups, and especially in the workplace.  Even though your contribution to the greater good may be lacking in comparison to others, to understand that your contribution is still a worthy effort encourages you to keep pressing and making that contribution even more significant over time. 

3.  Team sports was never my thing, however, over time, I did discover that I had a penchant for fitness training.  Lifting weights, boot camps, an occasional obstacle course or 5K became my favorite flavors of exercise and still are today, although in a more moderate capacity these days than in prior years.  I likely would have eventually figured this out on my own, but those high school strength and conditioning sessions in off-season definitely laid some relevant groundwork and gave me a familiarity with what would someday become very important to my health and stress management as an adult.

4.  Even though I was never destined to become a great athletic hero, I’m still very proud of my year as a Falcon.  Because I stuck with it, even when there were about 79 instances in which all I wanted to do was to tell Coach Pace I was out, I became the Little Engine That Could.  My stick-to-it-iveness found its foundation through this experience, and even though there were other occasions in my life when I wanted to quit, I understood what It meant to stay the course and that I would be better in the end if I would just get out of my head and out of my own way.

So, yes, I’m very proud that I didn’t quit basketball in 10^th grade.  I’m proud because that is the first significant event in my life where I showed myself that I could, and that I should, do hard things and that I would, in most cases, be so much better for it. 

Go, Falcons!