Gunnar and I just wrapped up our first season of basketball tonight. He played on the 10 and under “Black Knights” team at Palace Recreation Center in St. Paul, I played chauffeur and clapper from the bleachers.
It started out a heartbreaker: my basketball parenting has been a study in neglect and it showed on the court. Gunnar had a signature shoulder-high dribble and could NOT get past the distinct absence of taking turns with the ball. It was about like watching someone you love get mugged on the street, but with a scorekeeper on the boulevard.
Unlike me, whose basketball career lasted precisely one night of 7th grade practice, Gunnar kept at it. For three months. We went from celebrating a weekend win, to celebrating grabbing a rebound to celebrating taking a shot and even, at one point, celebrating a basket. Both of them.
It was a seminar in parenting. I know now how easy it is to be a dad when your kid is taking his first steps, or playing a trumpet solo in the school band concert or striking somebody out on Field 2 at Groveland. But coming into the gym and watching your offspring struggle week after week, not getting any passes, oblivious to the strategy, tossing the ball over the backboard: that’s something else. That’s where you sit with your head in your hands and wonder whether this is one of those “teachable moments” or if you’re just trying to make a stubborn point and atone for your own shortcomings.
I don’t know if I’ll ever find out.
But as we were wrapping up the post-season pizza party tonight, Gunnar said he wanted to keep his reversible mesh jersey. For the next time he has practice.
Tim Nelson 