If you grew up in the 50s and 60s, being on an organized sports team wasn’t an every-day part of growing up. Sports were all around, but in a much more casual way.

There were pick-up baseball and soccer games in a neighborhood empty lot or somebody’s back yard, but matching uniforms with numbers on the back weren’t on our radar.

For years, there was a never-ending basketball game in my parents’ driveway, one that finally ended when our mom sold the house.

My brothers played cut-throat basketball, and when the nephews got tall enough, they joined in. At first, the uncles gave advice, but as it became evident the nephews had surpassed them, the older generation handed the basketball over to the young-uns.

My sons loved baseball much more than basketball. When they were in elementary school, we joined the local Little League. There we made life-long bleacher buddies, and we found out what being a team parent was all about.

For the most part, parents paid our dues, made sure everybody got a trophy, and, most importantly, made sure every child on the team got to play no matter their skill level.

There are still leagues where there’s no official score – the game is fair. That might be the official statement, but almost every parent and every player keeps score. That’s because in sports, competition pushes players to want to get better and be the best.

This fall, our 12-year-old grandson played on an organized basketball team for the first time. He wanted to try a new sport, so his mom signed him up for the Longhorns. At the first practice, we quickly realized only one of the boys had ever played on a team.

The coach had his work cut out for him.

In one of the first games, it was clear our Longhorns were up against a power-house team. These kids knew how to dribble, pass, shoot three-pointers, steal the ball and rebound with ferocity.

By the beginning of the fourth quarter, it was obvious we weren’t going to win – the score was 50 to nothing. Finally, one of our players got fouled and he made the shot.

At least there wasn’t a zero in our column.

I hoped the other coach would let up and send his secondary team in. He did not. They showed no mercy. Our players walked out of that gym humiliated, especially when the other team was laughing and making fun of our boys.

I was furious. What about sportsmanship? What about being fair? I didn’t want the other team to let the Longhorns win, but a bit of mercy would’ve been, in my opinion, the right thing to do.

A few days later, I talked to a retired baseball coach, and he offered a different side of the argument.

These players were taught to win, just as our coach was teaching his players. What lesson would that other coach have taught his players if he told them to take it easy on the opposing team? My friend said our boys would’ve felt even more humiliated if somebody felt sorry for them and let them win.

At the next practice, instead of bad mouthing the other team or feeling down, our coaches and the boys on the team doubled down.

Practices went long. Drills were run over and over. They practiced passing the ball, getting rebounds and fighting to put points on the board.

When the last three games rolled around, our team was one of two who made the playoffs.

The Longhorns ended the season with second place. That afternoon, they held their heads high when they walked out of the gym, a medal around their necks. Their air of pride and confidence was quite a bit different from a few weeks earlier.

Whether it’s playing basketball in a driveway or a gym, competition brings out the best or the worst in us.

In my grandson and his teammates, I saw the best.

 

This column waws originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.