Layout 5-3 - Playworks

8
A Coach Inspired
by David Gilmore
THE WING MAN
When I imagined myself as a basketball
coach, I always assumed I’d be
dishing out nuggets of world-weary
wisdom, wearing a blazer, being
hoisted up by my players, and graciously
shaking hands with the other
coach as I confidently strode off the
court (which, of course would be
named after me).
This all changed the minute I
actually became a basketball coach,
just one of my responsibilities as a
Sports4Kids’ Site Coordinator in
Baltimore, Maryland.
My squad was supposed to be made
up of twelve Brehms Lane Beavers
pulled from the ranks of the fourth
and fifth grade girls. I had no idea
what I was working with. I hadn’t
seen a single kid at the school shoot
a basketball, and they, as most
pre-adolescent girls are, were more
concerned with gossip and glitter
than my ill-conceived plans of
running Syracuse’s 2-3 Pressure zone.
Still, I managed to get thirteen girls
to sign on the dotted line.
FULL COURT PRESS
So we met for our first practice. They
were green, oh yes, but they were
enthusiastic. And they loved to
bounce the ball. Loved it. Bounce
the ball when Coach David is talking,
bounce the ball when we’re
walking through the halls, bounce
the ball when Coach David wants it
put away, bounce the ball when we’re
waiting to be picked up, bounce the
ball in the car, bounce the ball on
the bench.
There was only one problem: I had
nowhere for them to bounce the ball.
Our practice area consisted of a 12 X
20 patch of concrete on the outdoor
playground that rested in front of a
set of monkey bars, serving as a
makeshift goal. We might as well
have been throwing the ball up in
the air and saying “well, I think that
would’ve gone in.” My troops’ spirit
was not broken though, despite the
icy winds of a Baltimore February.
When the elements became too
unbearable, we had to go inside.
With the gym occupied, my creative
improvisation as a Sports4Kids coach
(a vital asset to the job, if you ask
me) was put to the test. Before long,
we were dribbling an obstacle course
through the halls of the (mostly)
vacant school, passing through hula
hoops, defensively sliding between
rows of lockers and having our team
meetings in the teachers’ cafeteria
(shhh). Mr. Eckles, who wasn’t even
a teacher of any of the girls, joined
us, lending a similar passion for the
game to the mix. By the time our first
game rolled around, Mrs. Perzinski,
several of the girls’ fourth grade
teacher, offered to drive. Perhaps, I
thought, this will actually happen.
I was worried about so many
things. I worried that we wouldn’t
have enough players, that the girls
wouldn’t have a ride to the game,
that I would forget to put someone in
the game, that the other team would
rout us (despite the fact that no score
was kept), that Brehms Lane would
decide it wasn’t safe to travel, that
one of my girls would bite the referee
if he made an unfair call, etc.