Bah! Call the 3 Seconds!
Went to Jake's playoff basketball game this morning, and I try to go to a few games, but get a little antsy. Coaches acting as if they are trying to win the championship, loud parents yelling at the rent-a-refs, and my boys trying hard to battle the things I gave them - glacier-like-foot-speed, and a vertical leap of about an inch and a half.
Yet I was pleasantly surprised with Jake's performance. He battled for every rebound, set screens, stole a couple of passes, and really worked hard. Plus he looked so tall out there. Hard to watch him play and not think of how fortunate he was to have a guardian angel and a staff of wonderful people at Women & Children's Hospital.
But for crying out loud, there was a gorilla of a kid playing on the other team. He jumped over every one's back to retrieve rebound after rebound, and he literally camped out in the lane under the basket.
"Watch the 3 seconds," I said very nicely one time down.
Jake's team was down by twelve when we walked in but had trimmed the deficit to two.
Man-child grabbed another rebound, put it up, missed, grabbed that rebound, missed again, and on and on, all the while standing directly under the basket.
"Three seconds!" I called out a little louder next time down the court.
I felt bad after doing it - I don't want to be one of those parents.
Four minutes left - down by five. One of Jake's teammates drills a long shot.
Now to stop Shaq on the other end. No chance. He pitches a freaking tent in the center of the lane and calls for the ball. The pass goes in high but he's like King Kong surrounded by the planes.
"Three freaking seconds!" Another parent calls out.
I want to hug him. Still, no whistle. The kid plays catch with the backboard for another minute or so before finally banking it in.
There's not enough time to win the game. I feel my blood boiling. I hate complaining about the refs. Hate it, hate it, hate it.
Jake comes off the court. I'm ready to console him, but he's all smiles. He played well and he knew it. He had fun doing it too.
"You worked hard out there," I said. "Too bad you guys aren't moving on."
"Yeah, whatever," he said.
The ref brushed by me in the hall. It was all I could do not to scream "Three Seconds!!!!" in his ear.
"Good game, ref," I said instead.
Perhaps I've finally grown up a little - it took me so long to grow up and such a short time to grow old.
Yet I was pleasantly surprised with Jake's performance. He battled for every rebound, set screens, stole a couple of passes, and really worked hard. Plus he looked so tall out there. Hard to watch him play and not think of how fortunate he was to have a guardian angel and a staff of wonderful people at Women & Children's Hospital.
But for crying out loud, there was a gorilla of a kid playing on the other team. He jumped over every one's back to retrieve rebound after rebound, and he literally camped out in the lane under the basket.
"Watch the 3 seconds," I said very nicely one time down.
Jake's team was down by twelve when we walked in but had trimmed the deficit to two.
Man-child grabbed another rebound, put it up, missed, grabbed that rebound, missed again, and on and on, all the while standing directly under the basket.
"Three seconds!" I called out a little louder next time down the court.
I felt bad after doing it - I don't want to be one of those parents.
Four minutes left - down by five. One of Jake's teammates drills a long shot.
Now to stop Shaq on the other end. No chance. He pitches a freaking tent in the center of the lane and calls for the ball. The pass goes in high but he's like King Kong surrounded by the planes.
"Three freaking seconds!" Another parent calls out.
I want to hug him. Still, no whistle. The kid plays catch with the backboard for another minute or so before finally banking it in.
There's not enough time to win the game. I feel my blood boiling. I hate complaining about the refs. Hate it, hate it, hate it.
Jake comes off the court. I'm ready to console him, but he's all smiles. He played well and he knew it. He had fun doing it too.
"You worked hard out there," I said. "Too bad you guys aren't moving on."
"Yeah, whatever," he said.
The ref brushed by me in the hall. It was all I could do not to scream "Three Seconds!!!!" in his ear.
"Good game, ref," I said instead.
Perhaps I've finally grown up a little - it took me so long to grow up and such a short time to grow old.
Comments