Parents, Step Off the Baseline!
Hey, Moms and Dads, love the hustle—but looking at how you wrap your kids in bubble-wrap these days, I’m shocked you survived varsity hoops without a trauma therapist on speed-dial.
Cue the Flashback Reel
Remember back when “player development” meant a half-flat ball, a sun-bleached blacktop, and an afternoon that tasted like freedom? No shooting gurus, no mindfulness apps. Just you, the rim, and the possibility of greatness—or at least a half-decent bank shot.
Your parents? They knew the court’s zip code and figured Darwin would handle the rest. Twist an ankle? Tough. You learned to limp with style.
The Court Was Our Cathedral
We called our own fouls, played full when ten showed, half when someone bailed for a Slurpee. Warped rim? Angle your shot or stop whining. A brand-new Spalding was sacred currency—one spin, maybe two, then pass it on. We didn’t complain about cracks in the asphalt; the cracks complained about us.
I was the kid nobody picked—so I matched up with ghosts: Starks, Oakley, whoever. Rain, sleet, soul-melting July heat. No arm sleeves, no compression tights, no excuses. Just a scrawny kid and a dream that didn’t need Wi-Fi.
Tryouts, Reality, and That Cold Metal Bench
Everyone made the roster; only a handful sniffed the spotlight. The rest of us rode pine like it was a Greyhound to humility. And when the coach barked, we didn’t race home to file emotional-distress claims. We either got better or found another lane.
Zero points, zero minutes? Dad shrugged. “Did you hustle?” End of review. Asking him to lecture the coach would’ve been like asking him to negotiate my prom date—impossible and mortifying in equal measure.
Blood, Sweat, Small-Town Drama
We threw elbows, took elbows, maybe tossed a punch. Next day, we ran it back—same court, fresh trash talk. Coaches coached; they weren’t life-coaches. Our feelings were our own damn job.
Fast-Forward to Now
Look at you. You survived asphalt burns and double rims and still manage to file taxes and hold conversations. Miraculous.
So here’s the plea: let your kids taste the same unfiltered game. Let them sweat, struggle, sit the bench, and figure it out without a GPS tracker or highlight-reel helicoptering overhead. Let them earn minutes the way you did—bloody knuckles, bruised ego, big grin.
They’ll be fine. Probably better for it. And you? You’ll finally exhale and remember what real basketball smells like—rubber, asphalt, and a shot at redemption.
Now hand them the ball, step back, and watch the magic—or the mess. Either way, it’s their story to tell.
