December 7, 2012

Just don't eat the players.

Last night the youngest was trying to explain a basketball term to her dad, and he just wasn't getting it.

"I know," she said as she grabbed a handful of star bursts out of the candy dish,  "I'll use mom's way of explaining." I smiled as she drew a court and set up the two teams.

Years ago, my middle daughter tried out for club basketball, but didn't make the team. She wanted to play so badly, and decided to play for the recreation team. I signed her up only to get a call that they were dropping the team because they couldn't find a coach.

I had no basketball knowledge at all. As they handed me a clipboard and whistle, I think my words were, "That's the round, orange ball right?"

What I didn't know about basketball, I made up for in what I knew about girls. I enlisted the help of my oldest daughter who already played. Then one of the dads stepped forward with all the basketball knowledge we could want. And when it came time to teach those wiggly, sparkly little girls how to run a play, we did it on a cardboard court with Lifesavers as players and orange runts as the ball.

And that's the story of how a mom who can't dribble or catch a ball takes a team of grade school girls to the city championship two years in a row.