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| Abby gets advice from Jaime (#24). Grade 7. |
We had arrived in the US the night before and had all had risen early on a Saturday with the prospect of the team's first game against American competition later in the morning. The team was moving slowly around the breakfast room, heads down all were shrouded in puffy warm robes pulled right over their heads under which each wore their own version of shockingly patterned pajamas. It was a procession of silent, multi-coloured basketball monks each shuffling their feet in a perfect line with the goal of reaching a station to toast bagels or grill waffles or maybe both. Although the idea of unlimited waffles would normally have been a source of unbridled joy, really the girls looked a weary bunch having been denied a Saturday sleep in. After breakfast the convoy to the venue for the competition would begin.
The gym where the game would be played was at a school that shared characteristics with scores of schools in similar middle class neighbourhoods across America. They are very large and old, and despite what you have seen in the movies do not posses any sort of historical charm or character whatsoever. The really old ones are constructed entirely of aging brick, the "new" ones dreary concrete, each featuring its own version of chipped, faded linoleum flooring and the absolute minimum amount of natural or artificial light. They have at least two gyms, many three or four, with high ceilings featuring banners hanging down from the rafters marking athletic achievements from the time of the pioneers to current day. Every second light fixture in these gyms is consistently non functional; either this is by some weird coincidence or perhaps a ladder of sufficient height has yet to be invented to reach them. The result is that these gyms are darker than South American bat caves. This posed a problem for me as I had been nominated as team photographer in a closely contested race that featured no other interested candidates. The courts consisted of well worn hardwood that had been resurfaced with much varnish over so many years. The lines marking the court were vanishing further into the floor with every passing season making them so hard to see the players had to develop a sixth sense to determine where they might be.
The school was packed with people. Players from multiple teams moved in gaggles around the population of parents, other spectators and officials. I waited in the concession area with other parents for the team to come into the building once their pregame meeting concluded outside.
The first through the door was Jaime. A year older than Abby she would be entering grade 9 in September. I had only met her yesterday. She did not know who I was, but knew I was one of the new parents. She smiled as she moved past me. This was a smile that I would not forget. It was the broadest of smiles, her eyes looked directly into mine, they seemed to be illuminated from the inside by a happy glow that was being radiated from somewhere deep down. It was the sort of smile that made you think you could know all of her personality at once - a mix of happiness, friendliness, maturity, intelligence, and soulfulness.
But you'd be wrong. While she was all these things, there is another side.
On the basketball court smiles were dear. Her expression was of singular determination, it was as though she was indifferent to another team on the floor. Jaime seemed to treat the opponent as more of a nuisance than another group of other humans, to be dealt with no differently than if someone had parked a Volkswagen beetle on the court and it had simply had to be passed or dribbled around. She dribbled so hard I thought the ball would just give up. Jaime was more broadly shouldered than her teammates, and not quite as tall. She used this to her advantage when deciding to drive the hoop which she did often and with success. She would fix a such a fearsome expression to her face when driving the hoop it seemed impossible to imagine it was also capable of constructing such a beautiful smile. By the end of the first quarter her dark, curly hair would be dripping and soaking her jersey creating a crescent moon shape of sweat that reached halfway down her back. She was on a different level than most other players, physically, mentally, and fundamentally.
We had arrived at our first game in the US of A. I watched Jaime warming up alongside teammates such as Elisa, Lizzy, and others and I couldn't imagine them losing a single game. And in fact, on Canadian soil, nobody had so far come close to beating them. For Abby to be part of this team would surely raise her game and someday make her a more consistent contributor to the score.
Then I noticed our American opponents. Something was wrong, I found Thomas to alert him that there was obviously a scheduling error.
"There's no error", he replied.
I quickly retorted, "Thomas, they're...um...huge. They're women Thomas for gosh sake. That team consists of women not girls, I think they're from some Junior College or something. Anyway I thought I'd let you know."
"See number 17?", he asked, "she's in grade 6. So is number 4 and number 10. The rest are all grade 7. The players are just bigger down here".
Have you ever met someone that is so gifted at the art of calm understatement you just want to box him in the ears on a consistent basis? That's Thomas.
The height of these US grade 6 and 7 kids was on average a third greater than our players who were at least a year if not two years older. Plus whereas our girls were lean - okay downright skinny - the opposition were also thicker. Tall, and thick with developing musculature. Hard to move.
But our players were extraordinarily fast. And skillful. And very, very fit. And we had Jaime and Elisa and Lizzy and now Abby. So there.
The game started. I could simply not believe the difference between the speed the US players warmed up at, and the speed they could play the game at. Our players buzzed around them and put in an admirable effort in defence, but the giant opponents would manage to pass the ball to a breaking player on almost every possession and make a clean lay up. Or someone would just pull up and make a jump shot, or a three pointer. When our team had a turn on offence it was relatively short lived. The US players seemed to feed themselves on stealing the ball. And rebounding...well...don't get me started. Jaime had a couple of determined drives to the hoop to earn some points. Elisa also got some shots to go, and Lizzy scored some points off foul shots as well. Abby did not score. But she played. She played just as much as the other 8 players. In fact, to my untrained eye, she appeared to be one of the more effective players on defence. Even against the larger statured players coming at her at high speeds she managed to create some steals and disrupt some of their flow. My guess is that our team's fitness was better as our team speed seemed to hold up while theirs did not, but it didn't make a difference on the scoreboard which flattered us a bit at 77-24.
At the end of the game I thought I would try to approach Thomas again and risk asking the latest in a string of stupid questions, "Thomas, um, so that was unusual wasn't it? We have never come close to losing a match at home. That was really unusual. Really quite unusual, don't you think?"
"Unusual? Nope. These US teams are really good.", he said.
"Okay Thomas." (I mustered up as much mental restraint as I could so as to not kick him in the groin). "No, I mean, we lost by like 50 points, didn't we? That can't be good."
Thomas finally realized I was still at the rank of rookie parent and gazed knowingly at me, kind of like Mr. Miyogi would do, and offered some further explanation, "We don't come down here to win. Not yet. Our team has some skill and they will improve with time and coaching. But they have to learn to play harder. They have to learn to play against physical competition. They have to get mentally better. This sort of competition will teach them that better than any opponent we run over by 50 points at home".
On our way to the cars one of the parents had uncovered a key piece of intelligence. Evidently the Boy Scouts of America and the Boy Scouts of Canada were planning to shake hands with each other across the Peace Arch border crossing tomorrow. So it would be closed for like 4 hours. Perfect timing. Stupid border. It's about time that the US and Canada realize we are long past interested in invading each other and do away with borders altogether. It would make basketball trips so much easier. And a bunch of other important stuff would be easier too. Preliminary calculations suggest I've spent more time waiting to cross the border than I've spent doing anything else worthwhile in my life at all. My border wait time, combined with those of my family, and team members, their families, plus coaches - let alone the time time worrying about the Border which is a separate discipline all of its own - has amounted to more time than was needed for God to conceive of and create all the physical laws that govern the universe. And before you think I'm exaggerating let me say this. I'm not.
But this problem would be for tomorrow. Abby had arrived at my side and as she happily loaded her gear into the car I asked her, "So, what did you think?"
"It was good." she replied, her standard response to most questions at the time.
"What was good about it?", I pressed (I was developing useful skills of open ended questioning and minor league criminal interrogation so as to get any useful information out of the Kid).
She knew she'd have to come up with something or I'd just ask again. So she thought for a moment, "Umm, well...the other girls on my team are so good, but...I'm starting to feel like...like...I belong out there out there with them".
And she did.
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