Youth Sports
The gym was deserted. Lights were off. Only narrow rays of sunlight through high windows relieved my eyes from a dusk-like dimness.
It had been nearly a decade since I had passed through the large double doors that at one time had greeted me openly. I sensed they no longer knew me, that perhaps I had long ago passed from their memory.
That was just days ago and I still feel as if I was an intruder despite that building having seemed like home in Summers past.
The floor was bare. There were no scorers’ tables and no chairs. No ball racks or wall banners. Bleachers were folded into the walls and although baskets were down, the freshness of their nets told me they had been seldom used.
I felt a strange kinship that perhaps that gym and I had both been relegated to antiquity.
It smelled musty. Perhaps that was me.
For no particular reason, I began to walk the sidelines of the basketball court in a counter-clockwise direction.
After just a few paces, I sensed my awareness drifting and blurred images of black-and-white emerged as if dancing. They would soon swirl in and out before me and become much like an old-fashioned, flashback movie.
I heard sounds, echoes of young girls laughing. Whistles of officials. Balls bouncing on the hard floor as the girls darted about. Packed bleachers rising and falling with volume. My friend Jim grousing as a coach along the sideline.
It seemed so real, as if I had actually returned.
I saw faces. Sara, the fastest fifth grader in the County and always with a big smile. Tall Nicole with her dreary eyes and dark nature. Claire, the ultimate combination of athlete, ambassador, and cover girl. Desi, the brightest eyes to ever grace that gym. Niki, the Russian athlete and future model. Bridget, the most courageous girl I’ve ever met. My daughter, who had been the reason that quarter-of-a-century Summer league ever started.
My heart swelled. Nostalgia implored fond tears.
Those sounds. Those faces. They overwhelmed me. They ruled relentless in both impact and duration.
Although my lap around the court was coming to an end, the turbulence within me was not. I began a second lap. This one would be much different.
As those faces began to fade, I searched for meaning. Why had I become so immersed in those memories? Why had I become so immersed years ago in that mission? The searchlight of my soul sought answers, but all it found was another question and this one was troubling:
Did anything of those decades amount to anything at all or had I just fooled myself at the time into thinking that it was all so important?
My insides were too overwhelmed to find an answer.
Yet, it bothered me.
A lot.
Having no answer caused me to just push it aside and I felt the notion that I might not ever revive the question because I wasn’t sure that I would survive the answer.
I had poured over two decades of my life and thousands of dollars into that venture. It was a mission. It was a passion; an almost desperate passion. A craving to give young girls a Summer experience that was the very best it could be.
To me, the number one mission wasn’t just to give them a great Summer basketball league, but rather to honor each and every one of them as human beings. After all, each and every one was someone’s daughter and even if they were orphans, each and every one was God’s daughter. They deserved to be honored, treated right, and given the best that I could possibly give.
I bought the best uniforms, hired certified officials, and hand-picked every coach. I rented that gym with the double doors because it was the biggest and brightest and best within 20 miles. It was expensive, but I had to have the best.
I didn’t delegate one ounce of any important thing because I knew how things were suppose to be and I had a driving compulsion to toil for that mission. I simply could not release anything to anyone else.
Every year, I expanded what we did and how we did it. It became common for me to spend Fridays working until well past midnight to get ready for Saturday games. I recall two occasions when sunrise awakened me to the fact that I hadn’t slept. I had worked all night.
And, it wasn’t just on weekends. Passion drove me every day.
Every.
Single.
Day.
For over 24 years.
Despite all of that, nothing ever seemed to me to be enough. I always believed I could do more and do better.
But in the end, did I do enough? Did it actually amount to anything?
Although I was willing to let that question drift to a chasm of forgetfulness, fate had other ideas.
Last week, I was contacted by someone who was one of three guys who helped me start that Summer league long ago.
I hadn’t heard from him in years.
He had some news to share about his business before our conversation led to reminiscing about basketball and those whirlwind years of the Summer league.
I told him the story of my recent visit to that gym and I told him about the flashbacks and how I wondered if those years had much value. He soothed me for the moment but it was his subsequent email that I want to share with you, especially those of you who have labored in youth sports.
His words are no longer for me. They are for you and I hope you will hear them just as if he wrote them directly to you:
“Of course it meant something!
Your work and sacrifice and investment were not just smoke in the wind. They have been worthwhile because you have affected so many people and you’ve created many lifetime memories for kids. You did it with all of your heart and to the best that you could so for that, you should smile.
Yet, as good as all of those things are, what is much more important is that you did it all with the utmost integrity, decency, and kindness.
And for that, God smiles.”
We can’t think that no one noticed.
We can’t wonder if it amounted to anything.
We haven’t labored in anonymity and there are scores of people who have spoken your name. Be assured that beyond what you will ever see, there are memories and smiles that make hearts swell and implore fond tears.
Savvy Game Line 