Losing Sucks

I detest losing. It’s a work in progress, but I make every effort to set aside my uber-competitiveness in deference to the more ideologically uplifting and redemptive qualities of competition.

Teamwork. Respect. Responsibility. Effort. Fun.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

That’s nice. Now, kick butt and win. Trophies (and sprinkles) are for winners. The champs.

My mother and I agreed about a great many things. We differed when it came to losing. She routinely pointed out that there is no shame in finishing second. I invariably countered her supposition. “Second place means you’re the first loser.”

My grandmother was in the Jeffrey camp for this multi-generational debate. I heard Blanche say it more than once. “Why win by ten if you can win by twenty?”

Nowadays, I’m a father. Sophia and Miles. I cannot build everything on winning and losing.

When Miles winds up on the floor during a basketball game, which happens A LOT, the daddy in me wants to pick him up and push his hair out of his eyes. The man in me wants to shout, “Get up! Hold on to the ball!”

Hhhmmm. I wish I could tell you I’ve found a balance between the two. I wish.

Losing sucks. Don’t like it? Work harder. Sweat more. Practice.

Sophia is playing her first year of organized basketball. I’m not exactly sure what “organized” means, but I’ve heard plenty of people say it on television. I’m borrowing the phrase.

I’m of the firm belief that if you can play in the Griffin driveway, you can play anywhere. There are no fouls in our league. A scrape here and there. Some pushing and shoving. Occasional finger pointing. Plenty of trash talking. A few tears. And no pity. Dad-O is 6’3” and 320 pounds. Eventually, Sophia and Miles will win. Today ain’t that day.

Sophia played for the Yellow Jackets this year. She is not THE player on the team.

Not the tallest. Not the quickest. Not the strongest. Not the best shooter. Not the best ball handler.

She works the hardest. She gives enormous effort. She does not quit. She will not give up.

Sophia Griffin has made extraordinary improvement from the beginning of the season to the end of the season. She plays terrific defense. Typically, she is assigned to guard the best player on the other team. On more than one occasion, I have heard opposing players yell at my daughter. “You can’t guard me that close!”

“Yes, you can. Don’t give up. Don’t let her have the ball.”

The girl is tough. She has taken more than her share of elbows this season. We had to buy a mouth guard.

The conversation during the car ride home after the game has never included the phrase, “She was bigger than me.”

If the West Central Community Center Winter Basketball League gave a MOST IMPROVED award, I think Sophia’s effort would merit serious consideration.

As it happens, the Yellow Jackets won the regular season. Our team. The number one seed for the post-season tournament. The girls gave up two field goals in the second half of the regular season finale to clinch the top spot. It was impressive.

Way. To. Go. Proud of y’all.

I looked at the playoff bracket. I was immediately concerned. Sophia’s team was scheduled to play the 8^th seed. The Seminoles. Winless on the year.

I heard my mother saying, “They’re due to win one eventually.”

Sophia sounded incredulous. “They haven’t won a game all year? We’ve got this.”

I knew we were in trouble. I preached all week. I prayed.

I never pray to win. My mama said that was being selfish. Alright, mother. I prayed that Sophia and the Yellow Jackets would “do the best they can do.” I didn’t know what else to say.

“You can win any game and you can lose any game. Sophia, you have to work harder than you’ve worked all season. Go after every rebound. Get your butt on the floor for every ball. Don’t give up. Drive them crazy with defense. You can do it.”

Vikki joined the conversation. “Sophia, they have nothing to lose. They are going to give it everything.”

The Griffin children trotted to the driveway for practice.

Vikki said to me, “You know… that really, really, really tall girl plays for the Seminoles. She is big.”

Vikki’s description couldn’t have been more accurate. She was tall. Really, really, really tall. Big.

The first half was close. Closer than I wanted, but we had the lead at the break.

I pulled our bouncing baby girl aside for a conversation during halftime. It was direct, honest and far enough away that her mother couldn’t hear us.

What was said will remain between father and daughter. Sophia nodded and popped in her mouth piece. She was brewing. Few things are more powerful than a determined woman.

Sophia tangled with the Tall One time and time again. She was easily a foot taller than our daughter. Probably a foot and a half. Really. The tallest kid in the league and it’s not even close.

I’ll say this, Sophia gave as good as she got. The Tall One ended up on the floor wrestling with Sophia more than once.

The second half didn’t go quite so well. It happens. The Yellow Jackets missed layup after layup after layup. We missed every free throw. Really.

The first victory of the year for the Seminoles. The top-seeded Yellow Jackets were done.

Shake hands. Pick up your basketball. Go home.

The tears rolled.

That’s a heavy lesson to learn at the ripe old age of ten. The rankings don’t matter. The seeds mean nothing. You can win any game. You can lose any game.

You have to earn it. Every time.

I opened her door and she climbed into the back seat. “You cry because it matters. Nothing wrong with that. Anything worth having, matters. Make up your mind. Are you gonna give up or are you going to play next year?”

The love of my life looked up, her face wet with the disappointment of failure and said, “I have to decide now?”

“Yes. Right now. Is this how you finish or will you try again?”

“I’ll play again.”

Yes, you will, Sophia, Yes, you will.

Losing sucks.