My mama and I had a lot of conversations in the car. A lot. We were always going from here to there, or somewhere.
“Did you know I coached basketball one time?”
“What? When? Where? Were y’all any good? Did you win? Who was your best player? Did you have an assistant?”
“It was my first year teaching. John A. Holmes High School in Edenton. I was told I’d be coaching the girl’s junior varsity basketball team after I took the job.”
I was less than impressed.
“We had a perfect record, too.”
“You were undefeated?”
“The varsity boys got the gym right after school. Then, the JV boys practiced. The varsity girls got it next and we could have the gym about seven or eight at night.”
“Y’all practiced at eight o’clock? What about the other gym? That’s not cool.”
“Son, there was only one gym and they didn’t care if the girls practiced or not.”
“And y’all won every game… that’s incredible.”
“We didn’t win.”
“But, you said…”
“I said our record was perfect. It was. We lost every game.”
“Mama! That’s awful. You didn’t win a game?”
“We never practiced. I wasn’t about to go in a dark school, late at night, with a bunch of ninth-grade girls. We showed up for the games and what happened, happened.”
Oh well. They didn’t ask my mama to coach another season.
Maybe coaching wasn’t her thing, but she could play ball. She was the starting center on the Thomasville High School women’s basketball team.
I inherited my mother’s enthusiasm for the game and her height, but not her ability to shoot the ball.
Sophia’s mama, Vikki, played soccer and field hockey. I had never really thought about it, but we’re an athletic family.
The competitive fire burns deeply in her DNA.
Whatever the reason, the girl was eager to join a team at Meadowlark Middle School.
Her first choice was volleyball. I was surprised.
“Why volleyball?”
“We watched it during the Olympics and I think it would be cool.”
Fair enough. Go for it. This, for a child that had not played a single point of volleyball.
It wasn’t a complete shock when her name did not appear on the roster.
She accepted an offer to be the team manager. She went to practice every day. She worked out with the team. She kept stats. She counted substitutions.
The season ended. No trophy. No championship. She came home with new bruises and a dull pencil.
No matter. She learned lots and she’s got a better chance to make the team next year.
“Basketball tryouts are Tuesday. Can I go?”
Yes. Of course. Go.
I met Sophia in the carpool line after the first day of tryouts.
“How’d it go?”
“Good.”
“Can we move past the mono-syllabic responses, please? How many people were at auditions? Tryouts. Whatever they are.”
“Fifty or sixty.”
“Fifty or sixty?!?!”
I was not expecting that.
“What did you have to do?”
“We warmed up. We ran. We scrimmaged… I think I made one of them mad.”
“One of who? A coach? A player?”
“A player.”
“What happened?”
“Well, we were scrimmaging and she got mad and threw the ball down and started yelling at me. ‘You can’t do all that and keep putting your hands in my face!’”
“Sophia, what were you doing?”
“I was guarding her. I said, ‘you know what? I’m doing my job. It’s called defense. You should look it up.’”
“Yep. She’s probably mad. She’ll get over it. Good for you. You did the right thing.”
Sophia was utterly serious. I struggled to hide my laughter.
You should look it up.
Damn. That’s funny. Make the team or not, that’s pure gold.
Tryouts lasted all week. Another round of cuts every afternoon.
Team rosters were due to be published on the school’s website by 6:30 PM.
There it was. “Sophia Griffin” was the second name listed.
Sophia is practicing layups in the driveway.
Vikki is ordering terrible towels and a Mustang jersey.
Margaret is undoubtedly pleased to know practice begins at 2:00, not 8:00.
I’m relieved. Excited. Proud. Hopeful.
#22. You should look it up. Oh, me. I’ll forever love that. Go, Sophia. Go.
Jeffrey Griffin 