When I was in middle school, something happened that impacted my life. Well, I should say, someone, and it all started when I secured a spot on the basketball team coached by Lanny Lowder at Albemarle Middle School. I use the word “secure” loosely, because I’m pretty sure that they simply ran out of guys before they could cut me.
Still, there’s something about trying out for a team and not finding your name on the dreaded cut sheet hanging on the locker room wall that makes you stick your chest out a little further with pride. Of course, I didn’t really have a chest to stick out. Mine was more like a drawer. But still, I walked out of that gym BELONGING. It was amazing, and something about being picked made me want to be better.
I’ll say this much, there wasn’t a guy on that team that tried harder I did even though there were guys on that team (shoot, all the rest of them) that were better than me. A lot better than me. So much better than me that they got to play in actual games, and when they played really well – say, well enough to get us a 30 point lead or something – sometimes I’d get to play, too. I say “sometimes” because honestly, if there was anybody who could single-handedly lose our team a 30 point lead, it was probably me.
But there I was in practice, learning how to play basketball against guys who already knew how to play basketball. I wasn’t a Christian then, but I sure did pray a lot. I’d pray that no one would throw me the ball, and if they did, I’d pray that I’d catch it. One day the girl that I was crushing on came in the gym just about the time we played shirts versus skins and my prayers got even more intense.
“Oh, God,” I whispered. “Please let me be a shirt.”
I’d learn later in life that some prayers get answered differently than we want because God’s a lot smarter than us, but that was rough way to get exposed to that truth.
Literally. My shirt came off along with any thread of dignity I was clinging to. I was so skinny that my stomach appeared fat. My lack of chest gave the appearance of a bulging gut and I remember coach making some comment about how I probably had a hard time seeing my shoes. Everybody laughed, including my crush.
I was crushed, along with any real chance with her.
But it was middle school, and I was still on the team. My coach – despite the shirts versus skins fiasco – was funny and talked in a way that made me want to listen. And he paid attention to all of us, learning what made each of us tick and how we could each best contribute to the team.
Once, just before the county championship game, he gave us a pre-game pep talk and took the time to tell all of us what he appreciated about our game. For some, it was their outside shot. For others, their defensive prowess. I, apparently, was a lot of fun to sit with on the bench.
It’s not really the kind of thing you want to hear in the 8th grade, but over the years I’ve come to understand the simple wisdom of that speech: everyone can – and must – contribute to the team. Paul said it best when he wrote to the Romans:
For just as each of us has one body with many members, and these members do not all have the same function, so in Christ we, though many, form one body, and each member belongs to all the others. We have different gifts, according to the grace given to each of us. If your gift is prophesying, then prophesy in accordance with your faith; if it is serving, then serve; if it is teaching, then teach; if it is to encourage, then give encouragement; if it is giving, then give generously; if it is to lead, do it diligently; if it is to show mercy, do it cheerfully. (Romans 12:4-8)
Not everyone gets to be the star, but no one gets to ride the coattails of one, either. There is something about belonging to a team that should drive us to contribute to a team, and a good coach helps us see that. It’s one of the lessons that my coach taught me that changed the way I’ve lived ever since, and over the years as I’ve struggled to find my place on all sorts of different teams, it’s helped to remember sitting on that bus and knowing that I had a role to play.
It’s also helped to remember my manners, and our coach had an interesting way of teaching us about honor and respect. He told us that every time a referee handed us the ball to shoot free throws in a game, we were to look him in the eye and say,
“Thank you, sir.”
Every time. It didn’t matter if we were ahead or behind, or if that same ref had made every bad call in the history of the game to that point. When we stood at that line and got the ball, we told him thank you. And we called him sir, because we would give respect even if it wasn’t deserved.
A lot has changed since my middle school years, both personally and culturally. Children don’t call adults by Mr. and Mrs. anymore and respect for authority can sometimes be hard to find. Not surprisingly, I didn’t go on to a career in the NBA or any other professional sport. But I have grown up with a strong desire to play my part and to honor those around me to the best of my ability.
And if we’re ever playing basketball sometime in the future and you foul me, I’ll quietly step to the free throw line, and when you throw me the ball, you’ll probably hear me say, “Thank you, sir.”
All because a coach put me on the team.
