Nothing But Iron: A Happy Enough Ending by Steven R. Lagman, M.D., C.A.S.W. March 15, 2009 I am supposed to be sad today. But I am not. This is the day after my son played his last game of high school basketball. It is the day after he missed the last shot, the one that would have sent his team to the state tournament. It is the day after tears and hugs and condolences from each other and from players and fans of the other team, which has made beating us a habit and trips to State routine. Last fall, when asked by a friend, I made an off-the-record prediction that the Edgewood Crusaders of 2008-2009 would probably be an average team. I new we had three capable senior starters, but I could not see the ways in which our underclassmen and reserves would contribute to the point of contending for a conference title. Over the years a number of key contributors from a once-dominant freshman team had quit, and because of baseball and jobs and vacations and other summer commitments, few of the starters had much off-season time together. I am sure that I probably added, but you never know, but I am not sure I felt the need for a disclaimer. In the span of the first month of play, the team had already suffered three losses. It seemed my prediction was fulfilling itself. Then that thing happened. I call it a thing for lack of a less nebulous word. It is the positive self-catalyzing thing that sometimes happens to teams for reasons that are often not clear. We have names for it: chemistry, gelling, momentum. None of these fully define or capture the transition from average to excellent, but the transition was made. From December 27th until the sectional final on March 14th, the Crusaders would lose just one game–an overtime loss to conference rival Monroe. It was the second time Monroe had beaten us in the regular season. With the defending Badger South champs two games up on us, I presumed that a conference title was out of the question. But I was wrong. With a little help and two tough wins to finish the season, Edgewood was crowned Badger South co-champion. The run of success continued. In what might have been the team’s best game of the year, we knocked of Waukesha Catholic Memorial with unexpected ease. WCM, seasoned by regular-season Division I foes, was considered by local journalists to be the favorite to reach state from our sectional. As expected, Monroe advanced on the other half of the bracket, setting up the rematch in the sectional final. One more shot at Monroe with a trip to state for the winner–there were few things we wanted more than that chance. And what a game it was, hosted by Sun Prairie High School, in a 1960's gym with fluorescent lights on low ceilings, seats filled from end line to end line. Radio announcers manned the media table. News camera men and photographers stood at the corners of the gym. Students opposite each team bench were adorned in jerseys and paint and silly glasses and shiny gold pants and doctored-up t-shirts. They screamed and cheered and clapped and competed with each other in adoration of their respective teams. The scene was made complete by the sight of my kid and his friends engaged in pre-game ritual. In order to make the most permanent imprint, I tried to absorb it with all five senses, although I never could taste it, and there wasn’t much smell to it until the players got sweaty. As was my routine, I roamed the baselines with my camera, harvesting memories in still photos and video. The role of self-designated team photographer was a good coping mechanism. It distracted me from the anxieties of being a dad whose son’s career might end within the hour. At times the intensity before me was mesmerizing to the point that I forgot my job, lapsing into a state of watching and hoping and urging with thoughts and facial contortions and subtle body language, then quickly chastising myself–Goddammit, keep your camera up!–for the shot that got away. On the strength of stellar play from its two junior starters, Edgewood led by as many as ten points, but Monroe closed the gap to end the half. Patrick was held to just three points on three shots and Derek, our leading scorer was not far ahead–an expected worthy defensive effort by Monroe. Monroe’s star, who scored at will against most teams, was held in check too, setting the tone for the defensive battle that would continue. I sent text messages to family and a couple friends: 26-22, up at half. At the break I double checked batteries and attached a wide angle lens to my back up camera in case of sudden celebration. In the second half we lost the lead, trailed by three with a couple minutes left. Patrick shot from the left wing. From my vantage point, screened by the defender, I could not tell if it was a foul or a block. Whistle. Foul. Shooting three. I moved away from the basket so he would not be distracted by me or the camera. He made the first. Monroe called time out. He made the second. The official handed him the ball for the third throw. The horn sounded for a substitution. Our coach yelled at one official for a reset, while the other official appeared to be counting out the ten seconds that Patrick had to complete the try. Rushing the shot, he missed off the back iron. It was one of those bizarre untimely distractions that occurs out of the chaos of the game. The irony was that the errant horn occurred at one of the game’s most quiet moments. But there was no time to dwell and, as we discussed later, no way of knowing how the game might have changed had a third free throw tied it then. With under a minute left a Monroe player missed the second of two free throws. Down two. Our ball. Time out. We in-bounded the ball with 11 seconds left. I smiled at Kelly in the stands and gave her the thumbs up. I felt sure destiny would do the right thing. The play was designed for Patrick. He came off screens, got the ball, reversed his dribble, shooting over the defender’s outstretched hand. So many times over the years I have seen him drain hard shots at the buzzer. Could there be just one more in him, I wondered as the shot approached the basket? It missed just left. There was a scrum for the rebound. For an instant Derek had it in his hands. Monroe’s star slapped it cleanly to the floor. He then tipped it out to the corner, where another guard cleared it across the time line. The horn sounded. Fans screamed. Players jumped. Fists pumped. Stands emptied. A trophy was raised. Their fans. Their players. Their fists. Their stands. Their trophy. Our guys watched the coveted celebration with hands on their heads. Tears in their eyes. Heaviness in their hearts. Within seconds our students chanted, "Thank you, seniors." Just like that, the season was over. There was more to capture, more to remember, but I could not bring myself to take another photo or another frame of video. I would have to remember the rest on my own. Consequently much of the rest was a haze of hugs–of mutual condolence and perspective-preserving congratulations: It was a great season (anyway). I don’t remember our players leaving the court, but when I looked up from talking to another parent they were gone. Moments later an assistant coach invited the senior dads to the locker room. I arrived in time to hear the head coach’s speech. He confessed that after the first game of the season, he felt a waning enthusiasm. He had told his wife he wasn’t sure he could coach much longer. "But you inspired me," he said to his players. "You made me want to keep doing this. I am proud of you." Those words stuck with me. The rest of his words blurred, as if the tears had found a way to well up in my auditory canals. He told the players that he loved them. I think he actually said it, but if not, the look on his face said it. There are few dads, especially of those who played and coached basketball themselves, who always agree with the ways of their son’s coaches. I thought back to times when I felt frustrated by Coach’s methods, but all I could feel at that moment was gratitude and admiration. It was the culmination of a realization that my son could do a lot worse than a coach who loved him, got him to within a shot of the state tournament and trusted him to be the one who took that shot. I walked the aisles of the locker room, hugging and congratulating the players, starting with my own son. We cried, but just a little. My voice broke, but just a little. I thanked Patrick for the opportunity to be his dad and his coach and for so many beautiful memories of my favorite sport that he happened to choose as his favorite sport too. He thanked me back. I made my way from player to player, many of whom I had coached in grade school or in summer leagues. They were all sad, but all gracious. When I had finished I found my son once more. He sat on a bench with his head down. I put my arm around him. He looked up at me, eyes and face red. And then he smiled. It was a smile that calmed me. It told me he had the strength to overcome this adversity, which made me hopeful that he would survive the ones that will follow, as they do from time to time in life. Like my son, and his mom, and grandparents and his teammates and coaches and uncles and friends following from afar, I so wish the last shot would have fallen. But it did not. It would be easy enough to dwell on that, but against the back drop of so many positives, I cannot. There was this team that might have been average, but instead cut down nets on the night it won a share of conference. There was this group of kids, some of whom were once rivals at competing grade schools, who became friends who would never blame, never abandon, never forget one another. There was this thrilling display of the vitality of youth–young men with resilient minds and strong bodies capable of sometimes-astounding physical feats. There was this joy of success, and despite the pain of defeat, this realization that few could go where we went last night. Last and foremost, there was this sense that, for these good kids, more good things would come. Epilogue: About a week ago Patrick invited me to play free throw baseball. We spent about an hour shooting in the gym. Free throw baseball is a game I had invented in order to simulate high pressure situations during free throw practice. There are nine innings. In each half-inning, a player shoots a one-and-one. If he converts, he gets a second try. The winner is the one with the most points at the bottom of the ninth (or extra innings if necessary). On the way home from last night’s game I received this text message from Patrick: I 4got 2 tell u. I was envisioning free throw baseball wen I was shooting those first 2 fts. When I saw him later I thanked him for the message: "Yeah," he said. "I imagined you standing on the block." I am still smiling about that. _____________ Nothing But Iron is an amateur sports column. ©2009 DrTM Enterprises. All rights reserved, including the right to be pretty happy about how things turned out.