Our 6-year-old Ben has never really shown much interest in sports. Sure Ben will tag along if one of his brothers is playing in a game and he will reluctantly participate in whatever sport we think might interest him. Eventually he seems happy to be there. Just happy to be there. Bopping along, not a care in the world, or much of a care in the game that’s taking place around him.
At this weekend’s basketball games, I realized some of it might be me. As a family, watching Kindergarten basketball is a bit (how shall I put this kindly) painful. Final scores of 4-2. 70% of the kids not getting it… at all. Now, as our third child has entered this routine, a bit of parental exhaustion has begun to set in.
To his credit however, Ben does hustle back and forth down the court. He does not do much when he gets to the other end, besides standing in front of his teammate who has the ball saying “Gimme” with outstretched hands, which seems to be Ben’s entire strategy on offense. He does however consistently hustle back and forth. That’s something. Ben hustle is also more productive than his teammate, who once drove to the basket, shot the ball which hit the rim and bounced straight back, while he fell flat on his back. As Ben’s 11-year-old brother Jacob would say with great emphasis, “Epic fail!” This team is not exactly a dynasty in the making. Plus, Ben’s hustle does count as a type of aerobic activity for the child so skinny that clothing seems to drape over his beanpole frame. Sort of a jogging scarecrow, that’s our Ben.
Any who, there we were at our youngest’s basketball game and this happened to be the week where they hand out the photos to the parents. We have gotten pretty good at ordering the standard photo package with the team and an individual shot to place on the mantel until the season is over. Of course, as soon as we are handed Ben’s photos, a minimum of six hands reached for them. Ben’s two hands, because he wanted to see how he looked. The four hands (total, not per child, although I’m sure they would use their feet as hands at the dinner table, if allowed) of his two brothers, who apparently just want to place their grubby fingerprints on Ben’s photos and make sure he does not look better than them. Also, his brothers, I am sure, just want the sheer joy to removing something from their little brother’s hands. Eventually someone ended up with the photos and we headed for the coatrack. Another morning of Kindergarten basketball at the Y Center complete, time for a nap.
Fast forward to Sunday evening, approximately 36 hours after the weekend’s Kindergarten basketball funfest. Sitting in front of the fireplace, allowing my body to adjust to its large intake of Super Bowl watching chicken wings, I gazed above the fireplace. There were Ben’s older brother Sam’s basketball photos proudly displayed, but where were Ben’s? I checked with my wife and neither of us could remember the photos actually entering our house. After a few seconds of brainstorming, we guessed that the AWOL photos must be resting in one of three places. 1) the car. The frequent landing spot for things that once interested our children, but lose their shiny glow, when the children realize they must now carry the item of interest all the way into the house. 2) somewhere in a child’s room. Perhaps stuffed in a closet amongst action figures, shoes, and old Happy Meal toys. 3) at the Y Center. Sad, neglected, and sitting in a Lost and Found box. Monday, we vowed to find the answer, as I continued to rest from my chicken wing over indulgence.
Monday morning came. As I put away clothing, I noticed the absence of any basketball photos hiding in a boy’s room. Heading to the gym, I looked around inside the car. Nope, nothing but sundry trash found strewn across the backseat. After my workout, I headed to get my coat and there, sitting all alone, facedown, abandoned, unloved, were little Ben’s basketball photos. For 50-plus hours, they had sat there. Discarded like trash. Ignored by hundreds of Y Center members. Overlooked by Y Center staff and volunteers. Forgotten by their family. Was this any way to treat my son’s photos? Lay on the parental guilt. Lay it on heavy. I was a bad daddy. A very bad daddy.
Placing Ben’s photos on the fireplace mantel, I reminded myself that although I am experiencing Kindergarten basketball exhaustion, this is little Ben’s first go around. Get over yourself dad and make this a special time for your youngest, lest he feel like an abandoned photo package, lost and neglected atop a Y Center coatrack.
On the bright side, I wonder if this is how youngest brother Eli Manning got his start. Not likely.
Ben. Perhaps, he could just forget about playing sports and just go into sports modeling, instead.