Let’s Have a Shot

It is a very late on a Halloween Friday night. I am in hotel room somewhere in the far reaches of the Western Upper Peninsula. I’m not even sure of what town, village, or settlement I’m in. If that sounds far fetched… well you’ve never been in the Western Upper Peninsula. To be brutally honest, I’m pretty miserable.

No one wants to read incessant complaining. So we will keep things brief and somewhat literary. One of my favorite books in high school was Chinua Achebe’s seminal African novel Things Fall Apart. While I’m by no means opposing colonialism or the introduction of religion. To summarize Okonkwo’s plight…. a lot of things are not going well right now.

If the topic of this piece seems random or personal. I will lodge this brief complaint. I am currently banned from my preferred social media platform. An email I did not recognize logged into my account and I have been suspended for “inauthentic activity”. Still not entirely sure what that means. I guess my only response to being labeled “inauthentic”, is write something “authentic” for the small number of people who might read it.

Miserable was perhaps too strong of an adjective to start with. I hope it is apparent from my work and countenance at events. I truly enjoy and am blessed by my unique occupation. I get the privilege of covering high school sports. I am in the far reaches of the Upper Peninsula for my broadcasting job where I covered the MHSAA football playoffs.

The team I cover played well against one of the top ranked teams in the state. No running clock, they were competitive through three quarters. UP nice is a real thing. I can’t say enough about how accommodating and professional the athletic staff in Menominee was. I enjoyed the broadcast and did not have any technical issues (which has been rare of late)

I apologize for the parentheses, I said I wasn’t going to complain anymore. Let’s get to it. As I go to bed on this hallowed evening. I feel a strange sense peace and satisfaction in the midst of the mess I am currently wading through. Why, it has nothing to do with anything being resolved. It has to do with a brief respite and reminder about what really matters.

The genesis of our journey begins with another very brief complaint. I like to think I’m pretty good with the written word. I know I am not good with numbers. This matters because if you are not familiar with the hamlet of Menominee. I was traveling to the Central time zone for my game. I do this often for AAU coverage. However if you can follow the bouncing ball. The kind people of Menominee start their games on the time zone of the traveling team. Once again UP nice is real.

For most mere mortals, these shifting hours do not pose a computation problem. For your arithmetically challenged narrator, this was a bridge too far. It might as well have been Calculus. As I consulted my abacus and sundials on Thursday night. I came to a brilliant solution for my elementary math problem.

Six hours of travel with uncertainty about what time the game actually starts? I’m just going to leave when I get up in the morning. Stay with me, this deep and novel thought is important to our story. You see I was not alone on this trip. My 17 year old daughter was with me. This is rare. She has her own car, and is at the age where hanging out with Dad is no longer the ideal social pairing.

However when you combine a six hour drive with current gas prices. Pops becomes a slightly better option. Let’s not get overly sentimental. This was more about seeing her friends play their last high school game. I highly doubt she was looking forward to being regaled with the history of Escanaba and the declining Upper Peninsula iron industry. What can I say, I know how to show someone a good time. I was essentially a more familiar and cheaper Uber service at this point of our journey.

It was a peaceful and uneventful drive up to basically suburban Green Bay. While I was pleased with my time zone “solution”. To say I was early would be understatement. I was essentially the first person at historic Bresch Field. The trick-or-treaters were not even out yet on the mean streets of Menominee.

Being early is not bad, but it is a pretty rare occurrence for yours truly. After getting into the press box and setting up my equipment. I was struck with what has been an unusual feeling of late. I promised no more complaining. But— everything worked fine. My internet connection was established cleanly and on the first try. Headsets were working, I hadn’t forgotten any important equipment in my car. Perhaps the sun was beginning to shine on your battered and star crossed protagonist.

What was I supposed to do now? The press box and cavernous field were still eerily quiet. Nobody was even on the field yet. There had to be something to do? I disconnected and reestablished my broadcast connection for kicks and giggles. I started scanning the rosters and working on name pronunciations. I mean I’m a true professional here.

In the midst of my Marv Albert routine (look it up kids… well maybe not) I was distracted by something to my left just outside the stadium A pink basketball bouncing with a solitary shooter. The shooter looked quite familiar. As if I had not tortured my daughter enough on our rural sojourn. She was now alone in an empty stadium. Her friends were still probably a few hours away from arrival.

Seeing my daughter shoot is not a rare thing. She is getting ready for her first year of full time varsity basketball. She knows it is going to be adjustment. She maturely identified what she needed to do get better. And like any good modern American sports parent I— I paid someone else to do it.

Now don’t get me wrong. Trainers are great. This is the world and sports ecosystem I live in. I was able to get her one of the best trainers in the state. I don’t regret one dime or second of it. However I was struck on that Friday night as I squinted to watch her shoot. I couldn’t remember that last time that I simply just shot baskets with her.

If you are well versed in sports cinema. You probably know what the title of this piece is referencing. A sentimental moment in the tear jerking baseball classic Field of Dreams. The scene involves a deceased father returning through a cornfield to ask his son if he wants to “have a catch”. While I am referencing that, leave your tissues on the shelf. I’m not going to exaggerate and make this instance that dramatic.

For starters, I’m not dead. Almost happened once. Really altered my life. However if you are regular reader. You know because of this unfortunate occurrence. I’ve had plenty of time to spend with my kids. This isn’t going to be some Harry Chapin “Cats in the Cradle” lament.

In spite of all the time and perspective I’ve been afforded. The driveway hoop at my house still has a net that hanging on by one loop. I haven’t taken the time to fix it. My kids are busy shooting in other locations. That pang of realization struck me as I watched my daughter shoot.

I’ve already said this wasn’t a “Field of Dreams” moment. No moving orchestral score accompanied my long amble to the playground court. The press box had since filled up and was getting ready for the game. The iconic Australian composers simply known as AC/DC would have to serve as the backdrop for this cinematic moment.

As I “Back in Blacked” my way over the court. My daughter gave me a quizzical look. Once again we hadn’t done this in a while. I put my hands up then she passed the ball. A superior shooting display did not unfold. The picture at the top is a stock photo. However that is pretty much what our “Rim of Dreams” looked like.

Children of the 90’s understand what the above double rims meant. No dunking allowed. At least that what we told our delusional adolescent sleeves. In reality it meant you were shooting on a carnival hoop. Only a perfect shot goes in. Behind this relic. The sounds of the backboard rang out an ominous tone on impact that sounded like low register church bells. Let’s just say this was pretty devout shooting session.

However for those fifteen to twenty minutes. I wasn’t a social media banned recruiting scout. I wasn’t a distracted and stressed out broadcaster getting ready to do a schools first playoff game in over a decade. I was just a parent enjoying some quality time with his ever growing and nearly adult daughter.

After this I thought a lot about the litany of parents I spend most of the year working with. I wondered does “competitive” time equate to “quality” time. That is not meant as a judgement. I cannot I answer that question. All families are different. Personally I know I felt mild regret for not shooting more often with both of my kids.

Oddly enough I thought about Monty Williams (record scratch) Yep Monty Williams. I once wandered into an empty auxiliary gym on a Sunday morning in Fort Wayne Indiana. I was covering an AAU tournament his son was playing in. In a few short weeks Williams would be fired as the Detroit Pistons head coach. However on this day, away from the crowds and the Pistons historically bad season. He was just another father shooting with his son.

That is where most dreams start. If you are an athlete. A driveway or local park hoop often serves as the origin. I can’t count how many baseball players I have met who have saved their childhood glove. Beyond sports, ask tradesmen, musicians, or pick your vocation. You can never get back the time of playing and learning from your parent.

My son just got his learner’s permit to drive. While teaching him to drive was rewarding…. one last time, have I mentioned things have been a little stressful of late? However I was at fully at peace during this nondescript putrid fifteen minute shooting display. The results or shooting percentages didn’t matter. We didn’t compete for anything. We just spent time together. Time I can’t get back.

My team lost that night. I’m still banned from social media. The assortment of vehicular and technical problems plaguing my various operations did not change. However as I put my head on the pillow that night, I was ahead of the game. Father Time is a formidable and undefeated opponent. I got the better of him this night. He is going to win in the end. But I had a really strong third quarter. In that quarter, I remembered and cherished what was ultimately important.