Things I Still Own - part 1

On Wednesday night I had Charlotte to myself for a couple of hours, and I was trying hard to keep our dog inside the house. The neighbor behind us was working in his back yard, and Maggie hates that guy. I don't know why, but every time Mags sees his bald head, she sprints back and forth across our backyard barking and kicking up dirt.

By the time she relents and agrees to come inside, her paws are caked with mud. Char makes a big enough mess for me to clean up. I didn't need mud all over, too.

To keep Mags quiet and happy while I was playing with Char, I tried to sneak up stairs to make Magie's favorite treat: a rubber Kong filled to the brim with peanut butter.

"What are you doing, Daddy?"

"Getting Maggie's Kong ready."

"Can I help give it to hur?" Charlotte's at an age where she wants to help do things for Maggie, and she thinks it's fun to throw treats at her dog.

"Sure you can help," I replied while I walked downstairs, "Here, just put this by Maggie's feet." I handed the Kong to Char and pointed to a spot on the floor about a foot from us. Char swung her arm towards Mags, but instead of tossing the chew toy forward, she released it on the back swing. The Kong flew from her hard and somersaulted down the stairs leading to the basement. With every bounce, the toy spurted globs of peanut butter on the walls, the carpet, and the basement's ceiling. 

Char wailed, "Oh, nooooo! Maggie's treatnut budder went downstairs!",  and I mentally said a lot of words ending in "ing".

Actually, I shouldn't have been surprised.

Charlotte's my daughter, and I have the athletic ability of a brick wall. Throw me a ball, and the only way you'll get it back is if the ball hits me squarely in the chest and bounces back in your direction. Sure, I participated in high school sports, but the only thing I ever caught was crap from my friends for missing another pass. Like Char, I can't throw with any accuracy, either.

So, it may come as a surprise that I have a basketball championship trophy. Here it is on top of my bookshelf:

Let's look closer.

I was in 6th grade in 1981. Against my protests, my parents signed me up for a winter basketball camp. Practices were held Saturday mornings in our elementary gym. If you've seen the first half of the movie Hoosiers, then you have seen that gym. After six weekends of tripping over painted lines, dribbling the ball off my foot, and being stymied by the mystery that is the five man fast break, I found myself on a team entered in the YMCA Tri-State Basketball Tournament. Oh great, instead of embarrassing myself in front of my friends, I could do it in front of strangers.

The first game was on a Friday night, and I don't remember anything except being secretly disappointed that we won. Once again, I'd have to get up early and suck at basketball on another Saturday morning.

The second game was in Brandon, South Dakota. Since there was a chance we might make it to the third and final round, there was more pressure on the coaches to use their good players. That counted me and about four other guys out. I know I saw some game time, but I was on the bench when Jon Neff, who normally sat out the game next to me, wrestled the ball away from an opposing player and then missed a layup into the other team's basket. Our good players hung their heads in disgust, but the bench riders pointed and laughed because it wasn't us out there.

The final game was at the Sioux Falls YMCA, and I can mentally see the photo taken after our "team" victory. We were each given a trophy and then told to line ourselves up in front of the wall mat. The five guys in the middle of the group were drenched in sweat, and as you visually worked your way outward the pit stains on the shirts grew smaller and smaller. I was on the far left and dry as a bone.

So why do I still have a trophy for a victory I had no part of? I found it while cleaning out my mom's storage unit this past summer, and holding it again put a big smile on my face. It's fun remembering what a disaster I was, and Jon running the ball the wrong way is still funny, but that's not why I keep it.

In my home town, guys had to play sports to be socially accepted. It was a rite of passage.

So for me, this isn't a trophy for winning a basketball tournament. This is a trophy for surviving junior high and high school sports. It's my "been there, done that, and never gonna do it again" trophy.

Thank God those days are over.

PS. http://aol.sportingnews.com/sport/story/2012-11-16/wrong-basket-video-belgian-basketball?icid=maing-grid7|netscape|dl2|sec1_lnk3%26pLid%3D235607