In the fall of 1978, I was back in Texas after spending most of the previous 18 months in Kentucky, Michigan and North Carolina. While working at yet another meaningless job, I decided to offer my services as a basketball coach. Somehow I learned that the Farmer's Branch YMCA had a league for 11-year-old boys. One team lacked a coach, so I was it. The name of our team, the Green Hornets, derived from the 1930s radio program about a masked, good-guy vigilante. The Green Hornet was made into films and television shows in later decades. Batman, an egregious rip-off of the Green Hornet, became far more popular, but that has nothing to do with our story.
I can recall the names of just a few players on the team: Louis, Danny, Drew, Shane and Eric. The latter was the only black kid, whereas the others were European American. We practiced in the gym of an elementary school in Farmer’s Branch. Our initial practice was notable for two things. First, while I was addressing the boys, some of the mothers were chatting—a bit too loudly in my opinion. I surely did not mind their presence, but they had to know I was trying to forge a winning basketball team. I stopped my little speech, looked at them and said just one word: “Ladies.” It was a gentle chastening, and they understood. There were no more such problems.
The second thing I wanted to emphasize to my players was how we would approach a game. I taught them a simple but striking pre-game routine. They entered the gym by circling the court in a counter-clockwise direction, the lead kid dribbling a ball, with about 10 feet separating them. Only when they had done two laps were they allowed to start taking shots at the basket. This may not have rivaled the Harlem Globetrotters’ “Sweet Georgia Brown” routine, but it was ours. It gave our team an identity.
The practices consisted of a few drills and a lot of five-on-five scrimmaging with me as the referee. I pushed the boys at times, reminding them that they would win more games if they were in shape. I had ample teaching opportunities, and they were not limited to hoops. If I had to stop practice and give an impromptu lecture about cooperation and respect, that's what I did. When they got distracted or squabbled about silly things, it fell upon me to provide order and direction.
Shane was clearly our best player, and I seldom substituted for him. But I was determined to rotate the others as much as possible. Everybody got to play, and in some crucial games we had a weak player or two out on the court. When the pressure was on, they always did well.
We won enough games to get into the playoffs. Our first post-season game—if that does not sound too pretentious for fifth-grade YMCA kids—was also a victory. I remember it well. Louis was a lefty and a good shooter, so when he had the ball in his hands and was open I would holler out, “Up, Louie!” He heard that encouragement from Coach on the bench, and he would jack it up. We were behind by two points, and Drew hit a big shot just before the buzzer to tie the game and send it into overtime. As a gathering of maybe 75 people screamed like crazy, I went out on the court and spontaneously picked up him and carried him back to the bench. The young man was so excited, he almost hyperventilated.
We ended up winning that game but lost in the finals against a much better team. Our season was over. I spoke to the boys before saying goodbye, at which time the parents indicated we were not through yet. They had something for me—a gift certificate to a sporting goods store, I believe—and said how much they appreciated my efforts that season.
Long live the Green Hornets!
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