“Watching third-grade girls play basketball is one of the funniest things you’ll ever see,” said my friend Jennifer, when I mentioned that my youngest daughter had joined the school team. I looked at her, surprised. I have a son who is five years older than Kira, and I have been attending his basketball games for years. The games are fast, exciting, and often nerve-wracking, but never spectacularly funny. “You’ll see,” Jennifer said, chuckling in reminiscence. “It’s just that most of them have never played before.”
It was true. Kira had seen plenty of school basketball games, having been dragged along for years because she was too young to stay home alone. But she had never actually played basketball. And neither, apparently, had most of the rest of the girls on her team.
Two moms, both younger and braver than I, volunteered to coach. The team was named The Flying Squirrels, in honor of our school mascot. My contribution involved buying Kira two pairs of athletic shorts on sale, and a pair of sneakers that were not pink, and had not previously been worn by her older sister.
I caught only a little bit of the team practice, but what I saw looked promising. The girls were scrimmaging five on five, running all over the court with great enthusiasm. Passing was a big event, with teammates calling the ball-holder by name and waving wildly, as if trying to get the popular girl to sit next to them at lunch. Ponytails bounced, bare legs flashed, and high-pitched voices ricocheted off the gym walls.
Several weeks later, it was time for the Squirrels' first real game. The rec center was packed. Kids in uniforms huddled around coaches waiting for a court, while smaller kids clutching juice boxes milled about in search of parents, their games finished. Yells, pounding sneakers, referee whistles and period-ending buzzers cut through the air.
Our game was in the front half of the gym, which was further divided into two short basketball courts. All the girls were excited, chattering and squirming on the bench. Our coaches bent their heads together, consulted clipboards, and sent five girls from our team onto the court. The referee, an older man with wild eyebrows and a rim of erect white hair guarding a shiny bald center, called for the tip-off. Our tallest Flying Squirrel, and a girl from the Other team, faced off. The ref tossed the ball up.
And confusion reigned. The ball moved up, down, and out of the court, only occasionally under the control of a player. Dribbling involved one, both, or alternating hands, and was sometimes skipped completely. Most of the girls stayed in a tight pack, swarming around whoever had the ball. Passes looped up in the air and fell into the arms of the other team, shots missed the backboard, rim and net, and baskets were few.
As the game progressed, it became clear that the Other team had at least a few experienced players. A couple of girls had begun moving with authority, making bounce passes, and spinning their shots. By contrast, when a Squirrel got the ball, she seemed uncertain about what to do. Trying to be helpful, the ref would lean in, make exaggerated bouncing motions with his hand, and point in the direction she should run.
Then, as the girls stampeded towards the basket just in front of me, one of the Other girls took a shot. She missed, and a fortuitously-positioned Squirrel nabbed the rebound. As she stood, momentarily contemplating this turn of events, the Other girl snatched the ball back, and put up another shot. Outraged, the Squirrel stood motionless, hands still outstretched. Her face was clear. “Did you see that? She just took my ball!”
The scenario repeated, with different players. Once, a Squirrel had the ball, and an Other girl reached out and put her hands around it. Rather than wrestle it away, the Squirrel looked astonished, then after a brief impasse, shoved the ball at the Other girl. “Fine, if you want it that badly, take it!” her eyes flashed.
The parents laughed, groaned, and shouted advice. One mother had her face in her hands. When I saw a group of Squirrels standing under the basket, waiting patiently for an Other girl to finish shooting so that it would be their turn to have the ball, I finally put the whole thing together.
“Play nicely,” we had been telling our girls for years. “Share.” “Take turns.” Basketball was a complete paradigm shift, and they were utterly unprepared.
There have been three more games since that first afternoon. The Squirrels are starting to catch on. One of them actually fouled another player in the last game, the true sign of someone playing hard. Kira is still hanging back, waiting for a "turn," that isn't coming. So tomorrow, I’m going to go outside, and teach my nice girl how to steal.
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