Going to go back into the way back files with this one. This story comes from my eighth grade year of basketball. Hell, I'm surprised I remember back that far. But it's just one of those stories you don't easily forget.
Let me start it off by saying my dad has been my coach for a good portion of my life. He was my coach in fifth, sixth and eighth grade as well as an assistant coach my sophomore and junior years and head coach my senior year of high school.
To say that me and my dad had a rocky coach/player relationship to start out my childhood might be understated just a bit. My dad is an old school guy (62 going on 63 at the time of this blog post). As a high school coach when I was growing up in the early 90s, my dad was a yeller. He would get techs from time to time and got into his players a little bit.
And me growing up around the team, was also subject to that when it came to basketball. During my fifth and sixth grade years, timeout huddles would often turn into screaming matches between me and my dad. I felt he was always talking to me personally in those huddles (even though he was mad at the whole team) and I took offense to that at times.
Needless to say that it happened a ton of times between those two years to the point where my mom had enough. Always the voice of reason, she finally forced us to sit down and talk these things out before he coached me my eighth grade year. And we reconciled and had a healthy player/coach relationship after that.
That still didn't stop him from being a yeller as a coach. He expected us to play the best and the hardest we could and when he didn't see that on the floor he would tear into us a little bit.
Well this is a story of one of those said times that was frightening and yet quite funny at the same time.
We were playing a Saturday morning league in Gilman, Wisconsin in the tiniest of tiny middle school gyms. It was one of those three team deals where you would play two games against the teams that were scheduled to be at the gym that day.
Gilman's eighth grade team was a pretty good one (most of those guys went on to play in a state tournament game their senior year of high school). Us on the other hand, we were plenty raw outside of me and not incredibly talented.
So we took the floor and I get the ball, being one of the only ones in my grade who could handle the ball, brought it up the court.
What do I see? The defense that I love to hate that I love. A 1-3-1 defense.
As a pure basketball guy, if I had the horses, I would run the crap out of a 1-3-1 defense. The concept of it, if done right is just awesome.
Me growing up though? Being one of maybe two guys on the team that could actually handle it? I HATED facing a 1-3-1. Hated in eighth grade, hated it even in high school.
Well that's what I see when I bring the ball up the court. Dad tells us from the sideline to try and get into a 2-1-2 offense to break it.
Doesn't work out so well. I toss a terrible pass and it gets picked off for a layup on the other end.
This happened few times down the court. We were so discombobulated that we couldn't get into a 2-1-2. Dad calls time out. He tells us where we need to be calmly and we think we have it down.
Nope.
The same things continue to happen. I keep taking the ball down the middle against the defense (like an idiot) instead of off to one side.
Three more steals and layups later. Here comes another timeout. And you could feel Dad was probably going to go off. But no one on our team expected what happened next.
We gathered around and he dropped his clipboard on to the ground from a high height. It let out a loud crack that sounded our impending doom.
Dad ripped the cap off of his marker and as loud as he could:
"WE HAVE TO HAVE A GUY HERE, HERE, HERE, HERE AND HERE!!!!!!!!!!!"
With each "HERE" the marker was jammed into the spots on the board that indicated where we should be in the 2-1-2 with a stabbing motion, adding to the piercing sound of pop's voice.
I'm pretty sure if you walked out of that gym and down one of the hallways at Gilman, you still could have heard Dad.
My teammates and I all looked at each other like ghosts. I think we all crapped our pants when he said that.
If memory serves me correctly, nothing else was said during that time out. We just stood around as he looked at each one of us for about 15 seconds. Dad then picked up the clipboard and put it on the bench and we went out and started playing again.
The funniest part of the story was Dad breaking the marker, then calmly, as we head back out to play, looking back at my mom and asking for another marker. Mom just rolled her eyes and got out another one.
We ended up losing big but played better after that and actually broke the 1-3-1 a couple of times, thanks to being in those five spots of a 2-1-2.
I can now look back on that day and laugh about it, and me and my friends do quite often. It's just one of those memories that you can't delete. Thanks, Dad.
Let me start it off by saying my dad has been my coach for a good portion of my life. He was my coach in fifth, sixth and eighth grade as well as an assistant coach my sophomore and junior years and head coach my senior year of high school.
To say that me and my dad had a rocky coach/player relationship to start out my childhood might be understated just a bit. My dad is an old school guy (62 going on 63 at the time of this blog post). As a high school coach when I was growing up in the early 90s, my dad was a yeller. He would get techs from time to time and got into his players a little bit.
And me growing up around the team, was also subject to that when it came to basketball. During my fifth and sixth grade years, timeout huddles would often turn into screaming matches between me and my dad. I felt he was always talking to me personally in those huddles (even though he was mad at the whole team) and I took offense to that at times.
Needless to say that it happened a ton of times between those two years to the point where my mom had enough. Always the voice of reason, she finally forced us to sit down and talk these things out before he coached me my eighth grade year. And we reconciled and had a healthy player/coach relationship after that.
That still didn't stop him from being a yeller as a coach. He expected us to play the best and the hardest we could and when he didn't see that on the floor he would tear into us a little bit.
Well this is a story of one of those said times that was frightening and yet quite funny at the same time.
We were playing a Saturday morning league in Gilman, Wisconsin in the tiniest of tiny middle school gyms. It was one of those three team deals where you would play two games against the teams that were scheduled to be at the gym that day.
Gilman's eighth grade team was a pretty good one (most of those guys went on to play in a state tournament game their senior year of high school). Us on the other hand, we were plenty raw outside of me and not incredibly talented.
So we took the floor and I get the ball, being one of the only ones in my grade who could handle the ball, brought it up the court.
What do I see? The defense that I love to hate that I love. A 1-3-1 defense.
As a pure basketball guy, if I had the horses, I would run the crap out of a 1-3-1 defense. The concept of it, if done right is just awesome.
Me growing up though? Being one of maybe two guys on the team that could actually handle it? I HATED facing a 1-3-1. Hated in eighth grade, hated it even in high school.
Well that's what I see when I bring the ball up the court. Dad tells us from the sideline to try and get into a 2-1-2 offense to break it.
Doesn't work out so well. I toss a terrible pass and it gets picked off for a layup on the other end.
This happened few times down the court. We were so discombobulated that we couldn't get into a 2-1-2. Dad calls time out. He tells us where we need to be calmly and we think we have it down.
Nope.
The same things continue to happen. I keep taking the ball down the middle against the defense (like an idiot) instead of off to one side.
Three more steals and layups later. Here comes another timeout. And you could feel Dad was probably going to go off. But no one on our team expected what happened next.
We gathered around and he dropped his clipboard on to the ground from a high height. It let out a loud crack that sounded our impending doom.
Dad ripped the cap off of his marker and as loud as he could:
"WE HAVE TO HAVE A GUY HERE, HERE, HERE, HERE AND HERE!!!!!!!!!!!"
With each "HERE" the marker was jammed into the spots on the board that indicated where we should be in the 2-1-2 with a stabbing motion, adding to the piercing sound of pop's voice.
I'm pretty sure if you walked out of that gym and down one of the hallways at Gilman, you still could have heard Dad.
My teammates and I all looked at each other like ghosts. I think we all crapped our pants when he said that.
If memory serves me correctly, nothing else was said during that time out. We just stood around as he looked at each one of us for about 15 seconds. Dad then picked up the clipboard and put it on the bench and we went out and started playing again.
The funniest part of the story was Dad breaking the marker, then calmly, as we head back out to play, looking back at my mom and asking for another marker. Mom just rolled her eyes and got out another one.
We ended up losing big but played better after that and actually broke the 1-3-1 a couple of times, thanks to being in those five spots of a 2-1-2.
I can now look back on that day and laugh about it, and me and my friends do quite often. It's just one of those memories that you can't delete. Thanks, Dad.
***
Thanks for joining me for another Story Time With Terry. You can always follow along on Twitter at @turkdigg40 and don't be shy about sending me your own stories. Be sure to tune in next week.
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