Finding our way in competitive basketball

When I spotted the flyer for the Menasha boys basketball club at registration, I snapped one up for Ben, thinking this could be just the opportunity for my b-ball-adoring guy. Ben is one of those boys who loves every sport, and shooting hoops has recently taken the No. 1 spot in his heart.

After Mark attended the informational meeting, it became clear this would be no casual engagement. Ben would practice two nights a week, and he already had a fairly full schedule. Though this gave me pause, my oldest boy's enthusiasm remained, so we went for it. Since mid-October, Ben's been attending two 90-minute weeknight practices, and the past two Saturdays, his team has played three games each day - a whopping five-hour time commitment. I don't love sports, but I do love watching my kids play. Still, this has been a lot.

It soon became clear that Ben is a little out of his depth. Yes, he's younger than all of the kids and a good head shorter than many, but the majority of the other boys have been playing in this league for years, and this is Ben's first time. As a result, Ben, for all intents and purposes, has been assigned to the C squad, the bottom tier of his 15-player team. I don't have any quibbles with this. I understand that it must work this way. Ben's gotten to the age where sports become more competitive.

And yet. It's hard to see Ben struggle with his position on the team. He understands full well his place, and it's a blow to his ego. Ben got all of about 90 seconds of play in each half of the game I watched on Saturday. I can understand how that must be so frustrating for him. You can't play because you're not good enough; you can't get better because you're not getting any playing time. I was beginning to worry that competitiveness may just strip Ben of his love of the game. Is this experience really more gratifying than just shooting hoops in the driveway?

Ben's team lost all three of its games two Saturdays ago. After the game, Ben was in tears both as a result of the defeat and because apparently the coach told Ben's group, the C squad, that they didn't even look like they wanted to be there. Right there, the mama grizzly emerged. Who was he to say that to my kid? Surely he wasn't saying MY son didn't want to be there. Ben is all heart, mother_____. (There's an obscure "Jerry Maguire" reference for you.) But seriously, I bet you'd be hard-pressed to find a kid who wants to be there more, who has a purer love of the game.

I'm coming to grips with the fact that my nurturing instincts are at odds with the tougher world of boys (and girls?) sports. Where Ben's coach aims to fire up the team with some provocative words, I'd prefer to give each losing boy a hug and a cookie.

I'd better get used to all of this if Ben is to continue competing. Maybe, just maybe, boys need both - the coach that pushes them toward becoming men, tougher competitors, and the mom who's waiting with a hug and some gentle encouragement.