I sat on the bench. And loved every minute of it.
Over the course of five consecutive Novembers in the late 1990s I was part of a touring basketball team. While I didn’t actually suit-up and take the court, I did take my place at the end of the bench prior to tip-off. For someone who grew up loving the game – yet, lacking the talent necessary to play at a high level – this was as close as I was going to get. But, it was fantastic.
Prior to tip-off, my job was logistics. I was in charge of two very important items – a cassette tape and a flag. It was my responsibility to make sure the cassette was cued to just the right place on the tape so that the team’s national anthem was ready to go when the sound-guy pushed “play”. As for the flag, this needed to be hung in a prominent, yet, easy to reach location.
Every arena had people ready to help with such details. Nonetheless, instructions relayed from one staff member to another occasionally resulted in the wrong song being played or the flag being hung upside down. The latter was easy to do since many European countries feature a simple tri-color motif. So, it’s not always obvious as to which way is up. The key is to correct the error before the anthem is played.
But, for the most part, arena staff were pretty good about getting the details right. And the teams were fairly easy-going when things didn’t go exactly as planned. So, when it came time to honor the visiting team prior to tip-off, international incidents were, fortunately, kept to a minimum.
After tip-off, my role was limited. I cheered the good plays, gave words of encouragement when things didn’t go so well and politely reminded the refs to call the game fair at both ends. Afterwards I patted some backs and offered consolation. Usually, lots of consolation.
One game in particular turned out to be a heartbreaker. After suffering a string of sizeable defeats, the chance to finally celebrate a win rested on converting a breakaway layup in the closing seconds. It’s the type of shot basketball players successfully execute at a subconscious – maybe even unconscious – level.
But, occasionally, things go awry. So it was in this case as the ball was projected towards the backboard with just a little too much enthusiasm causing it to ricochet off the glass at a very unfortunate trajectory. As if in slow-motion, it glanced off the front rim and fell hopelessly to the floor just as the buzzer rang up another loss.
A loss is a loss. But, a one-point loss hurts more than a 20-point loss. Of course, shots were missed by everyone throughout the entire game. In fact, there were a number of moments during the 40-minute contest that could have changed the outcome. But, a missed layup at the buzzer sent Coach into low-earth orbit.
It’s common for the host team to arrange post-game pizza for their foreign guests. As we sat in the training room tepidly picking pepperoni off a slice of tomato-stained cardboard, all was quiet – except Coach. It was clear to anyone within earshot he was not a happy camper as he berated the team in their native tongue.
Then, switching to English, he called the team “losers”. Everyone understood the insult was clearly intended to embarrass them in front of the tour leader.
Coach and I got along well. I appreciated his talent and dedication as well as his good humor. But, in this moment, I drew a line – maybe I stepped over it a bit. Anyway, I thought the characterization was uncalled for. So, without hesitation or thought, I barked out a few words rebutting the veracity of his assertion.
Of course, it was not my place to say anything at all. Maybe his slice of cardboard was getting cold. But, to his credit, he let my faux pas pass.
