March Madness
We are down to the Sweet Sixteen now in the annual rite of Spring known as March Madness. Sixteen NCAA schools are still alive and in the running for the National Championship which will be decided in the next few days.
Back in the old days, before color TV and ESPN, this same tournament was held each year, with very little notice from anyone outside those whose teams were actually competing. Today with the magic of marketing, and the explosion of the media and communications age, you'd have to be hiding under a rock to not be aware of this athletic drama that is being played out on the national stage.
It's interesting how one can take the same event that amounted to not much more than a hill of beans, worthy of very little media coverage a couple of decades ago, then give it a "hook", as in March Madness, Sweet Sixteen, Elite Eight, and Final Four, and turn it into a national event with the sports media pushing it to a fever pitch. It seems the green industry has figured out that the same formula can work for us too.
But we all know that. Let's get down to something more personal. I was tuned in to this tournament long before it had all the glitz and glitter that it has today. My father put up a basketball goal for me when I was probably 8 or 9 years old. There was no backboard. The goal was nailed to the side of our barn. So actually, I guess you could say that the entire south side of our barn was my backboard. Ever heard the expression, "He couldn't hit the broad side of a barn ?" They were talking about me.
The goal wasn't set at the regulation 10 feet. It was probably more like 6-7 feet, much more suitable for a youngster of my tender age. The ground sloped off pretty sharply on the left, so I could get a nice workout on missed shots that caromed off to that side, which made me much more focused on making my shots.
By the 8th grade (what an awkward age that was), I was inching closer to the day when I would actually attempt to be a high school basketball player. I knew my father was a good player back in his day and I knew he loved the sport, so it became imperative for me to follow in his footsteps. There was no doubt that my father was a good player because he taught me how to shoot and I spent the greater part of my youth trying to beat him in a game of Horse.
By the 8th grade, my after school hours were spent hanging out at the high school team practices at the gym, doing anything I could to prepare myself for a possible future as a basketball player. I was happy just to be allowed to be there, to run down loose balls, watch and listen and soak up anything and everything I could.
And that's where I learned this particular lesson. One day, after a rather embarrassing loss, I was privy to a royal chewing out of the high school team. Coach was extremely upset. To this day, I'm surprised he didn't run me out before the tirade, because what he told the high school guys was nothing short of a fanny kicking not suitable for anyone outside the team.
There was one part that I will never forget.
I don't think any individual was spared,
but there was one player that particularly caught his ire. Coach looked at this guy, and said something to the effect of "Where were You! I could have sworn I put you in the game! But I look at the scorecard and by your name it's all BLANK! No points, No missed shots, No made shots, No rebounds, No fouls, No bad passes, No foul shots. No turnovers!
Do something good or do something bad,
but my God, do something!
Let somebody know you were there!!"
I was so glad it wasn't me that Coach was scorching and you better believe it made a lasting impression on a shy young man. I determined right then and there that I never, ever wanted to be the recipient of such a fiery accusation!
Let Somebody Know You Were There!
Since that day this thought has been embedded in my psyche; wherever you are, whatever you are doing, win, lose, or draw, let somebody know you were there! Good advice for a young basketball player and great advice for life.
Thank you, Coach.