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Mmm…hot dogs sound good right about now.
My mouth waters when I realize it’s been twelve hours since my last meal. I worked through lunch, only stopping for a protein bar and coffee in the airport on my way home from Chicago.
The buzzer sounds, and my boys come running over to the bench, out of breath but still full of energy.
“Okay, guys,” I say, looking up at the time on the scoreboard before returning my gaze to the team. “We have five minutes to turn this game around. You can do this. We’re only down by ten points—”
Tommy, the one boy on my team who complains about everything, interrupts my planned pep talk, “Coach, we can’t beat the Warriors. They crush us every time we play them, and I can’t guard my player. He’s too good.” He constantly doubts his abilities.
“Tommy,” I say with a loud sigh, “‘you have to expect things of yourself before you can do them.’ Do you remember who said that?”
“Michael Jordan,” Rico calls out with enthusiasm, a big smile on his face, as he tugs at his basketball jersey. He purposely selected number twenty-three, the same number our idol wore while playing in the NBA.
“Right,” I say, proud of Rico.
He’s the one kid on the Gladiators with natural athleticism and the talent to go along with it. His mother is a nurse and works a lot, and I often help Rosario out when her babysitter bails, leaving poor Rico unattended. He’s like the son I always wanted—if I had time for a family or even a date.
“All right, boys,” I say, bending down to their eye-level, “listen up! We have the rest of the game clock to make up ten points. You can do this.
“Rico, keep those hands up on D, and defend the basket.”
“Tommy, you’re not guarding a player tonight; you’re guarding the zone. Remember that. Keep your feet wide and your stance low. Don’t dive for your opponent. If someone enters your zone with the ball, what are you going to do?”
“Block the shot, and defend the net,” Tommy says with a smile.
“What did we come here to do tonight?” I say, putting my hand in the center of the circle.
The boys layer their hands on top of mine. They get excited every time we have a team huddle, and I love seeing the happy grins on their faces.
“Win!” we all say in unison.
“What are we gonna do right now?”
I can see them glowing as the buzzer sounds, alerting us that the time-out is over.
We all shout, “Win!”
Moving my hand up and down, along with theirs, I say, “One, two, three, Gladiators!”
The boys mimic my words and then run onto the court.
I love coaching the Gladiators in my spare time. It’s one of my favorite things in the world and even more rewarding than signing another professional athlete. Maybe, one day, I will be lucky enough to sign a kid like Rico. But a good sports agent doesn’t worry about closing one deal. By signing a player, I am committing myself to their entire career and future.
But, despite my advice, we lose the game by five points. Our ball-handling on offense was horrific, leading to several turnovers. I make a mental note to go over different drills during our next practice.
I tell the boys that they must have expectations of themselves before they can set goals. Although no one gives better basketball advice than Michael Jordan, I’m also responsible for teaching them the skills they need to build that confidence.
With enough work, losses eventually lead to wins, and wins lead to championships. It’s all a part of the game. Pro athletes aren’t born great; they are made into great players.
After I speak with some of the kids and their parents, I exit the gymnasium with Rico at my side, dribbling a basketball through the parking lot. Rico and his mother live down the hall from me. I volunteer to bring him home from the game when Rosario can’t make it, which happens more often than she would like. She’s a good mother, always inviting me over for a home-cooked traditional Puerto Rican meal. I love her cooking. Growing up in foster care, I had no idea what a real home-cooked meal was until I met Rosario.
As we make our way through South Philadelphia and to our apartment building that faces the Camden Waterfront, the city is congested. Cars are whipping past us in a feverish pace, horns beeping and people screaming out their windows. This is typical for Philly traffic, something I have grown accustomed to over the last four years of living in the city.
On o
ur way home, I stop at a fast-food restaurant. Rico and I eat burgers and fries out of the bag as I drive, chatting about the game and what our team can do to improve their chances next week. He’s a good kid, always offering to help out his teammates.
Once we’re parked beneath our building and on the elevator, I click the button for the twenty-fifth floor. I set our gym bags on the floor as the doors close, and I lean back against the mirrored wall. We are the only people in the car.
