FOLLOW THE WILDCATS: And We're Off: First Practice

The following blog post was taken from its original location, found here

Welcome to “Follow the Wildcats.” This recent basketball season I did my best to keep an accurate journal of the center-city high school basketball team for which I was the first-year head coach. “Follow the Wildcats” is a compilation of many stories, told through the lens of the Wildcats’ lives. Names and identities of people and places have been changed in deference to the people involved. But all of these stories are 100% true. Everything happened. Boy, did it ever.

November 28th: Seventeen guys showed up for practice - that’s about 20 percent of our school. I’m pumped! 

They loaded onto a school bus in front of Charternet as soon as school got out. Some of them were still in their school uniforms, and others, who lived close enough to the school, had gone home and changed into sweats.

An added bonus, the Wildcats’ coaching staff brought one more coach! I made a call to a young guy whom I had met while playing some ball of my own, asking him if he’d be willing to join our staff. John Williams had just graduated from a nearby Division I school, where he played center. The 6’9” 22-year-old said he’d love to help out, so on day one, I felt confident that we’d be able to handle whatever was thrown our way.

Charternet doesn’t have its own gymnasium. We rent from another school that doesn’t use theirs because they don’t have a sports program. Coach Anderson and I hopped into our own cars after school, and beat the bus down the road, where Coach Williams was waiting for us.

The three of us carried the bag of basketballs, jump ropes, and a box full of brand new practice uniforms through the side entrance of the empty gym. It was beautiful, built within the last five or six years, with a shiny floor, crystal clear backboards and a sticky wood surface. I could see the stands filled, hear the squeaks of the sneakers, smell the dry-erase board marker that I’d be using to draw up plays during timeouts.

My heart raced as I heard the bus come to a squealing stop outside. I heard the bus door open, and then almost immediately the side door to the gym flew open, followed by loud, competitive voices and the smiling faces of the Wildcats’ basketball team.

“Grab a jersey and shorts from the box, guys, and when you’re changed make sure you leave nothing on the hardwood; all of your stuff should be on the bleachers,” I shouted twice in a row.

About half of the boys came running over, looking for their favorite number and in the right sizes.

“This is not a game. This is practice. Just take a jersey and get changed,” I announced.

Fifteen minutes later, 17 Wildcats were shooting around, stretching, or jogging up and down the court. I pulled out my practice plans and called Coach Anderson and Coach Williams to center court, and handed them each their own copy.

“Okay, guys, you ready?”

“I have no idea what to expect,” Coach Williams said.

Coach Anderson looked at me and half-smiled. “Let’s just get this thing started,” he said.

I blew my whistle for a good five seconds. “Middle of the court, everyone,” I shouted, pointing where I wanted them to huddle.

Many of the boys took a couple more shots, continued their conversations with one another, or slowly sauntered over toward the coaching staff. Only one Wildcat, Malik, a Jamaican kid with a huge smile, sprinted at the sound of my whistle.

“Guys, before we get started today. I want to let you know something. Jabari had to take another job. He had been out of work for some time, and he let me know yesterday that he had gotten a job and wouldn’t be able to coach this year. Now, there’s a lesson to be learned here. This is a team, and although Jabari had to take the job he was offered, I don’t appreciate the way he told me about his departure. He texted me, and he texted the day before our first practice. I understand where he is coming from, but I felt like he let us down a little bit by letting us know so late.”

The team was silent.

“But fortunately, you guys have the privilege of being coached by Coach Williams and Coach Anderson, here, both of whom have a lot of basketball experience.” The players eyed the coaches, seeming to size them up.

“All right, hands in, let’s have a great first practice,” I announced, putting my hand out in front of me, slowly drawing the hands of the boys. Some of them looked confused or bewildered, and some of them smiled. It was a mixed bag. “Team on three,” I shouted, “one, two, three, TEAM!” They all shouted with me, a good enough start.

“OK, three-on-two, two-on-one. Line it up,” I yelled. About half of them, including Tony, Reggie, and Ayo, knew what to do and managed to get the rest of them to fall into one of three lines along the baseline. The drill started, and I jumped right into regular coaching mode: I shouted, applauded and instructed with enthusiasm and with rigor in my voice.

Wrong move. I quickly realized, as the drill fell apart after its first repetition, that no one knew how do to what I was asking.

“I ain’t never done this f****** drill, yo,” someone shouted at me. A comment like that would have meant expulsion from any team I had ever been a part of. But this wasn’t any team I had ever been a part of.  Maybe five guys on the team knew how to do this drill. I was being sent a strong message, and I needed to listen to it.

These are street ballers, street kids. None of them had played for a coach before, or been on an organized team. None of them would ever have even done this drill, or been taught this drill. In my mind it was a standard drill, elementary. I had never stopped to think whether I could expect it of them. This would become a running theme in the life I tried to lead with the Wildcats.

I suddenly understood their frustration, and I was embarrassed by the assumptions I had made. I had allotted ten minutes for this drill. Instead, I stopped practice, apologized for being so presumptive, then slowly, methodically taught them the drill. 

“The guys on the sidelines can’t run down the court before the guy in the middle, who has the ball, starts to run down the court. Don’t leave your teammates behind,” I shouted. I then broke the drill into two parts, stopping the entire gym with a whistle once the defensive were supposed to turn into the offensive players.

It took thirty minutes for them to get it down, and we got through only 3 of the 15 drills I planned that day. It wasn’t the practice I expected it to be; I never could have predicted so many obstacles. But, at the end of it, Coach Anderson, Coach Williams and I had taught this group of boys something new, something legitimate. They had learned structure, offense, and maybe even a little patience along the way.

I kept an eye on Tony. His eyes would roll, his shoulders sink, and his mood would change every time his teammates made a mistake. Tony had been a part of a “real” high school program before. He knew all of these drills. And he was ten times more talented than any of the Wildcats. And so for all of us it began: Tony’s relationship with the team, and with me.

COME BACK SOON FOR MORE FROM “FOLLOW THE WILDCATS!”

NEXT UP: Big, Dark Picture.

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