At NBC basketball camp the athletes write letters home on the third night to someone they love. It can be a parent, sibling, friend, etc. I’ve read loads of these letters and found them frighteningly transparent as kids express concern, regret, anguish and fear. But today a kid couldn’t even write his letter. He just sobbed in the hallway while the other campers wrote theirs. What kind of hurt causes such paralysis?
I wondered at first. Truthfully, I still do but I didn’t even notice the boy crying until five-to-ten minutes into letter wirting. He’s about 16 years old but looks much older. He’s a tall yet broad build, the kind that makes uncontrollable weeping seem misaligned. But when I heard the sniffling and saw the hood hiding his bowed head, I detected the depth of his injury if nothing more.
Teens are accused of and branded with heartless personhood. The language describing them around the world portrays hapless ingrates devoid of possessing any substantive interest in things other than themselves. Perhaps the crying camper has forced an ephiphany – that dismissing our youth for their character flaws is neither logical nor humane. It is akin to abandoning infants because, via similar reasoning, they too qualify as self-absorbed parasites. The cruelty in this line is unspeakable. Somewhere along the line it became vogue to birth children, deliver death blows to their consciences and demand they grow up this instant.
The counter argument would attest to the gross indifference of yougn teens as conclusive diagnosis rather than symptomatic. They addage goes, “Hurt people hurt people.” What do you think? Will critics of my observation respond defensively claiming themselves as evidence that more can be justifiably demanded of the oppressed who flood camps, classrooms, sports teams and such. My young guy from the intro paragraph couldn’t even finish…no…even begin a letter to any significant people in his life. That’s appauling. Whether it was due to fear, grief, anger or a combination I may never know. But here’s what I do know. We the aged and imperfect must champion a movement of mentoring the most exploited minority in our history – the non adults.
Spent all day traveling on Saturday to arrive in Manchester, England this morning. That means I hardly slept on the plane because 6’5″ doesn’t sleep so well on planes. But ready or not, wheels touched down and camp begins tomorrow. Jet lag is very lame in case you didn’t know. But other things that happend today were far from it such as playing with Steve and Rachel’s two-week old baby Maisy and their 3 1/2 year old Amber who asked me if Mickey Mouse would visit my house more if he knew the way to Rancho Cucamonga, California.
I think that arriving some place…any place…opens unforseen floodgates of thoughts and feelings coursing just beneath the drone of busy life. I say this because when I landed in the UK this time I felt a guilt trip coming on kind of like the sore throat you confirm by swallowing repeatedly. That’s the one where you force yourself to swallow continuously hoping that it will stop hurting and you won’t actually get the other symptoms. The guilt trip was about where I’ve been and more importantly where I haven’t been. We landed and I was barraged with self-criticism about not being in a third world nation to run a camp there. “Why aren’t you in Africa or South America running a camp?” I felt guilty for being in an English speaking country where there’s no threat of Malaria. I felt like something or someone was whispering in my ear that I missed the drop zone and am preparing to run a camp in a place that doesn’t need quality, character driven basketball coaching. But that’s a big fat lie just like most of the strange voices we hear and don’t tell others we’re hearing.
Nevertheless, so far I’ve dealt with it by promising I’ll jump all the way in during these two weeks. If I can serve the leaders here, exhaust myself for opportunities to instruct and encourage staff and athletes alike then I can likely see why I’ve ended up in Great Britain in 2010. And I need to know the answer because the voices keep on indicting. I make up arguments in which people tell me I’ve run from black kids and only train suburban kids who can sell my product. The counter argument defends with the notion that I’ll train and influence who God puts in the way. And the two voices engage like back alley fistacuffs. Anyway, that’s how I felt today. Tomorrow it’s a wake up call at half six (6:30 a.m.) then off to the Isle of MAN.
Recently at a basketball camp I ran in Hesperia, California I did a character lesson on identity which can be hard for a 10 year-old to understand. I handed out a brief discussion starter to every athlete which had a picture of me affixed to an identification card with the name Alex Chan. And so I asked the kids who was in the picture. Some said, “Duh, it’s Alex Chan.” while others said, “Is your real name Alex Chan.” Still others retorted, “You don’t look like an Alex Chan but you did go to Seaside University like it says on the card right?” Mad confusion began to materialize and I was quickly a fan of this. I cramped up from laughing so hard.
Ultimately, when I do this lesson, I always put minds at ease by revealing that I am neither Chan nor student of Seaside U. The lesson is simply about fake identities and why we acquire them. It’s one of my favorite discussions. Nevertheless, I’m amazed at the constant reminders of why and how we develop fraudulent views of ourselves.
Case-in-point: I played basketball yesterday with some guys I’ve known since the early 1990s. We all played basketball in high school but they were elites and I wasn’t. They were Pac-10 recruits and I was barely scouted in high school. I even told my wife that 16-17 years ago, some of these same guys would’ve laughed me out of the gym because I wasn’t IDENTIFIABLY elite in the world of prep basketball. But time goes on, everyone ages, some guys extend basketball into a professional career while others do not and here we are altogether on a Monday afternoon.
I realized that a part of you still wants the approval of peers. Nothing is at stake but pride is a juggernaut, completely capable of destroying the semblance of security one has in his or her true identity. There was still an air of hierarchy in that gym yesterday. Even the kids too young to play with us exhibited symptoms of awareness that not all ballers are created equally. They asked me, “Do you play professionally overseas?” I responded, “No, I’m done playing…just coaching.” That’s not definitive. The answer is simply, NO. But identity is the outcome of hard fought internal conflict in which truth is often the most costly casualty.
So as I played and enjoyed the mix of veterans and young guys headed overseas for their first professional contract I was glad that I knew I belonged in the gym. I’m not there because I am ex-pro. I’m there because I am a resource to the world like the guys who started the Homeless World Cup eight years ago. People are leaving destructive lifestyles riddled with drug and violence simply by playing soccer. Somebody who loves the world’s most popular sport decided to channel the love, harness it and be professional in the realm for the sake of others.
The Grit & the Glory: Homeless World Cup 2009 from Buzz Films on Vimeo.
It was insightful. Every time I’m in a gym, I see myself as that guy professionally integrating basketball and virtue, basketball and philanthropy, basketball and ministry, etc…I see that now but it was hard to accept at 16, 21 or 23 years old. Maybe truly meaningful living is linked to knowing one’s own IDENTITY. I reckon if God wanted you to have someone else’s fingerprints, he would’ve given them to you.
Starting five weeks ago in Rome, Italy, I was involved in or responsible for basketball camps for four straight weeks. You find a rhythm with these things after about two weeks of standing constantly and instructing young athletes with waning and/or fluctuating attention spans. You also come to expect that each week will bring the dull roar of teens and kids running through the gym, firing basketballs at a basket 40 feet away. It becomes customary to see the kids wearing your t-shirts or those of the organization sponsoring the camp. It short, each summer there’s a familiarity that grows between myself and the camp environment. The only difference this year is that now my mortgage is ridin’ on camp.
I’ve been making my paycheck this summer and for the last 10 months through basketball training and naturally this has changed my orientation to the world of youth sports. And I wouldn’t say the orientation has gone septic. When I’m on the basketball court instructing, speaking, encouraging, chastising…nothing else matters. It’s all about the kids. But when you go home in the evening, lay down to sleep, wake up the next morning and prepare to start a camp that you’re not sure will even happen, that’s the different part. In the moments leading up to that fifth week of camp there is real concern. Camp matters now on more than just existential levels. It matters practically and when it doesn’t happen, I’m noticing that a very real bout with self-efficacy ensues.
The thing you value most, the message that embodies the virtues and pillars of character, is being stifled. At least that’s how I felt this week when camp didn’t happen. And it’s not a sob story. It’s more internal and introspective than that. I reckon it’s impossible to give your being to a craft and disseminating it only to encounter resistance that just happens to also equate to you possibly not paying your bills. The point is that this mike marker in my journey is teaching me how to maintain a focus on what matters most and understanding that I may have to be willing to share it through methods I don’t particularly prefer. For instance, you may want to sell cupcakes in your own cozy little storefront just off the walk amidst the high rises downtown but instead have to settle for working at the bakery selling assembly line pastries. You can still be you in that environment but let’s be honest, who wants to?
At any rate, where life, career and aspiration collide, I’m learning that you must acquire the fortitude to forge ahead and sometimes share your 86,400 seconds a day with an activity that you feel mutes YOU. In due time you’ll be able to do business on your own terms.
It’s difficult to sum up the dynamic of a week’s worth of basketball with 9-17 year-olds. There were five pillars of character that took center stage without much fanfare. “Submission to Truth,” “Motivation,” “Preparation,” “Identity” and “Resolve” rounded out the list of non-negotiable attributes that one must possess to succeed in life and sport. The pillars weren’t shrouded or hidden so as to fool the clinic participants into becoming better young people by accident. It wasn’t like going to church for a free dinner only to find you’ve been baited into hearing a sermon. The pillars had a way of just appearing throughout the day. A kid lies about his effort in a drill but then realizes that he isn’t submitting to truth. A girl arrives late to a workout because her motivation is waning. A decent but not exceptional player remains in the gym after 8 hard hours of camp so he can play full-court with the coaches, thus displaying resolve.
A typical day at a 6ixth Man Clinic began with prayer, dynamic stretching and any assortment of fundamental drills. Then we applied those fundamentals in competitive drills. About half-way through the workout we stopped to review a character lesson in groups. These are brief, pre-printed conversation prompts that speak to the pillar of the day. If it’s conducted properly, the players do most of the talking, citing episodes from their own lives in which they see the pillar or the need for it. This discussion time is probably my fave because parents have usually vacated the gym and kids are pretty transparent.
In a word, 6ixth Man Camp is a grind. The athletes leave exhausted and probably not just due to physical exertion. I encourage the participants to make the pillars the “support beams” of their personhood which can be a lot for a 15 year-old to grasp. You look at the glazed eyes in the circle and can easily detect confusion, unfamiliarity or resistance. Most kids have never thought about their own identity or their ultimate motives for their actions. But there’s a first time for everything and that time is at my camp. Ironically, on the last day, no one complained. Quite the contrary. Several girls celebrated their accomplishment of finishing camp with an ice bath party. These were the kids who coached the little campers in the morning from 8:30-12:30 and then subjected themselves to basketball boot camp in the afternoons.
Days 3-5 was 90 Degree heat in combat with swamp coolers, utter depletion of countless gallons of water, pranks, half-court shootouts at the break, the stench of sour ankles braces, taped up wrists, player-coach one-on-one games, failed attempts at behind the back dribbles, 4-step shooting process, tragedy off the court and critical thinking. One can’t begin to adequately explain the evolution of camp in a week. I reckon only the athletes participating really have a grasp of what’s going on inside of them. Nevertheless, I can’t wait to do it again.
The first day of the clinic I had a heart-to-heart with the 9-12 year olds and I realized one of the reasons I think parenting is hard. A kid asked when we were going to scrimmage on the first day and I said, “Can I be honest with you guys…You promise not to get dem feelin’s hurt?” They replied, “yes” with nods that indicated their latent trepidation. I mean, who really wants bad news and can brace themselves for the constructive criticism bomb. Lest I linger, I came at the youngsters straight. I told ’em we wouldn’t be scrimmaging anytime soon because they can’t even make lay-ups. Is there a way to spin that with compassion in your inflection?
Back to the parenting parallel and epiphany. I run these basketball clinics to help players clean-up all things run amuck in their fundmental development as a player and individual. But part and parcel with any clean-up effort is a healthy but painful dose of truth tellin’. If you’re a normal human being, one of the hardest things to do has to be looking an aspiring athlete in the eye and saying, “Dude, don’t even trip about scrimmaging, playing games or doing anything resembling full-court competition given the amount of repair we need to address.” It’s the hard truth that is seldom delivered because there’s nothing easy about demotivating. Criticism is a gut punch. It can be a knockout blow if administered recklessly. And at day’s end, critique is usually the stimulus of breached rapport, rebuke and ill sentiment by the recipient. What parent do you know who wants to risk their kid not liking them? I guess that’s where I come in. Enter the black dude with the mirror in his hand holding it in front of young people. And it’s one of those magnification mirrors with the bright light that illumines all your skin blemishes and the debris in your nostrils. Yeah…I’m that guy and I’m starting to realize that if it’s hard for me it must feel seemingly impossible to parents. Nevertheless, I’ll do it all over again tomorrow if it will move a kid from where they are to a paradigm that unveils where they can be when the training is all done.