I’ve always been a big fan of the game of basketball. My mom taught me how to dribble a basketball when I was very young and I had a natural ability as a shooter. In elementary school, I was a better basketball player than most of the kids in my class, especially “for a girl.” The boys couldn’t stand it. They hated the fact that a girl could dribble circles around them, steal the ball from right out under them, and constantly score three-pointers against them. My elementary school best friend and I were both great players and we resented the fact that our third-grade teacher wanted the boys and girls to play separately. While putting the boys on teams and letting them play half-court games, she “taught” the girls the basics on the other end of the court. There she stood in her long dress and low heels, attempting to teach us girls how a young lady properly shoots a basketball—from about two feet in front of the free throw line, lifting the ball with two hands. It was a ridiculous underhand technique for girls who were assumed to be too weak to shoot correctly and from the precise distance outlined on the court. At first she was hesitant, but we were grateful when she granted our request that we skip the unusable free-throw lessons and play with the boys instead.
My best friend and I were the only girls that played basketball games with the boys during gym class or recess. The boys didn’t want us to play with them to begin with, but they absolutely hated when we defeated them, so they’d constantly call us lesbians and try to make us feel bad. Belittling us was their greatest strategy. I guess that’s just what immature little boys do when they lack confidence, are sore losers, and can’t accept that a girl is better than them at a sport. Rather than developing their defensive game in basketball, they just became defensive in life and used words and scare tactics to try to defeat us and wear us down mentally. I have to admit that it sometimes worked. Because I was not out and proud when I was young, I worried about being called a lesbian and didn’t want anyone to assume I was gay. Deep down inside I knew I was different than the other girls, but I never wanted the thought to cross anyone else’s mind. I admit that I was a tomboy. I mainly hung out with boys after school because so many of them lived on my block. It was either that or sit in my house by myself. I didn’t mind being a tomboy—I just didn’t want anyone to call me one. I figured that if they called me “tomboy,” the next word out of their mouth was likely going to be “lesbian.” I did everything I could to look and act more feminine—just not when I was playing basketball. I never downplayed my skills or let anyone get a shot off against me that they didn’t earn. I was a competitor and I played to win. While other kids used their words to hurt me, I let my skills speak for me and serve as my greatest defense against how they made me feel.
In middle school, I was a local free-throw shooting champion who won contests and trophies year-after-year. However, I only played basketball on a team “competitively” for a few seasons. I played on intramural teams that I quickly grew tired of when I noticed the male coaches were all the same. One of them, though, takes the cake on being the most disappointing coach of all time. Rather than take a chance putting me or the only other female player on the team in the game (my best friend), we’d have to sit on the bench and watch. We were nothing more than observers as we watched the coach live vicariously through his son and the other four boys he chose to start every game. He acted as if every game was an NBA championship game and didn’t care about actually coaching or inspiring his team. He’d occasionally peek back at my friend and I on the far corner of the bench with a look of dread on his face. He’d glance at us and then at the game clock, all while shaking his head. We knew that he was angry that we even joined the league in the first place, but even more so that he ended up with not just one, but two girls on his team. My friend and I were usually benched until the last couple of minutes of each game when the coach had no other choice than to give us some playing time. Our parents paid for our memberships the same way the parents of all the boys had, so as long as we showed up for a game, we were supposed to be guaranteed some playing time. If we were winning by enough points, the coach usually put us in for about two or three minutes at the end of each game. If it was a really close game or if our team was losing, those minutes decreased to only seconds of playing time. It was a waste of time and a waste of my parents’ money.
I don’t mean to pat myself on the back, but our team would’ve been much better off if the coach hadn’t been a chauvinist. His biggest mistakes were assuming that his son was a star player, that height automatically made a boy a good basketball player, and that girls were unskilled at the game. I was about a foot shorter than this one boy in particular, but I was a much better player than he was—yet he started in every game and I warmed the bench. The coach would never know how good I was, though, because I simply didn’t look the part. Unfortunately, he already had his mind made up about me just because I was a girl.
I thought about joining the CYO girls’ basketball team. I was an excellent shooting guard and I knew I’d make the team and would earn respect as a player, but I couldn’t commit to the practice schedule and travel games. I also thought about joining the team at my high school, thinking maybe I could get a scholarship to college. Honestly, the fear of people making more accusations about my sexuality was always in the back of my mind. I still wasn’t out of the closet and I feared that people would talk about me and assume I was a lesbian if I played high school basketball. I know it’s ridiculous, but sometimes kids—and adults for that matter—can be mean, and I didn’t want to risk feeling the way I did when people called me names when I was younger. Besides, I couldn’t see the point in devoting all of my time and energy to something that wasn’t going to lead to a career for me. I had such a strong desire to play, but as far as I was concerned, there was no real future in women’s basketball and I didn’t want to waste my time. The WNBA didn’t exist at that time, so the only basketball heroes I had were the ones whose last names were printed on my brother’s hand-me-down Knicks t-shirts and jerseys. Besides, I already had my mind set on being a teacher and/or a writer, so I had to focus on the goals I thought were actually attainable. I decided that if it wasn’t possible to be a professional female basketball player in the United States, there was no point in wasting my time thinking about it.
I took a giant step back from the game of basketball during my childhood and teenage years. I let what other people thought about me and about the game take priority, and that was a big mistake. Don’t get me wrong—I have no regrets and I’m very grateful for the path I followed and the way things turned out in my life. I never became a star athlete, didn’t get a basketball scholarship to college, and I never played professional women’s basketball. However, I was a star student who did very well in school because I studied hard and worked hard. I achieved a 4.0 grade point average in my college major and earned two Bachelor's Degrees. I also worked part-time and put myself through graduate school where I earned two Master's Degrees.
After college, I went on to become an elementary school teacher. On Friday afternoons when my students had completed all of their schoolwork for the week, I would check to see if the school’s gymnasium was free. If it was, I’d bring my class there for an extra period of physical education—taught by me. As is often the case with elementary school children, when they know something is their teacher’s favorite, it becomes their favorite as well. My students all knew that basketball was my favorite sport, so it became their favorite sport, too. They all wanted to become great players and impress their teacher. I’d set up different stations for them to practice layups, free throws, three-pointers, and defensive strategies. I’d coach teams of students who wanted to learn the rules and practice playing actual games. I did everything I could to make that last period on Friday the most fun period of the week.
I played the role of both basketball coach and teacher on those Friday afternoons. We reinforced math lessons as we practiced counting, addition and subtraction of scores, telling time, and calculating elapsed time. I snuck in lessons about probability and statistics. I taught my students about patience, discipline, following rules, teamwork, and sportsmanship. Countless lessons were subtly masked by all the fun they were having. I was always proud of my students, but I was especially proud of those that weren’t afraid to ask for help, not just from me, but from other students. We created a beautiful culture where children played together and learned from one another—regardless of gender, height, weight, race, or any other indicator of their differences. I taught some of the best lessons of my career on those Friday afternoons. The icing on the cake, though, was the challenge some of the students came up with for me as a way to conclude our gym period and another week of hard work. They’d cheer me on as I took five half-court shots. If I got just one of the shots in the basket, it meant no homework for the weekend. I had nothing to lose, but the kids had everything to gain, so I always tried my best to make the shot.
Because of the intramural coach and the teasing I took from other kids, I was very discouraged and often second-guessed myself. A lot of the fun I had playing basketball was taken away from me and I resented people who made assumptions about me. People assumed that I couldn’t possibly have any real basketball skills because I was a female and was one of the shortest kids in my elementary school classes. When given the opportunity, my skills spoke for themselves, but then that led to other assumptions. Many people assumed that I must be a lesbian—stereotyping me and reasoning that the only way I, as a girl, could be good at basketball was if I was gay. Nobody dared believe that any heterosexual “girly girl” would be interested in the game, so their minds were made up and if I wanted to play the game, I had to deal with the name-calling and accusations. It didn’t seem worth it and it was a very difficult part of growing up for me.
I guess I did learn a lot from that coach after all—I learned exactly what not to do and took a completely opposite approach to working with children both as a teacher and an intramural coach for that same league I once played for as a child. I also learned a lot from my own experiences and thought about the social and emotional part of growing up and trying to fit in with other kids. Part of being a good teacher is being a supportive coach. That’s why I’ve always encouraged my students to consistently practice and sharpen their skills, academically and physically. I inspire them to pursue their dreams and to use words from critics and naysayers as motivation to work even harder and set even bigger goals. If only I had coaches that inspired me and believed in me when I was young, then maybe some other little girl out there would be wearing a jersey with my last name on her back.
I’ve had a poem by Rudyard Kipling hanging in my office at school for years. It was used a lot by John Wooden, a legendary basketball coach at UCLA, to motivate his players. I’ve always found it to be influential and meaningful. It’s definitely suitable for a coach or teacher, but is also useful for anyone who simply wants to reflect on their own character.
“No written word, nor spoken plea
Can teach our youth what they should be.
Nor all the books on all the shelves
It’s what the teachers are themselves.”
“No printed word, nor spoken plea
Can teach young minds what they should be.
Not all the books on all the shelves—
But what the teachers are themselves.”
- Rudyard Kipling