Every kid I grew up with in the 70’s had two things that he valued more than anything else: an old basketball, and a hoop nailed to a nearby telephone pole. Basketball truly was a religion in Kentucky.
Years later, Gene Hackman would play the head coach of a high school team in Indiana, the movie was called Hoosiers. It became a sports classic. Anyway, that movie came very close to the level of passion that young kids like me and a lot of others I grew up with had for the sport. We just loved to play basketball. And it didn’t matter if it was in the heat of July or the freezing cold of January… as long as it wasn’t raining, we played basketball every chance we could.
And every single one of us, if you asked us, would tell you that our dream was to someday go to college and play for the University of Kentucky basketball team. Of course, none of us ever would. But the dream was so real to us. And we would watch every game on television, and if they games weren’t being aired on tv, then we’d listen to them on the local radio station. Basketball was in our blood.
One year, some friends encouraged me to try out for the 6th grade team. “You can beat every kid on that team,” they told me. “If I were as good as you, I would definitely go to try-outs.”
And that’s what I did. I took my friends’ advice and decided to show up to the first practice. So, this went on for a few weeks. I hated the running part, but after a few days it got a little easier. Then came the dribbling skills, of which came natural to me. I knew how to box-out on defense, I was a pretty good mid-range shooter, and I could handle myself on defense. Then the pickup games started in the third week and Coach Vance was showing a bit more attention to me than some of the other kids. That felt awkward at first, but I admit that I loved the attention I was getting.
One day I went home after practice and just casually mentioned to my dad, “Hey, guess what! So I’ve been practicing for the 6th grade basketball team and I think I’m doing pretty well. In fact, I think I might actually make the team at the end of the week.” My father looked up from reading the newspaper and said to me, “What is this about playing basketball?” I told him, “Mom didn’t tell you? The last hour of the school day I’ve been going to tryouts for the school basketball team. And I’m doing really good. I think I might actually make the team!”
My father put the paper down, looked me straight in the eyes and said, “No, I don’t think so. Here’s what you’re going to do. Tomorrow, you’re going to tell the coach that you’re quitting. You’re nowhere good enough to make the team. So you can just save yourself the frustration and tomorrow go there and tell him you’re quitting. You understand me? You’re not good enough.”
So the next day when practice was about to start, I stayed in class. The last thing I wanted to do was tell the coach that I was quitting. He would figure it out on his own.
But Coach Vance came to the classroom where I was and asked the teacher if he could speak to me. He talked to me in private outside in the hallway. “Why aren’t you in practice today? We’ve been waiting for you to show up so we can get started.” When he said that, my heart shattered into pieces. “Coach Vance, I’ve decided that I’m going to quit. I’ve got to stay focused on my schoolwork and my grades, and I don’t think playing basketball is going to help with that.”
He looked at me and said, “Are you sure this is the reason? Because if you need a ride back and forth when practice starts, or need a ride to the games, I can help out with that.” I replied, “I appreciate it, I really do. But I think this is best.”
As I turned to go back into the classroom, he said to me, “That’s too bad, Scott. I had it in mind to make you a starter. Maybe even have you play some minutes in the 8th grade games, too. But I understand. You’ve made up your mind.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth, that my father had told me that I wasn’t good enough to make the team and refused to let me play. So to avoid further shame and blaming my father’s lack of confidence in me, I bore the humiliation of being a quitter instead of admitting that my father wasn’t interested in what was going on in my life.
I’ve never forgotten that day. And it would have such a drastic impact in my life many years later.
Several years ago, I was watching something on television. And it was a lady who was giving a class, and it was about having perspective and letting go of past hurts. So in this class, she takes a 12-ounce glass filled halfway with water and holds it up over her head with one arm. And everyone thinks she’s going to ask the old question about whether the glass is half empty or half full. But that’s not how it would go.
She asked, “How heavy do you think this glass of water is that I’m holding over my head? A few participants shouted out answers ranging from a few ounces to a few pounds. The lady said, “From my perspective, the absolute weight of this glass is irrelevant. It all depends on how long I hold it. If I hold it for a minute or two, it’s fairly light. If I hold it for an hour straight, it might make my arm tired and achy. If I hold it for an entire day, my arm will cramp up and become numb and paralyzed, and I’ll drop the glass to the floor. In each case, the absolute weight of the glass doesn’t change. But the longer I hold it, the heavier it feels to me.”
The participants nodded in agreement as she continued. “Your failures, your setbacks, your worries, your frustrations, your disappointments, the things you stress over – if you think about them for a little while and nothing drastic happens. Think about them a bit longer, and you begin to feel noticeable pain. But if you think about them all day long, you will feel numb and completely paralyzed, incapable of doing anything else until you drop them.”
Isn’t this so true for us? The longer we hold on to these things that are so hard to let go of, the harder things get for us? The more difficult it becomes to have real peace and joy. The harder it becomes to let go and forgive.
I never got the chance to forgive my dad for that while he was alive. The last few years of his battle with cancer coincided with my own life-and-death battle with alcoholism. But one of the first things I did when I got sober was visit his gravesite and open my heart to him in a prayer.
Dad, I know you did your best. I know that you loved me and cared about me. And although I have allowed this to control my life for a long while, it’s time to let go of it and tell you that I forgive you. I wish that I had told you this while you were still around, but I had my own things to deal with. I don’t hold this over you any longer. It has made me a stronger person in the end. I never let that change how much I love you. I miss you terribly, but I hope this gives you peace.
The moment I visited my dad’s grave and shared my heart with him, everything about my life began to change in such an incredible way. I became a Christian, and finally come to know what it feels like to be forgiven and to feel worthy of a Father’s love.
Former Blackout Artist 