Look At Us

I distinctly remember the day in 1972. It was basketball tryouts day, 3:00 PM sharp in the school gym. I thought the school day would never end.

I spent the whole summer of 1971, as well as a good part of autumn, working toward my goal of making the team. I practiced on my own, joined in every pickup game that I could. I gave it my all. I sweated and grunted, bumped and bruised my way to what I saw was a sure spot on the team. I was fairly tall for my age, so it seemed I was destined for a place on the starting lineup.

So the day had come. I suited up in the locker room, and headed out onto the court. We ran laps, did shooting drills, and short scrimmage drills. We spent two hours showing our best stuff under the watchful eye of the team coach and his assistants.

5 o'clock PM: The Cutting Hour. It was time to line up and find out which of us were going to make it to the next round of tryouts. One by one, the hopefuls reached the front of the line. Those that went to the right had successfully moved on, those who walked to the left were heading to the locker room to dress, go home and call it a day. I made it to the front of the line, and heard the words I dreaded. I was sent to the left. No Hoops Glory for me that season.

When I went home, my family was sitting down to dinner. When I joined them, my Mom asked how it went. I didn't say much, but my parents both knew, from the look on my face, that it hadn't gone well. Not ones to make a big deal out of something at the wrong time, my parents simply tried to make me feel a little better. My mother reminded me that I'd only been at it since the summer, and that with more work and practice, maybe I could try out again the next season. My father echoed the sentiment, noting how much I'd improved since just last May. These things take time, was the consensus.

And that was that. I survived. In fact, through my father's guidance, I took a shot at baseball and football, the latter being the game I grew to become somewhat successful at. My Hoops Dreams faded quietly, as I was 11 years old, and it didn't take much more than some accomplishments on a gridiron to change my direction.

Now, take the same events, but place them in 2007.

The way things are now, I'd have come home for dinner. My parents would have been waiting by the front door, anxious to get the news immediately. Upon being informed of my failure to make the team, they would no doubt launch into a tirade, letting me know that the coach and his assistants were incompetent people who obviously didn't recognize exceptional talent. They might even go so far as to march immediately down to the ongoing tryouts and confront the coach. There was no logical explanation for me not making the team other than the fact that the coach simply didn't know what he was doing, or perhaps the tryouts were "fixed", with spots on the team going only to the kids whose parents were friendly with the coach. A ballplayer like me simply couldn't be overlooked, and my parents wouldn't want me playing under an idiot like this anyway. We'd just have to seek out a team that was being run by a "real" coach.

Now, truth be told, you might as well have sent me out onto the basketball court with a cinderblock in my hands. I played and practiced for years beyond 1971. I worked out with excellent players, joined a couple of rec leagues that didn't require tryouts, and gave it my all. But it didn't matter: I just wasn't a good basketball player. I even tried out again in High School, only to be met with the same results. No Varsity letters for me in hoops.

I enjoyed the game, so I played recreationally. I accepted the fact that I was not destined for the NBA and moved on. Because of the attitude of my parents, I didn't dwell on that failure, and happily discovered a modicum of talent on the football field, but even then, the NFL was not in my future.

Yet, again, somehow I survived. I remember the classic Clint Eastwood one-liner: "A man's got to know his limitations." Now, a cops & robbers "shoot 'em up" movie is not typically a source of life guidance or inspiration, but that line is so true. I recognized my limitations pertaining to athletics and dealt with them. I did manage to enjoy the sports nonetheless, but I wonder what might have become of me if I had simply fought the reality, and refused to accept the truth. How many other life opportunities would I have missed if I stood my ground in the belief that my talent was simply going unrecognized, and that I was due a rightful place on those teams?

That seems to be the way to go, these days, however. And it's not only the kids of this day and age who are deluding themselves. For any of you who saw the preliminary rounds of the television show American Idol, it is quite obvious that there is much more than a handful of people out there in the world who have unrealistic opinions of their own talents. Quite a number of the hopefuls, upon meeting with rejection, did not recognize their failures as a result of their own lack of talent and ability, but rather, they questioned (not so gently, in some cases) the competency of the judges. It wasn't a poor voice that brought the dream to an end, it was the ears of the panel members that needed scrutiny.

I'm a parent myself, and I've fallen victim to some of these traps when it came to my children. I've caught myself numerous times on the verge of emotional, rather than logical, reactions to situations where my own kids did not come out on top. It's easy to blame everyone else for my kids' shortcomings. It takes the onus off of the children as well as myself. It's very easy to distort reality when it suits our purposes. But it doesn't change the fact that the reality is, indeed, distorted.

Next: American Narcissism