Jersey #9: Kentucky's Journey

I can't really tell you why I'm writing about this right now. It's a story I've been thinking about blogging for a while but just hadn't gotten around to it, and well, since I'm finally feeling semi-rested and have no pressing deadlines for the evening, I thought I might as well get it off my chest. So hear goes.

Once upon a time I lived in a little town called Pikeville, KY. There are about 6,500 people that live there, and at the heart of that little town is a little school. It's an "independent" school system - which basically means it's not private but people outside the city limits can go there if they pay a hefty tuition, and there is a completely separate school board than that of the county schools. For whatever reason, this makes us better than everyone else. "We Are - Pikeville!" - I can still hear our 3-time National Champion cheerleaders say as they lead us in our most arrogant cheer - one that we'd usually wait to use until we had thoroughly humiliated an opponent. It seems pretty innocent but,"We Are - Pikeville (and you sure as hell aren't)" is a more accurate depiction of its meaning.

So, this arrogance I'm describing - the priviledge of being a Pikevillian - a Panther - it didn't come out of thin air. Sure, some of it comes from the money: back in the 70's a lot of coal miners struck it rich and moved out to the "big town" of pikeville, buying up land and property and businesses. The people who owned the land and the people who sold the mines became sort of old money figures, and their children became mostly doctors and lawyers. Most stayed here and circulated the money around even more, meaning that by the time I came around the school parking lot was populated by quite a rich array of new mustangs, big chevy trucks, expensive suv's, and even a few bmw's. As for myself, I drove a Jeep Wrangler - sort of middle of the road. But not all of the Pikeville aura came from being the rich kids living in the middle of one of the poorest counties in America (mother Theresa has actually visited the area) - the other story is sports...

The focus of Pikeville existance is, was and ever shall be the three time State Champion Panther Football Team - 1987, 1988, and 1989. Sure, I didn't start kindegarten until 1990, but no matter. By the time I made it to junior high/high school the tradition was still alive and well. Some of the old players from those years were now the coaches, and so it goes that the boys of autumn were constantly working their buts off to begin another dynasty. With all this blood, sweat, and pride swirling around, there was more than enough Panther Pride left to go around to the other sports. Grow up in an environment where the athletes are heroes (think Varsity Blues, Remeber the Titans), and you're gonna want to be one of them.

Since I'm well, a girl, and my mom had forbidden me from ever entertaining the idea of playing football (she now loves to tell how I am secretly exacting revenge for this by playing rugby), my hopes and dreams rested on a different, but equally worshiped sport - basketball. Now maybe Pikeville isn't the basketball capital of the world - but Kentucky IS. Ever hang around Lexington during march? Ever drive through the bluegrass on I-75 and notice an overwelming number of blue Wildcat license plates?? Ever seen footage of Rupp Arena during a home game??? I have to tell you, the feeling - no, the religion - that is University of Kentucky basketball is something that is indescribable to an outsider. If you just pass by and look in, you'll think you're seeing insanity. But if you are one of the crazies, then you know it's pure love. And that was me growning up. I loved basketball, and I loved being a Pikeville Panther. We are Pikeville. I Bleed Blue.

Basically this meant one thing for me: I was going to be a basketball player. I was going to be one of the "heroes" on the local Friday Night Highlights and my picture was going to be plastered all over the sports page of the local newspaper. I was going to lead my team to a 15th region championship, and when I was done I was going to head west toward "Lex-Vegas" and make my name as a Wildcat. I made this promise to myself every day. I still remember those promises. And I especially remember the day they were finally broken.

Okay, so let's just say that things didn't go exactly as planned. Even starting out as young as 5th grade I started to notice that some things surrounding basketball didn't seem quite right. The best players didn't always play, and parents seemed to be insanely over-involved. Quarrels often broke out between parents and coaches when bobbie sue or susie jane didn't get the playing time she "deserved", and under the table "booster" club deals were rampant. Basically, playing time depended on who your mommy and daddy were, how much money they made, how much of it they gave to the boosters, and whose parties they attended on Saturday night. Pretty much a raw deal for little kids. And Junior high didn't go much better. It was a husband and wife team, and, as usually goes for me, the husband loved me but the wife - not so much. My parents had stayed out of the political mumbo-jumbo (as they should) and so my case was rarely fought for. There was no pressure to play me, and so I only played what was necessary. One particular night of bureaucratic bullshit occurred in my Eighth grade year. I had become a starter, and one night before a game, a 6th grade teammate of mine has asked to start because we were playing her former school. Naturally, I was the one who was asked by the coaches to sit out as a "generosity". Much later, my senior year, the husband of this coaching duo offered me endless apologies for the way I was treated and begged my forgiveness. I wish I could say the same for others...

When I finally made it to the high school team - JV and Varsity - it seemed like a whole new world. My coach was a former UK player and though she intimidated the hell out of me, I respected her more than any woman alive. She had pretty good ideas on the game of basketball, and clearly loved the game. Slowly, though, I began to realize she didn't care for me so much. I never really said anything or did anything. I just became that girl who worked really hard but stayed in the background out of fear. Those who know me now probably can't imagine this. These days, I make a special point to get to know my coaches and pick their brains about the game and improvement and all that. I tried that with this coach - we'll call her Coach Shaney - but it didn't really matter. It was clear that there was a hierarchy of things that was beyond my control. Before my younger teammates and I were even allowed to step foot on the Varsity floor, we were being specifically groomed to the coach's liking. Weaker players (with popular mommies and daddies) were being worked to death for improvement, while others like myself were all but ignored.

Now fast forward to Junior year: This was my time. I had waited through my sophomore year when all the older girls were still in control of the court. But now, I thought...NOW it'll be my time. Now all that was left was one senior player, a bunch of sophomores and freshman, and I was the lone junior. The summer before team practice sessions started I had worked my ass off. My parents had hired me both a personal trainer and a private basketball coach. I had improved all aspects of my game by 110% and absolutely could not wait to get out on the floor and show what I could do. All I needed was a little game experience, some confidence, and I just knew that I could shine. Especially on defense - in practice scrimmages I could strip the ball from anyone. I couldn't wait.

Unfortunately, in the weeks before the first practice I had gotten a terrible case of bronchitis and had run through the coughing in order to place in the state championships for my cross-country team. This had pretty much depleted my body for a while, and I came into the first practice not out of shape, but just not at the top of my game. I worked through it however, and within a few weeks I felt I had gained back whatever I had lost. I worked hard in practice and did well, and when games started I expected to be playing. I was wrong. At first, I would play 5-10 minutes. Then just five. Then five began to turn into three or four. Finally, after a game we had easily won, I trudged up the aisle of the bus to the seat of my coach so that I could confront her about having only played two minutes. I sat down and poured my heart out. "What am I doing wrong? What can I do to improve? How can I get more playing time??" It was basically a desperate plea to understand what it was that was so wrong with me. But I never could have expected the answer she would give. After mumbling something about shooting form and random rebounding issues that obviously indicated the fact that she hadn't really paid any attention to my play at all, she then dished out the lowest blows of all. She told me I was out of shape...and she told me she didn't think I was trying, or that I cared. How could she say this to me??? Tears flowed out of my eyes as I professed loving the game more than anything, more than life. And I begged her forgiveness for having not shown my tenacity on the court. I vowed to do better - swore it - and then returned to my seat where I sobbed in the corner, hating myself more and more with each passing thought.

From that day on, I was a machine. I woke early in the morning to practice in my driveway before school. I practiced before practice, I practiced after practice, and I practiced on Saturday when no one else was around. I ran suicides on my own every morning to get in better shape, and every extra moment was spent dribbling a ball or watching games - anything to help me improve. During running drills, players would tell me to chill out when they'd notice how I'd almost pass out afterwards - having beaten the entire team each and every trip down the court. But all of this really came to a head one day at practice when the coach's own daughter had smarted off and caused us all to have to hit the stairs. "Run until I tell you to stop," was the order, so we began running. Very quickly I was in the lead...and my lead grew. Pretty soon I had lapped them once, then twice...then three times. It was when I had reached the back of the line to begin my forth time lapping the rest of the team when I heard coach's voice yell out for me to stop. Not everyone else, just me. She had me sit down and rest while the others continued running for another 20 minutes. I didn't know whether she was rewarding me or just keeping me from making the others (her daughter included) from looking bad. I knew one thing, though - she had noticed me.

That weekend we had a big game versus our ultimate rivals - Shelby Valley. We hadn't won a game against them in almost 5 years, but tonight we had a chance. I went in once for about a minute - to give one of the starters a break - got a steal, and then was put back on the bench. I was pleased with how I had don, and was now praying I would get in again before the half. And I did. 30 seconds left in the first half, down by 2 points. I guess she figured this was the least "dangerous" time to put me in the game...maybe this way I couldn't "hurt anything".

As it turns out, I didn't hurt anything at all. One pass was made to me about 5 feet outside the 3-point arc. I spotted up, shot, and SWOOSH! Pikeville - up 1. We went into the locker room elated as I thanked God for the moment. My teammates practically carried me in before our halftime talk. We were told not to get too excited, but that we were doing a great job. I was so sure I'd get to go in again......but I didn't. We were down 2 points again at the end of the game. I didn't go in, a couple of girls missed some three pointers, we fouled them to stop the clock and lost by 5 or 6....

The next week, same thing happened. Down 2 at the end of first half. I go in, swish a 3-pointer. I never see the court again the rest of the game.

And then a funny thing happened. My playing time went from 30 seconds a game to not playing at all. I hadn't played for 3 successive games in a row when at the end of a game my coach particularly wanted to win, we were down by 3 with 15 seconds left. This time, when everything was on the line, she wanted me in the game! I went to the scorer's table but sadly, the clock never stopped and I never went in. In fact, I barely went in for the rest of the season.

I guess she didn't like scoring.

That summer I continued to play with the team. We played some scrimmage matches, one where we played Shelby Valley. I was allowed to play a full half since it was a scrimmage and in that half I made 4 three pointers, including one where I was fouled. I made the free-throw too. I wasn't allowed to go back in in the second half, and though we had been up by 10, we lost the game.

Every game for that entire year I drove home with teardrops splashing on my steering wheel. My dad once found me face first on the floor of my bedroom, sobbing into my jersey. I've never seen my father's heart break for me like it did that day. He knew this sport was destroying me, but he also knew he couldn't ask me to give it up...

Lucky for him, that's exactly what I ended up doing. The fall of my senior year had been the first year my school had fielded a soccer team. As it turns out, my coaches had respected my athleticism. I became the captain, tied for leading scorer, and played more minutes in every single 80-minute game than I had in an entire junior season of basketball. Still, thought, I didn't think I was ready to give it up. Until one night, on the bus ride back from my last soccer game, a few of the girls who knew the coach's daughter came to me and told me some of the things she had said about me. The coach's daughter, "Emily" we'll call her, had told them that the only reason I was on the team was because her mom felt sorry for me for being such a hard worker, but that I was terrible, and that every time I got in the games I messed things up. And that was it for me. This woman that I had respected so much, whether she had really said these things or not, was tearing me apart from the inside out.

The next day I packed my shoes just in case...but I knew what I was going to do. I walked into her office prepared to be strong - to tell her I was quitting and that was that; no tears. Unfortunately, that's not exactly how it worked out. I walked into the office, and slowly a monstrous lump began it's expansion in my throat till I could barely choke out words: "I'm retiring," I finally announced. She seemed "shocked" and almost caring. With a look of, "oh how sad" she cocked her head to the side and asked me if I was sure of my decision. I shook my head yes, and without warning my chin began to quiver. Tears came out of nowhere, and I began to quake from within. I began to apologize for not being better, to apologize for quitting...basically to apologize for being me. She walked over and hugged me as I shook, saying to me, "I'm so sorry, I know this hasn't turned out the way you wanted it too.." I almost want to puke when I think of those words now. When I think of the way I had been treated, undermined, lied to. I had never been the best basketball player in the world, but I was pretty damn good, and I would have been much better had I ever been given the chance to actually play. She then told me that she liked having me around for "team morale" because I worked so hard. But I wasn't going to be a mascot for anybody. I turned in the things required of me, gasped one more "I'm sorry", and left that office forever.


So many people told me I would regret quitting. And well, I guess in one sense I did. But what I really thought I would regret was ever having started playing in the first place, and especially having played for her. But now, many years later, the experience has had the opposite effect on me. It was in those early years of my athletic life that I learned how to work hard, and I learned to do it for little or no return. I did it for pure love of the game - and I still do, only a different game. And ya know, I'm glad I was treated so poorly. Had I not been, then perhaps I would have become a decent basketball player - maybe even played college ball. But would I have ever worn a red, white, and blue jersey? Would I have played in a National Championship? Would I have traveled to Europe? Played in the ocean in Iceland? Would I have met all the amazing people I have?? More importantly, would I ever have known what it's like to tackle and be tackled, or to push myself to the absolute physical and mental limit?? Would I ever have known what it's like to pull on a #9 jersey and feel that rush of being the general on the field, conducting and passing and running and yelling...no time-outs...no subs...?????

The answer to all that is NO. A hundred times no. And best of all, now I have the knowledge to truly appreciate all the wonderful coaches there are in the world of rugby. People who, in my experience, have sacrificed time, money, and plenty of sanity just because they love being out there. They've taught me not only how to be a better player, but in some cases how to be a better person as well. And beyond that, they've enriched my life by teaching me the little things...that puppets with machine guns can be funny, how to balance oranges on the back of your neck, when green and yellow toenail polish is a good idea, the alternate meaning of "ice cream", and that sometimes you've gotta fight to earn that "blue ribbon"... =)

I can't name one coach in rugby that has been the most talented or the most supportive or my favorite or whatever. They've all been amazing in their own ways - and to be honest, none of them have stopped teaching me. Despite my move to different teams or their moves to different jobs, I still receive feedback and support. It's an amazing network of people who have used every resource in their power to help me, and to help all those who are willing to learn. Because of that, I can't pick a favorite from among them. The only thing I can tell you, then, is about the worst coach I ever had...the worst, and the best.

She destroyed one dream, but in doing so, helped me to find another, far superior one. Her destruction of my self-esteem has allowed me to find the people who would eventually build it back up - the right way.

So thanks, coach. Thanks for destroying basketball so that I could find rugby. And thanks for being the best (worst) coach I've ever had.