My Dad Taught Me Basketball and I Learned About Life

Between the ages of 11 and 13 I was taught the game of basketball by my dad. Hours we spent on the court--at the playground or down at the church. It always began with the hopeful question, "Dad, can we play some basketball?" I can’t remember him ever telling me no. He would grab his keys, I would grab my ball, and we were off.

I desperately wanted to learn this difficult game and become great. What I lacked in talent I made up for in sheer will. This fact would become the first of many metaphors that would shape the rest of my life. Hard work and determination can compensate for lack of raw talent.

The incredible move that I set my heart on learning first was known as the reverse pivot. Whirling backward against the pivot foot, with ball in hand, you would whisk the ball away from the defender lunging for a steal and magically blow past him for a drive to the hoop. This was a tough move for an 11-year-old to master, and I often complained in frustration about how hard it was to do.

“I can’t do it!” I would exclaim in discouragement.

“Don’t say can’t!”, or often “It’ll come!” was the inevitable reply. And it did come. I achieved what to me was the impossible, and this would form the second metaphor in a life that would later confront me with seeming impossibilities.

“You’ve got to know where the other nine players are at all times.” This was drummed into me better than any Catholic student ever learned The Lord’s Prayer. I learned it so well that it became second nature for me, omnipresent in my mind across all facets of my life. When I drive I know where all the other cars are within a hundred yards—in front, behind, and to the sides. When navigating crowds, the same principle rules my mind.

“Practice, practice, practice!” I heard the words so much that they wearied me. But the principle was learned for a lifetime, and I came to understand that anything could be mastered if enough practice was applied.

I was taught that when running, whirling, juking or jiving, when it comes time to actually shoot, you must stop dead, get balanced, jump straight up, and softly release the ball. When speeding or whirling through life, sometimes you have to stop, square up, focus, and accomplish something important.

So many other gems of wisdom I learned as my dad taught me basketball. It was okay to lose as long as I didn’t give up. Good sportsmanship is important. Always hustle. Listen to the coach and be teachable. And most important I learned that my dad loved me enough to spend time with me.

Now, as I teach my nine-year-old son this game of all games, I find myself passing along the same wisdom that has guided me for decades. There is something that goes far deeper than basketball in this multigenerational passage of principles from father to son. My dad learned the game from his dad. And my son may teach it to his son. The sport itself is perhaps incidental, but the patriarchal chain of nurturing wisdom is the real thing.