Shame by Greg Garrett

B. W. and realizing for the first time—even though I’d coached him for three years, even though I’d watched every game he’d played since junior high, even though I’d played him myself hundreds of times since he was old enough to loft the ball as high as the basket—that he was the real thing. He had the physical gifts, but there was more to it than that; he had the intelligence to know he’d have a cutter coming back door, to loft a pass to Micheal Wilkes when Micheal’s defender shifted around to front him and left the path to the basket open, to penetrate the lane and dish the ball off to Bird for an easy jumper when the defense collapsed to cut off his drive.
    It was more than intelligence; basketball intelligence can be learned, but instincts are something you can’t teach, and that’s what he had.
    So maybe I fell down on my duty as referee. It was not a huge failing; they called their own fouls, mostly, and I caught the most flagrant that went uncalled. What was important, what stayed with me, was what I saw that day, what I learned.
    I learned that my son was something special, the basketball player I always wanted to be and never was, and I don’t think he realized it any more than I had.
    So when B. W. popped a jumper from the top of the key with Albert Heap of Birds right in his face, his arms raised, when that beautiful high arc passed through the net like a diver cleanly knifing into the water, I whistled practice to an end. I wanted to keep that image, and so I exercised the power I possessed to preserve it unsullied. “Take your laps,” I called. “Then hit the showers. You played hard. Tomorrow we’ll go back to drills.”
    They took off like the tired but happy kids they were. But before B. W. could hit his stride, I dropped my hand to his shoulder to detain him, patted him awkwardly a couple of times, and said, finally, “It’s a joy to watch you play.”
    He smiled—almost sadly, then said, simply, “Thanks, Dad.” And he sprinted off to catch up to the others.
    I watched, shaking my head and smiling. It was a day when I learned much, not the least of which was that not all memorable events transpire in morning time.
    October 20, 1994
    Mr. Bill Cobb
Cobb and Associates
12344 N. Preston Road
Dallas, TX 75231
    Dear Bill:
    The Watonga school board has asked me to convey to you our appreciation for your generous donation to the school’s basketball program. As you directed, your money will be used to buy new game jerseys for the high school varsity team, and I am pleased to inform you that your gift will be acknowledged by a plaque in the lobby of the gymnasium and by a presentation made during halftime of the fund-raiser exhibition played between the 1974-75 varsity and the 1994-95 varsity teams in late December.
    Again, thank you for your generous contribution to the success of our basketball squad.
    Sincerely,
    John Tilden, Coach
Watonga High School Eagles basketball team
    October 20, 1994
    Mr. and Mrs. John Tilden
7743 Sunny Acres
Phoenix, AZ 85372
    Dear Mom and Dad,
    Good to hear about your plans to come home for Christmas, although it seems silly to come all this way even for such an awe inspiring event as the Bill Cobb Commemorative Basketball Game. I hope we’ll get to spend plenty of time with you on either side of that august occasion. Is Candy coming, or does she have other plans? She’s welcome, of course, if she wants to come, although she may have to sleep in the hay.
    Of course, I could put Michael out there, or she and he could trade off, since they would never be occupying the room at the same time. He’s not any better and maybe a lot worse, and it seems to be rubbing off on B. W., believe it or not. I thought I had him, at least, figured out. Now I wonder how completely I may have misunderstood everyone in my life.
    Did you guys ever feel like this (or have I gone over the edge