Little Dribbler, National Champion

I just witnessed my cousinito (little cousin - she'd be my cousin-niece if we had a word for it in English) become a National Champion in Little Dribblers, at a basketball court in Franklin, Texas. National Champion. Has quite a ring to it, right? Imagine how a 10-year-old girl feels having that title to throw behind her name now. Imagine roll call: "BONNIE FIELDS." "National Champion HERE!"

Actually, two things about that. First, the actual title of the Little Dribblers tournament was the "Continental National Tournament." Just enjoy that one for a minute. (In doing a little research on the website for the event, apparently the "Continental" version of the tournament is for those communities, holding Little Dribblers charters, under a population of 2,500. The biggest version, the "National" - as in the "National National Tournament", I'm assuming? - has a population limit of 35,000. So this is small-town stuff, pretty much. Or, as you'll see next...) The other thing is that all the places involved in the Continental National Tournament are from Texas. (All over, though - one team came all the way from Farwell, which is an hour and a half north-west of Lubbock, right near the New Mexico border; they lost the championship game. Ouch. That's a really, REALLY long bus ride back.) I have two potential explanations for this. One is that Little Dribblers happens in more states than just Texas, and each one has its version of the "National" tournament. The more fun explanation for me (which, unfortunately, I just found out to be false because I read this - but humor me anyways) is that, in the deep reaches of small-town Texas, there is still a strong sentiment that Texas should be, as it once was, its own country. Thus, any competition comprised entirely of teams from Texas, is a "national" competition. Heck, even despite the Little Dribblers history page, there may be a fair few who would fire off a shotgun into the air in affirmation of such a sentiment. God Bless Texas.

Hey now, I really don't want my having a little fun with this to detract from my cousinito's accomplishment. Seriously - who would have ever thought that elementary-age girls' basketball could be so enthralling and nerve-wracking? I'll tell you what. I'm hoarse, and a little bit worn out emotionally.

I went to two games today. They'd already won several games this week, but lost one yesterday, in a double-elimination tournament. So the first game today could have been their last. It was a nail-biter, with the Lady Devils (my cousinito's team) staying ahead by about 2-4 points most of the game - not a comfortable lead to those in the stands by any means, especially when the star player from the opposing team - who's a pretty darn good shooter - runs the ball down the court and makes the same play EVERY TIME, keeping the pressure on. That's one thing about basketball with kids this age, especially girls (no offense, but hear me out): they haven't really learned to think for themselves yet (probably true across sexes), which is not helped by the fact that their reaction time is so slow (probably less true across sexes) that if the ball is loose and heading for the sideline, you can put money on it being a turnover. Or worse yet, all the passes that were totally catchable or retrieve-able that ended up flying out of bounds.

I'm sure I'd be more disappointed with such minor blunders if they'd lost. But hey - SCOREBOARD!

After that, I went home, because I wasn't quite sure whether I'd make it back for the evening game. Wow - that was almost a really dumb decision, potentially not going back. But I thought about it, and I don't get to see this part of my family all that often, and especially for something so big, so... national to a little girl, it would be really cool to support her in it. So I went back for the Championship game.

This time we were in the Big Gym (Franklin High School's best, with elevated bleachers on both sides, so this time we could actually shout at the other team's fan-base, rather than just juxta them). Gosh, I was so nervous. Remember that one loss I'd mentioned? This was that team. Oh, and after the first game today, here's what the coach said to the girls, "Okay, tonight we're going to play Buffalo. Remember that those girls were passing well and making shots and pretty much doing everything flawlessly out there on the floor. I'd like for us to be doing the same." (Gee, coach, I don't know whether to be more disturbed at our prospects tonight, or the way you're drooling over their athleticism.) I may have had a super-fan exterior on. But inside, I had all the confidence - in this team of little girls - of, well, a little girl.

Things quickly did a massive 180. After the first quarter, the Lady Devils were on top 10-2. For those of you not acquainted with young girls' basketball, eight points has the potential of taking five to ten minutes of game time to be scored. By both teams together. Which is an eternity in basketball-reckoning. At the half, with continued Lady Devil domination, an eleven-point lead. And huge heads all around on our side of the court. Not a whole lot changed during the third quarter, I think, though the Lady Devils' offense started to slow down. Fourth quarter.

Fourth quarter. Something changed. Namely, the position of my stomach, which was now somewhere in the general vicinity of my ankles. Something else changed: the no full-court press rule. That's a handy little rule I'd never heard of before (must be particular to younger-age game-play) - for the first three quarters, no one is allowed to defend the back court. Doing so will actually earn you a technical foul. (Honestly, there were other odd rules that made the game a little annoying to watch, because not only were the referees a little whistle-happy, they were frequently calling these penalties which were quite foreign to me. If I'd had more of a voice by this point, I think I'd have been yelling more protest.) What does all that mean? Suddenly, the Lady Devils were being afflicted in the back court, and they were not handling it well - at all. Actually, the other team went on something like an 8-0 run, with the Lady Devils failing to even make it past half-court ONCE. It was infuriating. Not to mention that since Buffalo was so close to Franklin, they had a huge cheering section, and so once their girls got some momentum back, the cheers coming from across the court were quite imposing. Also, and I won't go into this because I'll just end up getting worked up, the Lady Devils' coach would not have his girls maintain any pressure in the back court. So the fourth quarter, for the most part, felt like a Lady Bison shooting rampage.

And then the Devils broke through to the other side. Hallelujah. Somebody made a shot. Thank you, Lord. (My cousinito told me later that at some point, while she was on the court, she was praying. ;) Maybe it was at this point?) But the Bisons answered. And oh, crap - they pulled ahead. At this point I sat down and looked dejected. The Devils had blown a 12-point lead in a matter of minutes (the quarters are only 6 minutes, anyways). Time was ticking off the clock. In about the last minute of game play, players on both sides were shooting free throws. Somewhere in all of that, someone tied the game up. This lasted until the end of regulation time. So now there was overtime! Can you imagine the tension in the room? If you've never witnessed elementary girls' basketball, you probably can't imagine it. But you could cut it with a knife. Not that they'd probably appreciate you carrying one into a tournament like this, though.

2 minutes on the clock. Tip-off. Lady Bisons get the ball - shot's no good. Lady Devils' turn. Nothing. This pattern repeats itself for what seems like a hundred years. Finally, fortune strikes. A Bison fouled a Devil! Two shots at the line! I mutter inaudibly, "You really need to make both of these." She makes one. Better than nothing, as you can probably already guess. Oh, and at this point there are 9 seconds left on the clock. Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Just enough time for one of those agonizing last plays where the other team rushes down the court, barely manages to get an open shot, throws up a wild prayer, and sinks it, along with all of our dignity. But then a miracle happened. Bisons inbound the ball. A Devil contests the Bison-recipient of the ball. The clock ticks. They scramble for the ball, both unfoulingly (a miracle in itself). The clock keeps ticking. Now they're both on the floor trying to get the ball. The clock stops ticking. Hey! The clock stopped ticking. And no whistles have been blown! And now everyone on our side of the court is cheering, and all the Lady Devils have these uber-surprised looks on their faces and are also yelling and cheering. They won the Continental National Championship! (Yes, Queen actually does come on over the loudspeaker at this point. These Little Dribblers really know how to create a moment!)

Somewhere in the next few minutes of elation, both teams line up to be announced and receive their honors and trophies. This is the part where my heart broke. Looking over at the Lady Bisons, several of the little girls were sobbing and wiping their eyes. Mine started to leak, too. (They are even now. Wow, I can't even imagine how much of a pushover I'm going to be if Kathryn and I ever have any girls.) Okay, I'm about to offend some people now, and I'm not going to apologize for it, either. While I don't really have a problem with girls playing sports, I'm just going to go ahead and question whether they're really designed for sports. Now, I definitely recognize there are females who are great athletes, and even for those who aren't, I don't have any problem seeing value in their athletic pursuits. But here's the thing: those didn't look like emotionally healing tears as much as they did emotionally damaging tears. And what effect does it have on girls to have coaches yelling at them so harshly when they forget which play is being run? I wonder whether something is being lost in developing the tough skin to cope with all the pain of the gym floor, or field, or court - something beautiful. (Granted, we have some friends with a very young son who, when playing soccer, cries whether he messes up a kick or scores a goal - so it's tricky to make hard, fast rules - but I still wonder.)

Anyways, back to story. Lady Bisons have all been called. Now Lady Devils are lined up to go pick up their trophies (they were so excited, twice the whole line starts for the middle of the floor before their names are called). I cheer most loudly when Bonnie is called up. They stand in the middle of the court, raising trophies high, with parents behind and around me in near-hysteria. What a great moment.

Later Bonnie was telling me she thought the trophies were supposed to be about "this tall" (she reaches her hand about a foot above her head). We go to dinner at a Mexican restaurant to celebrate, and Chelsea (my same-ish-age cousin, Bonnie's mom) answers the loads of voicemail she got and spreads the news of the victorious Lady Devils, radiating with pride, as was Bruce, her husband/Bonnie's dad. Ah, what a night.

Here's to you, Bonnie. Congratulations. Enjoy your victory, little miss National Champion.

Mountain man and aspiring artist? (part 1)

New Blog!
Dear adoring fans and breaders-Like-You,
Welcome to my new blog! Not only had JoeZone not been updated in a while, but it had also begun to seem to me like clothes that just don't fit anymore once you've lost some weight. (Or even, perhaps, those clothes were starting to wear through around the armpits because of you wearing them all the time on account of how awesome you thought they were during that time, but then fashions start to change and you realize it's probably time to toss the old Hypercolor tee.) It's not a perfect analogy because I think there was some good stuff on there (in terms of the subtext and substance; of course, the writing was excellent, or so I've heard. Or maybe that was one of those inner-cranial conversations? I don't remember now.), but that's not to say there wasn't a measure more of the self-absorbed spirit, which I feel I'm starting to shed, than I'm agreeable to perpetuate. Along with that came my tendency towards self-disparaging remarks, which I'd like to mighty-morph into a healthy self-respect (which I'm learning doesn't have to be self-worship - any other recovering pop-psychology-skeptics out there?). Anyways, what better place to work all of this out than on the 'net? It's like blogs are to normal face-to-face social interaction what draining the beef-grease before adding the Hamburger Helper is to a meal. Ideally. Or else it's like a teenage slumber party in which one of the kids has access to Mom and Dad's car key and its automobile (accompanied by an opportune lack of parental oversight), where stupidity has a chance to percolate before bubbling out into the most unfortunate places. So in one such fashion or the other will I work out this personal transformation. Either way. But also neither, too - because it's probably better to work out life's big questions in community as opposed to all by oneself. So whatever.

The particular stories which occasion this post (as well as the next - I'll be splitting them up seeing as I already seem to be digressing more than progressing) are quite appropriate and timely for the contemporaneous life-shifting and blog-hopping. One is a tale of adventure, the kind that every man should have regularly so that the world, with its institutions and fixations on safety and risk-management and comfort, doesn't tame him - especially if he finds himself at a desk or computer each day (not necessarily a bad thing, but it's just not in our nature to sit still! Look at little boys, and remember they are the way they are because God made them that way. There's a lot less fallen-ness in youthful energy and vitality than is easy to believe, in my opinion.); the other is a tale of vocational discovery (what is it that God, throughout the course of my life, in all of my doings and pursuings and learnings and strugglings, is preparing me for? It's the "big question", and it's so much more than merely paid employment, though neither is that excluded). Both stories are ones I believe may ultimately prove to have been critical to my journey of self-and-other-within-Kingdom discovery. Or else they'll suffice as acceptable blog-fodder. Either way. But hopefully more the former. So whatever.

Potential milestone #1: The call of the wild (don't let it go to voicemail)
From Nine March to Eleven March Two-Thousand Aught Eight In the Year of Our Lord Anno Domini, did myself and my portly pack ascend the mount beyond the River Paluxy upon the Park of the Valley of the Thunder-Lizard, and there we did make camp and exercise much manliness through the lugging of said pack, the subsequent scaling of lofty cliffs, the drowsy braving of thunderstorms, the marking of trees and ensuing domination of nature, and the continual sweating-through of apparel. Yea, most assuredly, did no pleasant odor go unconquered.

Ironically, I was expecting that backpacking would allow me to get away for a few days of relative relaxation and peaceful reflection. No sooner did monkeys fly out of my butt than I said to myself, "Spike, that was pretty danged naive." One-man backpacking is a heckuva lot of work, especially when you get onto the wrong trail an hour before dark, and by the providence of God stumble onto a different campsite with just enough time to set up a tent before dark and the onslaught of a Texas thunderstorm, only to wake up the next morning with a wet tent and sleeping bag, and still somehow think how much you'd like to continue on to that campsite which the park ranger said was his favorite (which happens also to be the one furthest out), if for no other reason than to prove how much of a man you are. And since such was utterly and undeniably proved, it was therefore a heckuva lot of work. But an awesome experience.

Oh, and it gets lonely and scary in the wild of those state parks where there may not be any major roads or facilities for literally thousands of feet, and where, at night, you can almost feel the hot, putrid breath of the wild raccoons and white-tailed deer on the thin tent-nylon, cold and dewy from the rain of the forty-degree, onslaught-uous Texas thunderstorm. And me without my hatchet! Thus the marking of trees. Not to mention the mini-concert of songs that any person or thing within probably a couple-mile radius heard that night as I belted out my defense against the enveloping darkness. The score: Darkness and Beasts-of-the-Wild, zero; Joe, eight-hundred and ninety-three. Million.

So, all things considered, and all hatchets and packs back in their respective places of storage, do I think I got out of the whole experience what I thought I was signing up for? Probably not. Did I get more, and in different ways than I expected? Probably so, and most definitely yes! And so, to this day, some people who backpack in DVSP say that, on cold, thunderous nights, they can still hear a young man singing:

Then sings my soul,
My Savior, God, to Thee,
Back up offa me, raccoons,
How great Thou art!

Or something like that.

Tune in next time for...
Potential milestone #2: The-artist-soon-to-be-known-as-Joe-Peebles?