Sticks and Stones

He challenged me in front of the team. It's hard for any player to deal with a lack of playing time, especially when he has more skills than the guy in front of him. One evening at practice, ToughGuy had enough and let off some steam.

Most young players don't understand what it means to play a "role." This is due in part to the overglorification of superstars in professonal sports. Every time a guy steps to the free throw line in the NBA, his stats are displayed on the screen. When a baseball player emerges from the on-deck circle to bat, his stats are displayed on the screen. Individual stats are everywhere in professional sports and the "star" gets his ego stroked every night on Sportscenter. Very rarely is "team" ever mentioned on a telecast. As a result, most kids naturally want to be the "man."

The guy I had chosen to start ahead of ToughGuy was the prototypical role player. There were four other starters who could score and he happily deferred to them. He just focused on rebounding and defending. ToughGuy, on the other hand, had something to prove every time he entered the game. As a result, he'd make mistakes and come right back to the bench. Several games into the season it became clear to me that ToughGuy wasn't going to accept a simplified role on the team.

During practice after a game where he didn't play much, I noticed that ToughGuy kept fouling teammates in a particular drill. I blew the whistle and heard him mutter something. I ignored it. When we started the drill again, he became even more aggressive and repeated what he had previously muttered loud enough so I could hear him.

He called me a faggot.

Living the "Dream"

I have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream. I have a dream that one day I won't have to work. I'll be able to sit around comfortably and do as I please without fear of losing my apartment, car, or cell phone service. I have a dream. I have a dream that this reality will be actualized sooner rather than later so I can live happily ever after. This dream is realistic. It is a realistic dream because I know of grown men who (despite their inability to keep any kind of job) are able to live more comfortably than people who worked for forty years saving up for retirement.

In the two years that I have known Flash he has held three relatively easy jobs. The summer I met him, he was working at the YMCA in his town as a camp counselor. That should've been a cake job for a young man with his outgoing personality...not so much. One morning I showed up to see him at work. While the children were off playing, he was in the gym shooting around alone. He told me that his supervisor was cool with this. Shortly before the school year began, he was dismissed.

Part of my pitch for Flash to leave his friendly confines to play for me an hour away (at a school with no dorms) was that I would hook him up with a job. I made good on my promise. Flash was hired to work at an afterschool program ten minutes away from campus. It took two months for him to lose that job. One of the kids was found eating a crayon unsupervised in his designated area.

At the start of his second year, he got a job working at the Athletic Center. Flash was actually doing okay there for awhile until the stress of working at an Athletic Center with few patrons got to him. He randomly stopped showing up for work one day.

A loan paid for his apartment at school. Back home, he lived with his girlfriend in a government subsidized three bedroom apartment that housed anywhere from six to eight people at a time. He didn't have to pay anything because his girlfriend was holding it down with the welfare check.

Flash is living the American Dream.

Kick His A$$, Coach!

I value my livelihood too much to punch an idiot in the throat for disrespecting me. That motto has lead me to lead a life of turning in early on Friday evenings. The past four years I've restricted my outings to three venues because I know the likelihood of a fight occuring at those places is like President Obama getting caught in the oval office with an intern and a cigar. Even though I've taken extensive measures not to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, trouble has found me from time to time on the basketball court.

One particular character, ToughGuy, didn't like me very much. Truthfully, I couldn't stand him either. His attitude sucked. He was arrogant. To top it off, he wasn't a very good player or teammate. Our problems began during a playoff game when I was an Assistant Coach with the team.

(ToughGuy is chiding the refs from the bench)
Me: You need to chill out, man. We're going to pick up a tech if you don't stop.
ToughGuy: I don't care! It's not like I'm getting into the game.
Me: So because you aren't playing that gives you cause to act like an idiot?
ToughGuy: Yup.
Me: If that's the attitude you're gonna take on, then go back to the locker room. We don't need that!
ToughGuy: Make me.
Me: What?!?
ToughGuy: Yeh. You ain't gonna do shit!
Me: Man, don't let the shirt and tie fool you! WE CAN DO THIS!!
ToughGuy: OH YEH!! We can do this when we get back to Worcester...

Being the adult in the situation, and realizing I had let my temper get the best of me, I pulled him aside when we got back to Worcester and apologized for threatening him. Beating up an 18 year old wasn't going to accomplish anything. The following year, my first as Head Coach, I made the mistake of keeping him on the team. His follow-up act to that bench display was far more egregious.

Fuzzy Math

Perception and self-esteem have a very dear and close relationship--kind of like peanut butter and jelly, or cereal and milk. They're inextricably linked. Confident people are likely to "tell it as it is" because there's an internal mechanism that allows them to handle the truth. For the person who wakes up and sees Snuffleupagus in the mirror, his/her version of reality has to be taken with a grain of salt. Basically, when life isn't sweet, folks will naturally add sugar to make it bearable.

At the end of this past academic year I told Thuglife that his GPA was a 2.0 and that he needed to take a couple of summer classes to bring his credits up to 24 (from 18). We also discussed what needed to happen during the summer for him to improve upon his strong freshman year on the court (13.3 ppg). The day before his summer classes started I gave him a pep talk to make sure he knew there was no wiggle room for anything less than a C in either class.

Me: Don't forget. You have a 2.0 and 18 credits. If you get a C- and a C, you'll be ineligible to play this Fall.
Thuglife: I don't have a 2.0. I have a 2.3.
Me: No, really... You have a 2.0. I told you this already. We reviewed your transcript and everything.
Thuglife: I don't get how I got a 2.0. I got a A and a C second semester. That's a 2.3.
Me: Yes, and I already told you that the 2.3 was only for that session. Your cumulative is a 2.0. I showed you this. Why are we arguing about your GPA?
Thuglife: Oh nah. I'm just sayin that right now I have a 2.3.

A month later I overheard him sharing some incorrect information with his cousin about his freshman year statistics. What's worse is that I was standing right there.

Cousin: How much did you average last year?
Thuglife: 15 points per game.
Me: (intervening) No, you didn't. I told you that your average was 13.3 ppg. We talked about this like two weeks ago.
Thuglife: The other coach told me I put up 15 ppg.

The Cock Crowed Three Times...

The past four years I've been the equivalent of a parked car for pigeons. Despite my commitment to seeing these guys succeed, most of them take one big shit on me once it's time to fly away from the nest.

One of the things that stood out to me about Flash was the fact that few people, other than his girlfriend (Boobee) and child, would consistently show up to cheer him on during road games when we'd traveled back to his old stomping grounds. At one game, we were literally three blocks away from his neighborhood and he had a cheering section of five people: Boobee, baby, brother, dad, and dad's girlfriend. That was one of two games his father attended in the two years that he played here.

Former teachers or coaches never came out. There wasn't a mentor in the stands. Friends weren't there either. I often wondered how such a seemingly good-hearted, talented, social individual had such a small fanbase back home. I was determined to stay connected with him beyond his stint with me. The second to last time I saw him we had a very moving exchange.

(Mid-March)
Me: Where the hell have you been since the season ended? I rarely see you around campus. Your mid-term grades look good, though. (2 Bs, 1 C, and 1 unreported grade)
Flash: Yeh Coach. I'm bustin ass! Gotta leave here on a good note.
Me: So have you heard back from any schools? Did you get in anywhere?
Flash: I've gotten into my top choice. That's all that matters to me!
Me: You did?!?!?
Flash: Yeh man. All thanks to you. I know you're feeling good about gettin me to this point.
Me: (feeling so happy) Nah man. It was all you. I just kept pushing. I never did any of the work. You did it.
Flash: Yeh. It feels good! I ain't even gonna front. That coach really wants me. I can't wait.

A week later the Dean of Students informed me that Flash contacted her to withdraw from school. This was in early April. He was failing all of his classes. A month later he moved out of his apartment and didn't clean it out despite several pleas on my part for him to do so even though he knew the landlord was harassing me about it. He also bailed with his uniform (valued at $100) and refuses to return it.

Psych 101

Men go to great lengths to hide their issues. "Playas", for example, aren't born with that mentality. I believe filandering is a retaliation/defense mechanism that men have developed over time to deal with some deeper issues. It makes total sense to me that in this "dog eat dog" society playas decide to hurt others before they get hurt because they've been hurt and don't want to be hurt again. This train of thought has lead me to read deeper into the smallest things that people say and do.

Based on DeeOne's need for constant attention and reassurance, I decided to ask his caseworker at the DCF what his deal was. By the time this conversation occurred, I had already decided against inviting him to be on the team. However, I was really intrigued by him. DeeOne had been a ward of his state since he was 9 years old. His mother passed when he was a child, and he had never met his father. Since DeeOne didn't sign a waiver granting his agency permission to share information with me, I didn't get any feedback other than "he has some issues and received services from us in the past." No shit.

DeeOne was very clear about his love for women. As a matter of fact, when I called him on his shirtless poses on facebook he told me that the purpose of those photos was to show off his abs! According to DeeOne, he had worked for years to develop his abs because as a boy he was chubby. Nothing was odd about this. Most 20 year old straight men want to be noticed by women. The red flags didn't come out initially, but once he cracked the door open I saw a lot more than he wanted to show. The extent of DeeOne's issues became clear to me when he and I chatted in my office during his random visit to campus.

Me: You have a lot to learn in terms of how you carry yourself around professionals.
DeeOne: How you figure?
Me: When you were talking to the VP in the hallway, you never made eye contact with him.
DeeOne: Yeh?
Me: Even right now as I'm talking to you, you won't look me in the eye.
DeeOne: I have a hard time looking men in the eye.
Me: I see.

I'll Kill You!!!

Some basketball coaches are crazy. I wouldn't qualify myself as such, but I have a very bad temper. In three years, I've broken a chair and a telephone. During a time-out, I snapped a diagram board in half by putting my fist through it. I've even dented the bulletin board and lockers in our team room. My worst tantrum came on the road when I put my fist through a wall. Each year I get better at keeping it cool, but there are times where...things just happen.

Just when I thought my temper was a problem, a conversation with another coach made me realize that I might fall on the "sane" side of the continuum.

JC: Hey, Coach. Lemme ask you something. Did a kid named DeeOne contact you about playing up there?
Me: Yes, he did. That kid is something else! Do you know that he texted me at 4:53 am to let me know that he sprained his ankle. This dude was texting me at all sorts of odd hours and calling me. What's his deal?
JC: (laughs) I don't know, man. Yeh. He was trying to play here not too long ago.
Me: Really?? Why didn't you take him? It seems like he'd be a good point guard in our league.
JC: Coach, this kid...let me tell you... It got so bad that my Assistant Coach told him to stop calling his cell phone or he'd kill him!

He's a Creep Too?!?!?

Creeps are strictly forbidden from playing on my team. I make that very clear from day one. As a matter of fact, I have five specific bullets in the team contract that relate specifically to how my players are expected to approach women (if that's their preference).

1. Women are not to be called bitches, hoes, sluts, rags, or whatever other slang you've come up with to reference women.
2. None of you (under any circumstances) will "tag-team" on a woman, even if she's "down for it."
3. You will not get a woman drunk in order to get busy with her.
4. You will not stalk a woman.
5. You will not spread rumors about a woman whether true or false under any circumstance.

I was shocked, but not totally surprised that a prospective player violated rule number four before he ever secured a commitment to play here. While I was in the Athletic Center one afternoon, a young woman alerted me about a potential creep.

RD: One of your guys got at me on facebook. He wanted to let me know he was going to be on the team. It was kinda weird. I don't know how he found my page.
Me: Who??
RD: I can't remember his name, but he was like...haha.. "you don't know me, but we've met before." He doesn't look familiar.
Me: Can you tell me what he looks like?
RD: He's from outta town. Light skinned. He says he's going to be your point guard. Anyway, he said that I met him sometime in the past but I don't know him from a hole in the wall.
Me: (racking my brain)
RD: He even named another player on the team. I don't know how he found me on facebook. I've never met the kid in my life, but he said he knows me.
Me: Are you talking about DeeOne?!?!?!
RD: Yeh!! That's his name!

No Means Yes!!

DeeOne was more persistent than a crack fiend who hasn't found a drug dealer in three days. One of the difficulties for me in coaching this population has been my inability to turn a blind eye to hopelessness. I tend to feel like some of these guys behave as they do because nobody has taken the time to teach them otherwise. That mentality has lead me to extend myself to individuals who need way more than positive reinforcements or sound advice. Six years into this, I know for certain that some of these behaviors stem from undiagnosed mental health issues.

DeeOne was determined to play for me this season. I don't know if I was his last hope, or what, but the kid wouldn't stop trying to get a commitment from me. One morning he texted at 7 a.m. to let me know he was on his way to visit. A short while later, he texted again to let me know that somebody "stole his return ticket" while he was asleep.

I thought his trip here was odd for two reasons. First, the last time we communicated I basically told him to "get lost." Secondly, I'd been clear that I need advanced notice to accommodate him during a campus visit.

After intentionally making DeeOne wait at the bus station for an hour and a half, I went to pick him up. I contemplated not going at all, but I felt it was my responsibility to help him understand the ridiculousness of his actions.

Me: Do you realize how many mistakes you've made with me in the three weeks we've been communicating?
DeeOne: What you mean?
Me: See. That's why we're talking because I don't think you realize how poorly you're presenting yourself. I'm gonna take my coach hat off and help you out as a young brotha.
DeeOne: yup
Me: Let me ask you a question. If you met a really fly female who came at you hard and made it clear she was ready to get down, what would you do?
DeeOne: LOL! Cmon Coach. I'd handle my biz. LOL!
Me: Easy question, right? Now what if she told you she had herpes? Would you still get down with her?
DeeOne: Heck naw, man! Ain't nobody worth all that!
Me: As a coach, how do you think I look at a player who's calling me once a week about an injury, or texting me at odd hours with different issues? You limped from the car to my office. Do you think I want damaged goods on my team?
DeeOne: Got you. I see what you sayin..

After this conversation, I took him to lunch so we could talk some more. I felt like there was a breakthrough. When I dropped him off afterwards, he asked me for money to get back home. I didn't give him a dime.

Lebraun's Tough "Decision"

Lebraun had a huge dilemma on his hands. For most people, this choice would have been an easy one to make but Lebraun isn't like everybody else. I'm not sure how many people were in on helping him make this decision, but I was grateful that he included me in his thought process. (Note: Refer to first post of this blog from August to get Lebraun's background story.)

("The Phone Call")
Lebraun: Ay, Coach.. uhh, I don't know what to do right now so I wanna talk about this witchu.
Me: What's on your mind? By the way, did you ever find out who smashed your girlfriend's car window?
Lebraun: Nah. We never found out who smashed the window. See. I just got a job offer but I don't know what to do because of basketball.
Me: You know you aren't on the team yet, right?
Lebraun: Yeh I know that but I'm workin on the stuff you told me to work on.
Me: Conditioning, left hand, right hand, jump shot, footwork, ballhandling and defense?
Lebraun: All of dat.
Me: About 30 people are tryin out, you know. Since you never played hs ball I think you're gonna have a hard time running plays.
Lebraun: I'll work on dat too! Right now I'm broke and I got no pot to piss in. I ain't had a job in years. People be lettin me borrow money and all but I need my own paper.
Me: Honestly, I think you should work. That's no way for a 22 year old man to be livin'. If you choose to work, I'll support your decision.
Lebraun: Thanks, Coach.

The next time I saw Lebraun, which was a week later, he informed me of "his decision."

("The Decision")
Me: When do you start the job?
Lebraun: Nah Coach. I ain't take the job!
Me: What? Really? You had a guaranteed job with hours and didn't take it?
Lebraun: Nah. I wanna try out for the team!!

I Need Some Attention!!!

DeeOne craved a lot of attention. I realized this after he texted at 4:53 in the morning (Saturday) to let me know he sprained his ankle. Until this very moment, I'm not sure if he expected me to drive an hour to rub his ankle, or if he wanted a reassuring phone call. I simply looked at my phone in disgust and put it back on the nightstand.

A few hours later, he called to explain that his ankle was sprained while playing ball in a tournament. In the process he also sprained his finger badly. I listened to it all and told him to call me in a few days with an update. His willingness to share information about these injuries was interesting to me because, after all, his goal was to play in the fall.

The next day (which was a Sunday) he called me three straight times in the early evening. Since I was with family at the time, I opted not to pick up the phone. DeeOne didn't like this snub.

(via text)
DeeOne: Do you want me to play for you or not?
Me: What?
DeeOne: I'm sayin, you ain't actin like you want me.
Me: How do you want me to show I want you? I think you're good. You'll help us this fall.
DeeOne: That's it?
Me: I'm not getting where you're coming from. I'm with my family right now and don't have time for this nonsense.
DeeOne: I just don't feel the vibe that you want me up there. I'm that dude! I can ball!!!
Me: Maybe you're better off going somewhere else because I'm not gonna leave my family to massage your ego.
DeeOne: We can talk tomorrow, Coach. I just wanna know what you think of my game!
Me: No. Seriously. Go to another school. I'm annoyed you even texted me this bull!

A week later DeeOne called me. This time he was at the hospital. Early that morning he was in a car accident and hurt his knee in the wreck.

DeeOne's Hoop Dreams

DeeOne learned about us through Armslong. They played ball in the same area and knew of each other well. Like Armslong, DeeOne wanted to move out here from Connecticut to attend college and play for us even though we didn't have dorms. There were three major red flags that stood out to me from jump street.

First there was his association with Armslong. I've learned at this point that birds of a feather flock together. Given what I'd seen of Armslong's circle (Pookie), I knew better than to trust any reference he could provide on DeeOne--or anybody else for that matter.

Secondly, he contacted me on facebook even though his profile picture was a half naked pose of himself staring into the camera. There were also a series of photos where he was showing off a six-inch stack of $20 bills. Call me Uncle Ruckus but I'm not so sure that he saved all of that money.

The coup de grace was why he wanted to join our program. To make a long story short, he was a Division I prospect (surprise!) who slipped through the cracks because his grades were bad. According to DeeOne, Hartford and Central Connecticut (both D1 schools) wanted him badly, but the coach suggested that he play at a Division III JUCO to bolster his grades.

After watching the game footage he sent me from his high school days, I emailed him the letter you read in my previous post and awaited his response.

Letter to a Dreamer...

I've become quite the asshole over the years. When I first started coaching, I could have a ten minute long conversation with a dreamer without being slightly annoyed. Now I'm just flat out honest and pointed in how I feel about what is being said to me in a given moment. I haven't gotten to the point of telling a guy that he sucks, but I'm definitely toeing that line. DeeOne was the first to bear the brunt of my new way of communicating.

Dear DeeOne,

In six years of coaching in this league, I've seen maybe two legitimate Division 1 players. Most Division 1 players who go unnoticed are in prison. You, my friend, are on the streets.. Grades don't keep coaches from recruiting top flight players. Have you ever heard of John Calipari? Derrick Rose? Jerry Tarkanian? 

I knew of a D1 guy. He went to my high school then starred at UConn. Somehow his broke mom was able to afford sending him to an expensive prep school. A month before he got to UConn she had a new job and wasn't living in subsidized housing anymore. He always had a fresh pair of Nikes too. Basically, grades very rarely keep talented guys from playing Division 1 basketball. In the case that they're that bad, a coach wouldn't recommend that you go to a Division 3 JUCO.

Based on this video, it doesn't seem like you have a strong left hand. Most point guards, especially the ones who want to play D1 level ball, need to create with both hands unless they're lightning fast with their strong hand. Ever heard of Rondo?

You're a good player and I need a point guard, but D1 is a reach. If you aren't offended by anything I said, give me a call so we can talk about you enrolling here.

Regards,

Coach

UConn Exits Stage Left

A problem that doesn't exist is difficult to fix. One of the great challenges in coaching is trying to get a player to look within more than he does without. Six years into this I've learned that some people aren't equipped to (and will never be able to) acknowledge and work at improving their own defiencies. UConn fell into this very deficient category.

A few days after he grimaced his way through workouts because of a cut to his heel, UConn called me about some swelling he was experiencing in his knee.

UConn: Coach, I have something serious to talk about.
Me: (annoyed) what's up?
UConn: My knee. It's acting up on me again. I made an appointment to have it checked out. I think there's fluid building up in it again.
Me: Oh okay. So, you won't be able to make it for your workout today?
UConn: See. I don't know. I want to, but my knee... It's killin me!
Me: If you can't put 100 percent effort into this then I think you should consider stopping now.
UConn: I don't want you to think I'm making excuses. My knee really hurts.
Me: I hear you and I respect the fact that you called to talk about this. I'm just saying if your knee can't hold up then it's better for you not to do this.
UConn: You know what? I'm gonna keep workin out until my doctor's appointment in two weeks.

If memory serves me correctly, I think he came to a couple of the workouts that week. I reached my peak when he texted to back out of, yet, another workout.

(2:27 p.m. on the day of workout)
UConn: Can't make it today. Lawyer wants to meet with me at 5.
Me: Really? Your Lawyer just called to let you know that he has to meet with you at 5 p.m.?
UConn: You tryna say I'm lyin??
Me: I'm asking if your Lawyer just called in the last ten minutes to schedule this. If you knew you had a 5 p.m. meeting, why didn't you come to the morning workout or at noon??
UConn: I wasn't thinkn bout workin out dis a.m. cuz I thought I'd be free this evening.
Me: You know what? Let's just take a pass on this season, man. We aren't on the same page. You and I weren't meant to work together.
UConn: OMG!!! I thought you changed! You still the same! How you expect me to know when my Lawyer wants to meet?!

In my entire life I've never played for a team where the Coach had more to prove than the player...

UConn's Achilles Heel

A few days before my reunion with UConn he was involved in a car accident. While he was driving home, an under-aged driver struck his car on the passenger side. UConn was fortunate to come away with no abrasions or major injuries, but his Lawyer suggested regular trips to the physical therapist to have his back treated for stiffness. We agreed at our re-union to play his summer workout schedule by ear because of these appointments and his work schedule.

When UConn started working out with us, he was woefully out of shape. I expected this since he hadn't played competitively in a year. Surprisingly, he fought through his physical state and kept up with the intensity of our workouts. UConn seemed to have turned a corner. Coming out of high school, he would've found every excuse to get out of a workout. The new and improved UConn was encouraging teammates to go harder even though he was weezing. I loved it...until the following Monday rolled around.

(Phone call from UConn)
UConn: Coach, I'm just calling to let you know I can't make it today.
Me: What's up? Is everything okay?
UConn: I kinda hurt myself this weekend.
Me: What happened?
UConn: I went fishing this weekend wit my fam and I cut my heel.
Me: Can you walk?
UConn: Yeh.
Me: Are your arms still functioning?
UConn: Yeh. Why?
Me: I'm trying to understand why you have to miss a workout session because you cut your heel.
UConn: It hurts real bad. Every time I take a step it stings.

Armslong and the Cab Driver

There's nothing like going to work and being confronted by the local police upon sitting at your desk. It was mighty awkward, to say the least. As the man in blue was walking towards my desk, I was trying to review everything I had done over the weekend in my mind real quick. I was drawing a blank and the officer was approaching me rapidly! Who could I call to bail me out? What did  I do?? At the very least I figured I might have some money coming to me if this were simply a case of mistaken identity.

My palms grew sweaty and I suddenly had a case of bubble guts. This, to me, was a black professional's worst nightmare--being lead through a hallway in handcuffs while his white colleagues are looking on!

Officer: Are you the Men's Basketball Coach?
Me: (heart pounding) Yes, I am.
Officer: Does Stretch Armslong play for your team, sir?
Me: (sigh of relief, yet concerned) Yes, he does...
Officer: Well, he seemed to piss off a local cab driver on Saturday.
Me: Umm.. What? How'd he piss off a cab driver?
Officer: He stiffed the cabby for $30. The cab driver wants his money before noon or he's going to press charges.

I called Armslong into my office later that day to get some clarification on what happened.

Me: Why was a police officer in my office earlier talkin' about how you stiffed a cab driver for $30 on Saturday?
Armslong: Oh yeh.. So I went to this interview on Saturday and didn't have any money on me, or a ride back to the crib.
Me: Oh okay.. So knowing that you didn't have a ride you decided to jump into a cab with no money?
Armslong: Yeh, but check this.. I told the cab driver that my roommate was home and could let me borrow the money so I could pay him.
Me: You realize we were leaving for our game at 12 and you got into the cab at 1230. How did you think your roommate would be home a half hour after we had planned to leave? And plus, your roommate is as broke as you are. He doesn't have a f-in job!
Armslong: You right. You right. I just thought maybe he might be home, or somebody else. Why you mad??
Me: The cops were at my office!! That's why I'm mad, and this doesn't make any sense!! Hold up. Just you and him live together, though. Who the f*ck was supposed to be there with $30?!?
Armslong: His girl was there earlier. I figured she be there.

UConn's Return

In late July I felt somewhat uneasy about our point guard situation. I couldn't think of one person who could actually play the role of floor general among the eight players I envisioned being on the team. Having been here for six years, I knew the chances were strong that a decent point guard would find his way to tryouts--but absolutely nothing is certain at this level. Last year, the guy I thought would be our starting point guard literally disappeared the day before tryouts. My projected starting center was committed to an asylum a few weeks later that year. Knowing how crazy things could get, I contacted UConn about playing for me again.

UConn's first tour of duty with us ended on a sour note. When he was substituted out of the game, he threw a kiddy tantrum and disrespected my Assistant Coach in the process. His outburst got me so angry that I really considered leaving him at the gym, which was an hour and a half away from home.

Given his awful attitude for most of the season, I chose not to invite him back for the following season. I had kept him around simply because our point guard situation that season was also tenuous. I figured the year-long suspension would have straightened him out so I called him in to see if we could reconcile our differences and start fresh.

Me: You and I both know that our first trial at working together didn't go well. You didn't like me, and I didn't like you all that much either.
UConn: True, but I learned from that.
Me: Hold on now. Let me finish.
UConn: Okay
Me: I'm inviting you back because I really think you have the head to be a solid point guard for us. You had a good understanding of the plays, and I think your shot will come back with more confidence. If you're willing to come back and put a lot of work in at the gym, I want to do this again.
UConn: Honestly, coach.. I'm ready to do this again. We had some misunderstandings, but I heard you've changed so I see this being able to work.
Me: I changed?
UConn: Yeh. I heard you just different now. You communicate wit guys better n stuff. After that first year I decided to take the year off to work on some things...to put on weight like you told me to< and look at me now! I put on like 20 lbs just working out this past year.

In all honesty, he seemed to be five pounds heavier--at best. That conversation was a strong indicator that UConn and I would continue to have issues.

Enabling the Bubblee

Bubblees are a product of two extremes--neglect (or abandonment) and coddling. The stories from this past week may seem random, but there's one subtle common denominator, the Enabler.

In the case of Flash and Blanco, it's difficult to tell if the chicken came before the egg--or vice versa. Neverthless, their way of being has been encouraged by people who have failed to hold them accountable.

Once Boobee accepted Flash's story of being infected with chlamydia through his friend's shorts, she inadvertently communicated that his filandering was okay. Flash clearly has a ton of issues going on, most of which came about long before his girlfriend entered the story. Boobee hasn't caused Flash to be a cheater or liar. However, she has unwittingly encouraged his behavior by not having him pay a consequence for cheating.

Blanco had a situation in which it seems he didn't have to answer to anybody. I believe his mother was incredibly supportive and meant well in bringing him to the gym to play. Sitting there without saying a word while he played for over an hour is (to me) over the top. He never walked over to ask if she was fine sitting in a corner by herself. The message in that situation was, do whatever you want. In the one instant where I held him accountable for being disrespectful, it snowballed into an unnecessary display of defiance.

So far, I have yet to conclude that Bubblees operate in total solitude. Along the way, somebody has said that it's okay to behave in this deficient manner.

Say Goodnight to the Bad Guy!

Blanco's season took a turn for the worse when he was wheeled off the basketball court from practice on a stretcher. As he came down from an attempted lay-up, his knee completely buckled. My initial thought was that he tore his ACL or MCL, which meant his season would have essentially ended before it even started. I immediately cancelled practice so I could be with him at the hospital.

The Red Sox happened to be playing the Devil Rays that evening in Game 7 of the ALCS, so the two hour wait wasn't as painful. When Blanco's mother finally arrived at the hospital, she immediately thanked me for being there. That's all she said for the next twenty minutes. Blanco did all the talking from there...

The initial diagnosis was a slight tear to his ACL. Miraculously, Blanco was ready to play within a month. The original prognosis was 6-8 weeks. He came back in four weeks and expected to play and start immediately. I wanted to be cautious so I opted to use him in five minute stints during games. Blanco didn't like that.

A month or so after the injury (six games into the season), I decided it was time to trim the roster because there was way too much drama on the team. I gave the team a quiz on our signals and out of bounds plays. Four people failed with flying colors (guys who were playing in games and complaining about roles). They were immediately dismissed from the team.

Blanco actually passed the test, but what happened next still has me baffled. I started yelling at one of his teammates who was in the bathroom throwing up (Saturday morning...ahem) as a result of all the running they were doing.

Me: Guys claim to be committed to this team yet they're poisoning their bodies the night before practice!! This is ridiculous!
Blanco: (mutters something..)
Asst Coach: What you say?!?
Blanco: (muttering again...)
Asst Coach: Be a man!! Speak up so we can hear you!
Blanco: This isn't track practice. Why you got guys running like this? And why are you accusing guys of doing stuff outside of practice?? How do you know what he was doing last night?!
Me: You want the whistle, coach?!
Blanco: Not at all. (mutters again...)
Asst Coach: Speak up!!
Blanco: You know what? I don't need this sh*t! I'm done!
Asst Coach: There's the door!
Me: Have a ball on your way home!!

Blanco then grabbed a basketball because he thought I was telling him to literally "have a ball." I told him to put the ball back. He obliged by punting it to the other side of the court. His season was officially over six games into his first year. After finishing first semester with a 2.8, he dropped out of school second semester.

Flash & the Infected Shorts

Flash feared for his life when the "stinging" was diagnosed as chlamydia. He knew that the infection, itself, wasn't life threatening. It was his girlfriend/baby's mother (Boobee) whom he feared might take his life.

Apparently, Boobee had an unregistered firearm hidden somewhere in the apartment just in case there was ever a need to use it. They lived in the hood, so there was rationale for this protective measure. Hoodlums and "caddy chicks" aside, Flash was well aware that he was next on the death chart. In their situation, let's just say there was a very thin line between love and a homicide.

Flash: Yoooo, coach. I think I burned Boobee. She talkin about feelin a lil uncomfortable, ya meen??
Me: Really, man? You gave it to her??
Flash: I didn't mean to, though!
Me: I don't know what to tell you. Just be honest with her...
Flash: (pause..look of fear) Are you outta your damn mind?!? This chick is crazy. She got a toolie! 
Me: She has a gun yet you're messing with her feelings?
Flash: I ain't tryin to mess wit no one's feelings! See! I told her I ain't wanna be wit her no more!! This is why. 
Me: because you knew you'd get chlamydia??
Flash: Nah man. I'm 20 and in college. I'm tryna do me. Plus, look at her. Can you see me and her in a wedding pic?? It's gonna look funny.
Me: I have nothing to say, man. You gotta deal with this. Sorry.
Flash: This is my life, Coach!

Eventually, Boobee went to the hospital and discovered that she had chlamydia as well. Flash got off the hook with a lame story. He told her his roommate let him borrow some shorts that were infected with chlamydia. She believed him.

Flash Gets Clapped...

Flash: Coach, what it mean when you go to the bathroom and it stings?
Me: When what stings?
Flash: You know? Your joint... You know, coach. (pointing towards his member)
Me: I'm not a doctor. How am I supposed to know why it stings?
Flash: Figured I'd just ask you since you know a lot.
Me: Do you drink a lot of water?
Flash: I drink a lotta soda.
Me: It could be a kidney stone. Where does it sting? I hope you know I'm not touching anything.
Flash: (laughs) Nah man. I don't need you touchin nothin! lol. It stings right at the tip when I pee, especially.
Me: If you just get the stinger when you pee then you might have an STD.. do you have discharge? Are suds coming out of your ... joint?
Flash: You know what?
Me: What?
Flash: I think this chick burned me, Coach. I messed wit her last week and I ain't have any rubbers. That's a bad hit!
Me: Where'd you meet her?
Flash: She goes to school here. I figured college chicks are clean so it wouldn't be a big deal to go raw.