The two yellow papers my sixth-grade science and math teachers had given me earlier that day for failing to do my homework were crumpled inside my backpack. I needed Mom to sign them, but it could wait. It was fall, and although I was already getting behind in my classes, the acorns and leaves were dropping from the trees. I took the broom from the garage and began sweeping the debris off the driveway.
Dad did things the old-fashioned way. Some fathers painted their kids elaborate driveway courts, complete with precisely measured free throw and three-point lines. Not mine. He marked one spot on the blacktop with painter’s tape, measured by heel-to-toe foot counts. The Knights of Columbus free throw contest was right around the corner.
The journey began as I approached the makeshift line. I dribbled the ball three times, spun it twice in my hands, and released. The movements felt mechanical, and the shot clattered off the rim. Always start on a make. That was the rule, Dad said. The next one also missed, but the jerkiness in my muscles had left me now. Five shots then swished cleanly, rhythmically through the net. Twenty later, I had made eighteen of the twenty-five. That might win the district competition this weekend. It wouldn’t pass muster at state.
Dad came out before I began the next set. “Ho,” he called as the heavy kitchen door slammed shut behind him. He had caught me shooting randomly from points near and far. I knew well enough by now that practice must be done with purpose and braced for an earful, but all he said was, “On the line.” I proceeded to the weathered slice of blue painter’s tape peeling off the ground at the corners.
“Start on a make.”
Dad rebounded from under the hoop and to the right, quietly tallying my makes and misses. Throughout each set he remained stoically indifferent to the outcome. When I shot a poor round, he gave constructive criticism, sometimes sharply, but always truthful. When I shot well, he was encouraging. The more I practiced, the better I would shoot, he said. Repetition is everything. I heeded his wisdom and obeyed the natural law of repetitive practice every day after coming home from school. Mom’s signature got a bit more practice, too.
That weekend I sank twenty (the magic number Dad had predicted) of twenty-five. In this small district, nobody gave me a run. Once the results were finalized, I climbed the bleachers to where Dad had watched alone. He modestly bumped my fist and whispered nice job with a smile. I told him how glad I was that I had practiced as he urged me to. He proudly reported that admission to Mom later that night at the dinner table.
In swept the harsher elements of November. There wasn’t much I could do about the blustery winds except snap my wrist a little harder. Dad could not always be there to rebound, but he always asked for my numbers and commended my efforts. At the regionals, the field of contestants would be a bit bigger and the competition that much better. Dad predicted the magic number would be above twenty this time. If I got the chance, he advised me to go first. That way I set the bar for the rest of the field.
It worked out like that. I sank twenty-two of the twenty-five and took my seat on the bench among the rest of the shooters feeling hopeful about my chances. Several had their go but missed my high watermark. I took private delight in watching them dejectedly sulk back to the bench. Then, without warning, a pain pulsated throughout my hands. I was absentmindedly wringing them together in a tight knot. Someone was beginning to catch fire.
From where I sat, the violation was clear. The shooter nailed shot after shot, but he was crossing the line as he released the ball. None of the judges appeared to notice the infraction, and no penalty was administered. Rumblings to my left and right suggested that I wasn’t the only witness. The shooter’s hot hand never cooled, and in the end, he was crowned the victor.
Dad and I walked out into the hallway where there was quiet. He had seen it, too. He told me to stay put and walked back into the gym. Peering through a narrow, rectangular window, I watched him talking with several judges. Dad always kept a calm demeanor, but I could see him assertively making his point. He finally parted from the circle of discussion, and I backed away from the window. When he came into the hall again, he explained that the judges had not seen the boy crossing the line, but they believed Dad’s testimony and were going to declare me the winner instead. True to form, Dad insisted that the boy not be disqualified, but that we both advance to the final stage, where the best free throw shooter in the state would prove himself.
I traded in the broom for the shovel as winter descended, clearing a slab of pavement just wide and long enough to keep the ball from waterlogging as I shot my free throws. Sometimes my hands became so cold that I needed to go inside and run them under hot water. Mom told Dad that he was pushing me too hard, and Dad replied that I wanted to practice. He won that one with some of my help. When I regained feeling, I pressed back into the unforgiving tundra and found my rhythm again. It was doubtful that any other sixth grader in the state was determined enough to go to such lengths, but his hat was off to him if he was, Dad said.
I saddled the glossy black foul line in the stuffy old gym for the most critical set of twenty-five free throws I had yet to shoot. Throughout the last two months, I had shot several thousand of them in my backyard. Sometimes I shot them alone, sometimes with Dad’s help. I had shot them in the fall sunshine, the winter dark, the fall wind, and the winter snow. I had practiced the old-fashioned way, with focus, grit, and painter’s tape. The motion was seared into my muscles and engraved onto my brain with permanence. Now my moment had come.
I don’t remember the car ride home with Dad that day. He had already taken me to so many practices and games and would take me to so many more in the future that it is impossible to recollect what exactly transpired. I do remember that there was never a time when Dad was disappointed in me, even when I finished second-best, as I did that day in the state free throw contest. I had set my sights on an honorable goal and firmly resolved to achieve it. I had practiced with purpose and a relentless desire to succeed. I had given my absolute best, and that was all he could ever ask for, Dad always said.
Mike Burke teaches PE at a classical K-12 school in Colorado. His work can also be found in Bridge Eight and The Dillydoun Review.