The Basketball Championship

This is one of my favorite stories of acceptance.

I was probably twelve years old, and I was spending the Summer with my family in Washington, D.C. We lived in Rhode Island where the Navy had stationed my dad, but we often traversed the I-95 and the New Jersey Turnpike gauntlet to the DC area for extended visits.

It was the late 19(!)70s, and much of my family's social existence revolved around our church, which, at the time, was known as McKendree United Methodist Church. In this particular Summer, basketball was as hot as the July pavement. The NBA's Washington Bullets had won the championship that year. McKendree had a team of high school boys that competed in a summer league, and my uncle was the coach. I kept books for the team, dutifully tracking of all the important statistics. I was also the person the referee asked to know if the team was over the foul limit or not. The ref shot me a look, and I'd lean in from the scorers table, hold up my index fingers and wave them back and forth, importantly. Uncle Larry called me Bernie Bickerstaff (the Bullets assistant coach....!). Those Saturday morning trips from one church basement or rec center to another across the city were pretty special.

McKendree's team made it all the way to the league championship that Summer. We suited up and headed across town for the final game of the season. Our new minister, Reverend Tony, was in attendance, and sat in the bleachers behind the team. The game was neck-and-neck, as the fight to be the best in the City should be. We were up by two or three points in the closing seconds when a commotion could be heard outside the gym. In an instant, it seemed like everyone in the building was being swept outside to see what had happened, including me. I got to the door where a very tall, skinny boy waited for me, aiming a large, jagged piece of glass bottle at my head. With my heart racing and eyes like saucers, I backpedaled into the empty gym. Sitting alone, on the top step of the stands, was Rev. Tony, eyes downcast, hands clasped prayer-style over his lips. In the moment, I had enough clarity to know that on that seat was where I needed to be. We said nothing. Slowly, people made their way back into the rec. Instead of the raucous celebration we had earned and deserved, we quietly exited and headed back to the bus, relieved that no one in our group had been seriously hurt. The image of a young woman lying on the ground with glass stuck in her eye being rocked gently in the arms of a friend was a vivid reminder of how bad things might have been for me if I had kept going out of the gym door instead of turning back.

I should hope one day to have the kind of teacher cool Rev. Tony had that day. As a leader, it made sense for him to be out front trying to break things up and preventing bloodshed. Or, maybe invoking some verse of scripture or leading a prayer. Instead, he set a quiet, nonjudgmental example. Was he happy knowing that people were getting hurt or worse? Of course not. In fact, he had every right to be really angry. Was he powerless? Weak? No, and no. He didn't like it, but more importantly, he understood that he couldn't change it. He knew that acceptance was the superpower he needed to guard his peace so that he would be around to confront the the things coming down the road that he would actually have the power to change. I'm working to cultivate acceptance as my first response to the struggles that crop up in the minds of the students that I teach, and in everything I do.

What are you struggling with (classroom or otherwise) that needs a dose of acceptance? Let's talk in the comments below. And, as always,

Happy snacking!

Charles

Head chef