Before basketball try-outs in Grade Eight began, I was afraid. I had heard the Varsity basketball coach's intensity during their games the previous year. There was nowhere else to go, and I certainly wasn't going to play for the tier two team (I should have). We'll call the head coach Fred. And we'll call the assistant coach Joe. As I have said before I am a talented athlete, made the team with relative ease and was placed on the starting lineup. Sometimes I'd come off the bench as a sixth man.
There were moments during the season where I was completely elated, as I'd make a good move on the floor and the coach would praise me abundantly and openly. Really, all I wanted was his approval, I mean what kid doesn't want their coach's approval. Fred was of average height and had a massive gut. It looked like a beer gut, but that would be speculating. He couldn't run the length of the floor without keeling over. And you could tell he hadn't worked on his jump shot for years. I say that because apparently, he used to play high level ball.
Now Fred is not a horrible man. Off the basketball court he would say nothing but good things to me and about me. He seemed like a jolly fellow and was a pleasure to be around. He is human and every human has a different perspective on the world. In order to live with ourselves we often justify and rationalize certain behavior's so that we can survive in our own skin with relative peace and ease. And I'm sure Fred thought he was motivating me and propelling me forward towards being a better basketball player.
During practices there would always be "plays" introduced to our team. We would run through these plays so that we could master them before game time. We'd also do a plethora of drills to sharpen our skills. While I was a good athlete, it often took me a little bit longer to wrap my head around how to do certain drills and how certain plays were to be carried out. Fred would scream at me repeatedly for messing up and his screaming would flare up my anxiety causing me to be more confused. Therefore, the screaming would often continue for some time. I often felt "stupid" and "lesser than" because I always seemed to get the brunt of the yelling. Naturally, the other players valued the coach's opinion; what this meant was that if the coach was implying that I was incompetent, I felt as if my teammates thought the same thing. I was a kind young man and an easy target. Fred also saw a potential in me that he couldn't tap into, which I'm sure frustrated him further. Day after day, practice after practice I continued to be barraged with this incessant screaming. Games were a huge source of anxiety. I noticed early on in my life that the other players never seemed to be quite as nervous as I was. Despite my feelings I continued to show up. I'd play at lunch hour, on weekends and was always shooting around before practice started. Despite my efforts his screaming continued during games. This screaming wasn't meant to motivate me. He would often yell "what are you doing!!!???". Sometimes he'd use my name and I'd be embarrassed because I was playing in front of friends as well as my parents. "What are you doing!!??" Isn't exactly inspiring and certainly isn't constructive feedback. " What are you doing!!??". "Clearly not what I'm supposed to dear coach.... thanks for clarifying". During one match Fred asked me to get up off the bench and to get ready to be subbed into the game. I didn't hear him and remained seated. He yelled at me with such a high pitch that I'm sure someone was squeezing his testicles.
When I was on the floor, more often than not I was terrified to make a move, because if I made a mistake I'd surely be ridiculed. This state of mind made it impossible for me to meet his expectations, as everyone makes mistakes; in the game of basketball and in life. Michael Jordon made mistakes every single game of his life.
On a side note, I read the latest biography of Michael Jordan by Roland Lazenby. I got beyond sick of Michael Jordan by page seven hundred; moving on...
Fred also told me that I was going to be a slasher. Meaning I would drive to the basket and score using that method only. Shooting was out of the question. Funny thing about that, in High School I became one of the best shooters in the province. Fred had some backwards ideas. He just didn't understand how to get through to me psychologically. His recipe for a bad performance was more yelling. Yeah, that worked well.
Our assistant coach Joe on the other hand was an absolute gem. He usually took the back seat to Fred, but when he was able to take the leading role, he was much more understanding and kind hearted. There was a game in mid-season that Joe took the lead coaching position where I must have travelled (walked too many steps without dribbling) 2.4 million times. Joe was understanding and could see that I was already beating myself up. I was able to get things straightened around eventually. Probably because I wasn't being molested by the head coach's vocal cords.
I endured this verbal abuse for the entirety of the basketball season. After representing Nashwaaksis Middle School our coaches decided to enter our team into the bantam league. I felt like I would be abandoning my friends if I decided not to play so I agreed. Our first Tournament was in Moncton, New Brunswick. We were playing the "Moncton All-Stars" and our best player was out of the mix. Before the Game Fred walked right up to my Dad as I was talking with him and said, "Ben's gonna score 20 points this game Russ". I remember thinking, "I sure hope I don't let him down" (Forrest Gump quote). The pressure was intense. I now felt the burden of expectation to score these twenty points. I went onto the floor and crumbled. For whatever reason my sense of humor was gone this game and each time I was berated by Fred I crumbled just a little bit more. By the end of the match we had lost, and I was a broken human. When walking off the basketball court I held my head as low at the Marianna's Trench. Climbing into my Dads car I did my very best to hold back my emotions. To cry would have been the release I needed, but I resisted and didn't shed a tear. Dad said, "Ben it's okay to cry" and I nodded and hung my head. The word traumatic would never have crossed my mind until later on in my life, but that's just what this experience was. My Dad asked if I wanted to continue to play, I said "no". Then he asked if I wanted him to tell Fred that I was no longer playing, I said "yes". And just like that my basketball season was finished.
Later on, that year I won "Male Athlete of the Year" for the second year in a row. The parents of a teammate of mine on the basketball team complained to the Athletic Director. They said that I didn't deserve the award because I had quit basketball earlier on in the year. The athletic director confronted me and asked if I had in fact quit the team? I said that it was the bantam squad I had left, not the school team. She was satisfied with the answer I gave. It hurt me to think that a good friend's parents would try and ruin that moment for me. Later on, I surmised that their distaste concerning the school's decision had little to do with me.
To clarify. Fred is in no way an evil human being and I have since forgiven him in my own way. As closure, I felt I needed to contact him. In my twenty-eighth year I sent him a message basically stating how he had hurt me and that it was evident to me that this was not necessarily his intention. It was important that I convey the fact that I'm aware he is a human being, and that we are all subjected to our own imperfect nature. I told him that I'm sure he was only trying to motivate me. While I worded the message in the kindest way I knew how, he declined to respond. And that's okay. It was cathartic in the sense that something was done to help remedy the matter. I did my part and I'm content with that.
—Introspection—
Each and every one of us has trauma stored inside the tissue of our bodies. Trauma can manifest itself in many different ways. While a certain situation may traumatize one person, another person might deal with that same situation without issue. The point is that we need to have compassion and empathy for each individual we come across. Not just the people we like and feel comfortable around. Everyone has a story and just because one person's story doesn't sound as harsh or as traumatic as another's doesn't mean it wasn't deeply traumatic to them. Generally, the people we don't like bring something up in us that makes us feel uncomfortable.
We all have an identity. This identity that we have formulated is how we perceive ourselves and how we perceive the world around us. The ego is an easy way of describing this formulated structure. Ego isn't about arrogance or narcissism, it's about who we think we are and in turn that creates the reality that envelopes our existence. When we don't like someone, this is generally because the way they act threatens the way we see ourselves. Ego structure differs from person to person, therefore what is traumatic to one individual will not necessarily be for another. It's important to try and wrap our heads around the idea that everyone has a different reality seen through different eyes. We have unique genetics and childhoods and are subjected to all sorts of cultural phenomena that help shape who we are. Fred sees the world through different eyes. We are both human. We both endure the human condition. I try to love him in the best way I can, because resentment is fear based. Striving to live my life with the least amount of drama possible is my prerogative. While I don't condone the thought of being a doormat, at least they seem to be pretty comfortable.