For anyone afforded a decent number of years, I suppose, we come to wear many different hats. Literal hats and figurative ones.
Considering my literal headgear history, the first place my mind goes is the misshapen black felt cowboy hat I wore to some conspicuity during my tight Wranglers and western boots stage of the early-to-mid nineties. (If ever there was a photo which perfectly encapsulated the phrase, “all hat, no cattle…”)
Thankfully, there are no digital images of this atrocity in cyberspace as the internets were still on dial-up then and it would have taken two to four hours to upload. Of all the blessings the Lord hath bestowed upon me, surely this one shall never go unappreciated.
I've worn bandanas, beanies, and baseball caps. A fisherman hat, scally cap, hard hat, Santa hat, party hat, toboggan, even a fedora.
On the figurative side, I've worn the hat of the aggravating brother, favorite/only son, grandson, nephew, uncle, and a dad. I've been a trainer and a trainee, boyfriend and ex-boyfriend, radio DJ and furnace helper, bag boy and 911 dispatcher. A reader, and, hopefully, a writer.
And this month, still in the springtime of this, my sixth-decade of breaths and heartbeats, at the ever so gentle behest of Mrs. Bone, I have added to my hat collection.
In this role, I may be spotted wearing a whistle around my neck, carrying a clipboard, and possibly having mostly civilized conversations with men of a certain age who are adorned in zebra-striped shirts. Some of whom appear to have serious vision deficiencies.
All the while trying to corral nine 7-and-8-year-olds. One of whom, even after three practices, I keep calling another kid's name.
Yes, this fall and continuing into the early winter, I will don the hat of basketball coach for Luke’s 8-and-under youth basketball team.
How is it going, you ask? Well, hold onto your hats.
At the first practice, one kid started crying no less than SIX different times. It was probably more like eight or ten, but I don't like to exaggerate. (Unless it makes something funnier; or earns me some measure of pity, or glory.)
So much for my mantra of "Make Youth Sports Fun Again."
There has been progress. At the second practice, the same kid only started to cry once, at least that I saw. I was mostly trying to avoid eye contact.
Then last night, at our third practice, no one cried.
They seem like good kids though, all with varying degrees of inattention and hyperactivity. "They keep me young," I like to say, before coming home and Biofreezing my back.
I had no idea there would be so much to do. You have to draft your team, then contact each parent to let them know whose team their child is on.
I had to (sort of) learn to use GroupMe! What’s next--TikTok? Kik? FriendMaker?
Then you have to find times to schedule practices when the gym isn't booked. There are forty teams across all the age groups, and two courts which are only available for practice on Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday evenings. So, the math doesn't really work.
You have to ask what size uniforms each kid needs and what number they want to be. Then you have to find a place to order the uniforms.
Thankfully, Mrs. Bone did most of this so I could focus on YouTubing “basketball practice drills for kids” and “how to not make a child cry.”
Now I have to message everyone to let them know when and where the next practice is. That way they can message back their child can't make it because "He already has kickboxing practice that night," or "My mother's in the hospital," or my personal favorite, "We're going trick-or-treating, who would schedule basketball practice for Halloween night?"
Oh, keep your hat on, Betty.
And don't come whining to me when little Billy has three cavities and still hasn't learned what he's supposed to do in the box-and-one defense.
I mean… uh… who's ready to have some fun!
Yeah! That's what this team is all about.
(Though I might not hang my hat on that.)
