Lessons Learned at the Final Buzzer

I've determined over these fifty years of life and the twenty as a parent that I have a slight issue with change. Which is to say that I hate it with the heat of a thousand suns - especially when it involves my children.

Well, except for the change that happened when the potty training stage was over. I was all in for that.

Anyway, I've found that when certain seasons of our family's life end - whether big or small, sports or otherwise - there is always a grieving period that I have to let myself walk through until I find that one thing that helps push me toward fully embracing a new season. Unfortunately, in the past few weeks since Kyle's final high school basketball season ended, I've had a hard time finding that one thing.

Perhaps it was because this season was so magical and so unexpected. Perhaps it was because each time I hoped for one more game to watch them play, they kept giving us another game so that I could put off facing the end. In fact, they gave us nine post-season games - every single one they could until there were no more left to give. Perhaps it was because this team went from being the 5th seed after the regular season to being one of only two teams left standing in the State Championship in Richmond. And perhaps, most likely, it was because it is Kyle's senior year and he graduates in a mere three months.

So even though it sounds dramatic, it took some time to process all of it. It seems that my way of processing it was eating Cheetos and drinking red wine while watching video clips of the playoff games and replays of the Semi-finals and the State Championship game.

I'm no therapist, but it turns out that this might not be the healthiest path forward. Also, I need to buy new pants now.

Fortunately, my sister sent me this beautiful framed quote for my birthday which I had opened and placed on my desk only minutes before one of our playoff games.

My sister knows me well. The only way I am able to close chapters on certain seasons in my family's life is to write. So, here goes.

The last time the buzzer sounded there was no triumphant lifting of my hands in the air. There wasn't a rush of teenagers clad in black tshirts tumbling down to the court to celebrate with my son and his teammates. There was none of the dizzying laughter and wide-eyed wonder that we'd experienced so many times in the three weeks prior. This time our opponents held their lead to no fewer than eight points throughout the last few minutes of the game. So while we held out hope for as long as we possibly could and believed completely in our boys, eventually there was no reasonable expectation for a come-from-behind victory. When the end showed up, I stood slowly and clasped my hands together under my chin keeping my eyes fixed on the boy I've watched race up and down the court since he was five years old.

As the final second ticked away, he happened to be on the opposite side of the court as far away from his team as he could be. He walked toward them through a rush of his opponents as they cleared their bench in wild celebration. Pausing ever so briefly to let them by as they jubilantly sought their teammates, he kept his gaze fixed on the floor moving swiftly to his own guys. As he got closer, the finality of the moment seemed to take over and he pulled his jersey over his face, shuffling into the arms of his teammates.

Everything in a mama's body itches to move toward a hurting child. My insides churned and I squeezed my hands tightly wishing with all I had that I could leap over the rows of people, hurdle the media table, and get to him, but as I kept watching, I felt grounded there. My nerves calmed as those boys held Kyle up when emotion and exhaustion overwhelmed him. I watched as one teammate kept a steady hand on his shoulder as they walked through the line to shake hands. After they finished the handshakes, I watched one of his best friends put his arm around him and lower him to the seat beside him.

I told myself it would not be this one heartbreaking moment that the kids on this team would look back on. I reminded myself that they would look back and remember the hundreds of happier moments -  the astounding upset victories, the exhilarating three pointers, the gravity defying jumps for the rebound, the thundering applause at a slam dunk, the chants of the raucous student body, and the steely determined looks in their teammates' eyes.

I want them to remember all the silly handshakes they did during introductions with Bikram. Or the time that Robbie went flying down the court and we all felt sure of the bucket because that kid is money in the bank when he barrels through every single guy in his path and scores before anyone knows what's happening. Except that this time he surprised us by making a no-look pass to Madden for the score and our whole crowd freaked out. Or the time that Lance backed up one direction, backed up the other direction, spun around like some kind of 6 foot 6 Broadway dancer, and then shot over the top of a whole mess of players. Or the way Zach hit so many three pointers that my head started to spin because I kept wondering how we pulled off getting Steph Curry on our high school team. Or the million and one times that Angelo jumped up and hung in the air for like 20 minutes before he shot the lay up, drawing the foul just about every darn time. Or the time we were down by two points with 4 minutes left in the semi-finals, but the boys were patient and calm and assured, passing the ball to Kyle who sank the 3 pointer to put us ahead. And I want them to remember that even though a lot of us were still nervous at that point, we shouldn't have been. Because if we would have looked closely at all of their faces, we would have seen that every single player on the team had a look in his eye that said, "We will not lose this game." And for the rest of those four minutes that seemed like an eternity, they would not relinquish the lead again.

The truth is that at the final buzzer, I wanted to wish my child's pain away. It's a mother's instinct, I suppose. The pain in that last game was as much about the loss as it was about the ending of his days playing basketball. And I knew that win or lose there would be hurt to come at the end of the season. But to wish away Kyle's memory of this loss would be a disservice to him. As a few weeks have passed and I've watched replays over and over, I realize that the memory of those final devastating moments on the court might just surpass any of the more joyful ones as some of the most important gifts this game has given him over the thirteen plus years he has played it.

Yes, basketball has taught him to work hard on his individual skills and to believe in himself. He has learned how to stay true to his path and recognize his talents so that he could make decisions that were right for him. He learned he could defy expectations and trust that his hard work would pay off if he just kept the course he set for himself. But what I saw at the end of the game and throughout a season of a lot of ups and downs was that the lesson my boy learned had less to do with his own success and more to do with his team's. In one of the many articles that came out during the run to the championship our coach said this,

"Going into the season we knew we had the talent to play this well, but it never really gelled. We had a lot of guys who had a ton of minutes last year who graduated, so it took us awhile to figure out who's "the man". We learned we don't have "the man". We have a great team and right around play-off time we learned we're better together."

It occurs to me that these are the lessons that will serve my son and his teammates in the years ahead. They learned that above all you are to be your brother's keeper. That to thrive in community with others is always better than to thrive alone. That you are to keep your head up and look around you - not only for the open guy, but also for the guy who is discouraged. That sometimes the right thing to do for your team is to get rid of the dang ball and sometimes it's to trust yourself and take the dang shot. We are meant to push each other to better things. We are meant to know that when one of us is down, the other needs to step up. And that when one is up, he is obligated to reach down and let the other know, "I've got you this time. You'll have me next time." In essence, the idea is that we mourn with those who mourn and rejoice with those who rejoice. Because I will never look back on this season thinking only of my own child. I will always think of all of them.

So here we are at another ending. And I'm reminded again that without the endings, we get no beginnings. Without the lasts, there are no firsts. After I finished writing a first draft of this piece, draining myself of the emotions this season brought, I happened on a verse in Isaiah that reads, "For I am about to do something new! See, I have already begun. Do you not see it?"

If we stay in the past we can't perceive all the good things He has set out for us. The future is full of so many amazing things for the boys on this team - those who will graduate and those who will stay. I'm so grateful He saw fit to place my kid in a season such as this, at a time such as this, with a team of boys such as this. As usual, I know that every teammate, every coach, and every game he has played has helped to equip him for the plans God has for him in ways that are too many to measure.

The Lord is doing something new for you, #2. He has already begun. Search for it. Find it. And then keep looking toward the next play. We'll be watching and cheering for you.

Photos courtesy of Chong Chung, The Washington Post and various Freedom parents and grandparents.