At the Buzzer

In the words of Yogi Berra, "It was deja vu all over again," with a few key differences. Sixth grade girl was now eighth grade girl: she was taller, stronger, and fitter. She had mostly kept out of trouble for the first six weeks of school, and this time, we needed a point guard.

The taint on our team of the mean girl who had bullied her two years before had faded considerably and was almost gone. There was only one other girl left who had ever played with her. The eighth graders the year before had had a few spiteful moments, but their unkindness had been nothing compared to hers. Even so, the younger girls who were back now for a second season had come to me after tryouts to say that they really hoped that this year would be more positive. "No offense," one said, "but some of the eighth graders last year were scary." How impressed was I when they decided on their own to be supportive of the new players? What a change.

Our prospective point guard couldn't make the seventh and eighth grade trials, so we let her try out when she showed up with the sixth graders the next day. Once again, her skills were solid, and her game was good. When it came time to scrimmage with the other girls, though, it was as if no time had passed. She didn't listen to directions; she was shoving other girls on the sidelines; in the game she didn't pass; and she called her teammates out for their lack of talent.

At the end of the tryout, when everyone gathered at center court to wrap it up, she brought a ball and stood with her back to the group, dribbling it. "Hold the ball," the other coach said, and she lifted it to her shoulder as if to shoot. "Do not shoot that ball," he said, and turned to the other girls. As he did, she shrugged and stepped hard into that half-court shot. I watched as the basketball hit the rim, bounced straight up and fell back through the net. It was an amazing shot, and she could not contain her glee, but it was game over.

Play through the Pain

We wondered if our erstwhile potential point guard would come out for the team the next year, and we debated what we would do if she did. After leaving the team, she had continued to find trouble, even getting arrested for stealing a wallet off the counter at a near-by convenience store. My colleague wanted to tell her not to bother, but I didn't agree. I felt like kids should be able to make mistakes, and I hoped that a year later she might be more mature. I also believed that on some level we had mishandled the episode the year before, placing most of the blame on the player who was least valuable to the team.

She showed up for tryouts, and she was good enough to make the team. Her attitude was subdued and cooperative. On the afternoon we cut the roster, the other coach and I sat in his office a long time discussing the pros and the cons. "We're the adults," I told him. "Let's not set an example of holding a grudge. Everyone deserves a second chance." We compromised by putting her on the team provisionally. We agreed that we would talk to her first and let her know what we expected.

It didn't matter though. The asterisk next to her name was enough to make her mad, and she never showed up for practice. That was seventh grade... what about eighth?

Looks like we're headed into overtime.

After the Pep Talk

Exactly what happened between the girls will never be clear; it was a classic case of she said she said. What I do know is this: A couple of days later, the sixth grader pulled me aside during a water break at practice. Her usually lackluster performance had dipped to an even lower point that day, and I asked her if everything was all right. To my surprise, the tough little girl teared up and told me that she "couldn't take it anymore." She reported that the eighth grade girl was constantly harassing her, criticizing everything she did and said.

I asked her when this was going on, and she told me that it happened in the locker room and whenever the coaches weren't looking. I promised her that we would talk to the other girl, but she didn't believe it would help.

"I don't care what anyone says," she told me. "I know I'm a good player," and she walked off the court, quitting the team.

We talked to the other girl, but she denied everything, and no one else would verify the story, either. The guy I coach with thought that sixth grade girl had turned out to be more trouble than she was worth, with all her trash talking and lack of effort, and he was glad to see her go. And that seemed to be that, until seventh grade try-outs the next year.

Get some water. The fourth quarter is coming up.

The Second Six Minutes

So, our sixth grade protege and our eighth grade mean girl were headed for a show down. There was a twist, though. The sixth grader was the kind of kid who gets in a lot of trouble. Angry, confrontational, and downright defiant, she was hard to like. The eighth grader on the other hand was good at staying out of trouble. Intelligent and shrewd enough to be generally compliant and polite, she was widely considered to be a good kid. Not everyone was fooled by her nice girl act, but enough adults were that she was able to get away with certain things.

On our team, we value effort, and physically, we push the girls hard. This didn't go over too well with the sixth grader, who was more inclined to jog than to sprint through the drills. She had no patience for practice, she just wanted to play her game, and she got a fair amount of redirection from both of us coaches because of it. She had a bit of an inflated opinion about her skills, too; despite her lack of experience and conditioning, she honestly believed that she should be our starting point guard, and she said so to whoever would listen.

At the first home game of the season, sixth grade girl sat on the bench and watched the team lose. Afterward, her well-meaning friends all assured her that the outcome would have been different had she been on the court, a point she eagerly raised at the next practice. Did eighth grade girl feel threatened? I doubt it, but the audacity of the challenge was something she couldn't let go, and after all, she was a mean girl.

Half-time.

First Quarter

Two years ago there was a sixth grade student on our basketball team who showed promise. Even though she was short and a little overweight, her ball-handling skills and game instincts were strong. We put her on the team in the hope that with time and experience, she would become a starting point guard.

It's hard for sixth graders to get much playing time on a middle school team. They are competing against seventh and eighth grade students who are generally older, bigger, and stronger. We usually practice with a squad of 15, but only about half will get significant game time, most of them eighth graders. For the younger girls, we view their first, and sometimes even their second, year as developmental.

A couple of things happen as a result of this dynamic. One is that the older girls feel entitled to the playing time: they've paid their dues, practicing hard and then sitting on the bench for two years, and now they feel that they have a right to the spotlight. They are also the leaders of the team, and so their attitude sets the tone. As closely as we supervise middle school kids and as much guidance as we provide them in the classroom, in the cafeteria, or on the court, they always find an opportunity to reinforce their hierarchy. That's how it is on the team.

That year, our strongest eighth grade player happened to be a point guard, and so it was never very likely that this sixth grade girl would play many minutes in a game. This particular eighth grade girl had played her first couple of seasons with her older sister, who was incredibly cruel to her. It didn't help that the younger sister was a better player; in fact that made it worse, and when it came time for her to lead the team, she was almost as mean to the younger girls as her sister had been to her.

There's the whistle-- let's pick it up in the second quarter.

Game On

I co-coach the girls basketball team at my school, and I have for several years. It's a short season, 8 games, but it requires a substantial after-school commitment-- 2:30-4, five days a week for about eight weeks; game days run longer.

At the beginning of each season, like now, when I'm trying to figure out where those 90 minutes are going to come from in my daily schedule, I always wonder exactly why I am doing it. I get a stipend for my time, and it's nice to get some extra cash in my check when the season is over, but it's not really enough to compensate me for the time I spend. What is it then?

Well...

I like seeing the students in another setting-- first hand knowledge of their strengths is always helpful, and we all know students who shine on the court, but not in the classroom.

I like having the chance to get to know students I don't teach. In my opinion, teaching sixth grade at a middle school is ideal, because once you've been there for three years, you know about half the kids. This way, I know even more than that.

I like the opportunity to work with a colleague with whom I probably never would, otherwise. The guy I coach with is a PE teacher at my school, and we don't have very much in common, other than the 14 seasons we've worked together, but I consider him a friend.

I like the positive image that coaching gives me with the kids. When they hear that I'm the basketball coach, they're impressed, and it's an easy way to connect with kids whose main interests are outside of English class.

So far, that's been worth it.

What Next?

The school system sent home a letter over the weekend for parents to give permission to have their children get a free H1N1 immunization. I don't know what I was expecting, but the response has been underwhelming. Of the eleven students in my homeroom, only 2 have returned their permission slips. Families have until the end of the week to respond, but I'm not getting the sense that everyone's on board with this effort to vaccinate 100% of our citizens under the age of 24. There seems to be some uncertainty.

I could be mistaken. This morning, some kids were reporting that they hadn't received the notice, yet; some said it was still on the table for their parents to read again more carefully and sign. Some seemed awfully anxious about the prospect of getting a shot, and I wouldn't be surprised if their opt-in form turned up in some future locker clean out, unless it's already on its way to the landfill.

Regardless, it seems like disorganization has been the only constant throughout this flu epidemic. Take the last four days at our school as an example: no one knew the letters were going home, so the whole staff was called to a "stand-up meeting" five minutes before the kids got there yesterday, a Monday morning. At that time, our principal told us what to do with the forms when they came in. She also said that the vaccinations were going to start next week, except that we found out today that the vaccine hasn't actually arrived, yet. Currently, the plan is to immunize all the children in the county, starting with the youngest, who need two doses, and moving up, so middle schools won't have it for at least 12 weeks. On the other hand, "some people" think we should provide the vaccinations school by school, and if they prevail, then everything will change.

At that five-minute meeting we had yesterday morning, one of my colleagues asked when immunizations would be available for teachers. His point is well-taken, if an identified vulnerability is children, then educators are on the front line; even so, we're not eligible to be vaccinated.

I understand that complexities exist and unexpected situations arise (I'm a teacher, after all), but still, I'm disappointed by this failure of the infrastructure.