Some things I'll never understand
I'm going to be honest with you. I'm going to tell you the truth, no matter how hard it might be and what ramifications might follow.
Gulp. Here goes: Girls, well, I just don't understand them.
Now, before the hateful emails and phone calls start streaming in, let me explain.
I volunteered to coach my daughter's basketball team in the Hays Recreation Commission season that recently finished. All the girls were great; it's just something I'm not suited exactly for.
You see, patience isn't high on the character-traits list for me. I expect when I ask someone to do something, they oblige.
That's the way I was brought up. That's the way I was born and raised.
Not everyone flows into the same category, though. Don't get me wrong. The girls on the team were fabulous, and they worked hard -- most of the time, sometimes between cartwheels and ballet steps.
But they had a passion to learn, and that's what was enjoyable the most.
The girls were successful, winning a few games and losing a few close ones. But they had fun, or so they said.
I survived, though, albeit a few grayer hairs and a few more headaches at times.
Then, my daughter was asked to play in an MAYB tournament last weekend, and she accepted the invite.
I finally was going to get to watch some basketball and relax as a normal parent from the stands. My daughter had two great coaches to learn from -- much better than I ever will be -- and I wasn't going to have to stress or pull my hair out.
Then Saturday came along. And from the opening tip, I had nothing but sympathy for both coaches.
They knew what they were doing and had the game plan in place.
The girls, well ... they're fourth-grade girls.
All of them sweet and kind.
But when that basketball went into the air, it was like everyone in the gym was scraping their fingernails on a chalkboard. It was as if the world's entire population of seals were signaling it was supper time or something.
"Here. Here. I'm open. Throw it. Here. (Insert player's name here), throw it to me."
Now, multiply that several times -- at the top of their lungs -- and you get my point. All were guilty.
The good news was that only happened when they were on offense. All these sweet, innocent girls turned into a pack of ball-hungry animals once the game began. Everyone was open. And I mean everyone.
It took until halftime to come out of my screeching-induced coma. My eyes were dry from not blinking. I was in awe.
Where the heck did this come from? And, it continued into the next few games as well.
I had such admiration for the two coaches for dealing with the constant ball-calling -- for lack of a better term. My just-be-quiet-and-play-the-game-or-you'll-be-sitting-by-me-on-the-bench-if-I-was-coaching meter had broken -- perhaps shattered.
That's why I don't understand girls. Trying to raise one, my wife and I frequently look at each other and say, "She's your daughter." Of course, we're only joking.
But where do they get their vocal energy from on the court? It was as if a pack of fourth-graders had downed a case of Red Bull before tipoff.
I love my daughter and would do just about anything for her. The rest of the girls on the team are phenomenal as well, and my daughter was blessed to even be asked to play.
I just don't understand them sometimes. Why all the talking and shouting on the court?
Perhaps they're just born that way. Perhaps I'll never know.
One thing I do know, though, is Scott Schneider and Jake Robben deserve to be honored as Coaches of the Year. If there is no such honor at this level of play, I'm going to invent one for them. They deserve it.
Nick Schwien is managing editor
of The Hays Daily News