From ages 4-10, every summer, I would cry on the basketball court of Alexander Central’s varsity gym.
My dad, the head coach of the school’s men’s team for 19 years, ran a basketball camp every year — affectionately known as “Cougar Camp.” It was an entire Wills family affair. My mom would work the check-in station in the freezing cold lobby and pass out Gatorades during breaks. My dad would stand at mid-court, whistle around his neck, and lead the stretches, drills and games. I was forced to participate.
Spoiler alert: there is not a single bone in my body that is good at basketball.
Of course, there were good times. When I was really small, my dad’s players would hoist me up to dunk during shootaround. I enjoyed the free basketball everyone would take home at the end of camp, even though it usually collected dust in our garage for the rest of the summer.
It would be all fun and games until a specific drill would hit the schedule.
My dad’s whistle would blow. All of the kids would line up in front of the bleachers, usually in groups of four or five. Then, we’d be tasked to dribble halfway down the court. But as we made the trek, we had to crisscross the ball between our legs.
No matter how many times I tried or how many years I did the same drill, I couldn’t do it. I’d bounce the ball off my foot or against my calf, leaving me to chase it down through the entire gym.
Anxiety gripped me. Hot tears would prick the corner of my eyes. I’d lower my head in embarrassment to hide it from the older kids.
Eventually, I stopped being forced to participate in Cougar Camp.
