Read Online Character Driven by Derek Fisher, Gary Brozek - Free Book Online
Authors: Derek Fisher, Gary Brozek
Ads: Link
my family did. We were doers and not just watchers.
To that end, Mom didn’t just go to church and attend services, she was a part of the services. She also performed other functions within the church community. My brother was on the basketball team, a valuable and contributing member of the squad and not just someone who bought a ticket or rode the pine and was lucky to see a few minutes of on-court action during what some people refer to derogatorily as “garbage time.” We were active. We were doers.
And just as you conducted yourself a certain way in public while at your mother’s workplace, in church, at Sunday school, and in the neighborhood, you understood certain expectations governed your conduct and performance on and around the basketball court. I was told that as a ball boy I had certain responsibilities. My dad stressed that I shouldn’t look around and make faces or scan the stands for friends. I should watch the game so that when called on, I could go into action immediately and without being asked twice. I wasn’t to dash out there of my own volition either. I could anticipate when I would be called on, but not make those decisions myself.
I don’t want to make too much of those early experiences on the basketball court, but they were formative, and the lessons I learned as a ball boy, while watching the game on TV with my father, and while hanging out with the older kids have never left me. My dad stressed that my mopping up the floor wasn’t just for cosmetic reasons. Someone could slip on that wet spot and be injured. That injured player could have made the difference between winning and losing. My dad wasn’t trying to burden me with worry. He was trying to make clear something that I know a lot of young people struggle with: the relationship between cause and effect. My mother’s yanking me by the arm and tugging me out of the bank lobby and telling me to sit still was just one of many lessons I learned about consequences. Right action earned you a reward. Wrong action earned you a punishment.
That didn’t mean that I was immune from childhood acts of rebellion and indifference to cause and effect. With my friends I built ramps and jumps out of scrap lumber we salvaged from one another’s garages, discard piles, and garbage-day derelicts. I suffered more than my share of scraped knees and scabbed elbows when one of my attempts at turning my regular old bicycle into a BMX or stunt bike went awry and I spilled to the ground while practicing my daring jumps. I was learning lessons about risk and reward in those moments, and they were kinds of extra-credit, outside-the-curriculum activities that supplemented my education. What I learned was something like equations: Ground = hard. Boy = fragile. Pavement = rough. Skin = shreddable. Stupidity = painful.
However much I might have acted out away from my parents’ watchful eyes or away from the basketball court, I can’t recall a time when I didn’t listen to my coaches, act sensibly, and try to put into practice their instructions. I can still remember my first practice with the 76ers and being amazed at how incapable many of my teammates were of even getting into a straight line and performing a simple layup drill. Many of them had to be reprimanded or reminded that they needed to focus. I didn’t. I was intent on learning more about the game and refining my skills. Maybe that early photo of me with the fundamentally sound follow-through is an indication of the genetic link that connected me to my father and mother. More likely it was also a product of osmosis. I was picking up on the current of athleticism and performance and execution that permeated the air.
Parents frequently instruct their children, “Do as you’re told.” In most houses, the emphasis is on the told. In mine, it seems to me now, the emphasis was on the do. I wasn’t very different from most children in one regard. I wanted to please my parents. Much of the pleasure
To that end, Mom didn’t just go to church and attend services, she was a part of the services. She also performed other functions within the church community. My brother was on the basketball team, a valuable and contributing member of the squad and not just someone who bought a ticket or rode the pine and was lucky to see a few minutes of on-court action during what some people refer to derogatorily as “garbage time.” We were active. We were doers.
And just as you conducted yourself a certain way in public while at your mother’s workplace, in church, at Sunday school, and in the neighborhood, you understood certain expectations governed your conduct and performance on and around the basketball court. I was told that as a ball boy I had certain responsibilities. My dad stressed that I shouldn’t look around and make faces or scan the stands for friends. I should watch the game so that when called on, I could go into action immediately and without being asked twice. I wasn’t to dash out there of my own volition either. I could anticipate when I would be called on, but not make those decisions myself.
I don’t want to make too much of those early experiences on the basketball court, but they were formative, and the lessons I learned as a ball boy, while watching the game on TV with my father, and while hanging out with the older kids have never left me. My dad stressed that my mopping up the floor wasn’t just for cosmetic reasons. Someone could slip on that wet spot and be injured. That injured player could have made the difference between winning and losing. My dad wasn’t trying to burden me with worry. He was trying to make clear something that I know a lot of young people struggle with: the relationship between cause and effect. My mother’s yanking me by the arm and tugging me out of the bank lobby and telling me to sit still was just one of many lessons I learned about consequences. Right action earned you a reward. Wrong action earned you a punishment.
That didn’t mean that I was immune from childhood acts of rebellion and indifference to cause and effect. With my friends I built ramps and jumps out of scrap lumber we salvaged from one another’s garages, discard piles, and garbage-day derelicts. I suffered more than my share of scraped knees and scabbed elbows when one of my attempts at turning my regular old bicycle into a BMX or stunt bike went awry and I spilled to the ground while practicing my daring jumps. I was learning lessons about risk and reward in those moments, and they were kinds of extra-credit, outside-the-curriculum activities that supplemented my education. What I learned was something like equations: Ground = hard. Boy = fragile. Pavement = rough. Skin = shreddable. Stupidity = painful.
However much I might have acted out away from my parents’ watchful eyes or away from the basketball court, I can’t recall a time when I didn’t listen to my coaches, act sensibly, and try to put into practice their instructions. I can still remember my first practice with the 76ers and being amazed at how incapable many of my teammates were of even getting into a straight line and performing a simple layup drill. Many of them had to be reprimanded or reminded that they needed to focus. I didn’t. I was intent on learning more about the game and refining my skills. Maybe that early photo of me with the fundamentally sound follow-through is an indication of the genetic link that connected me to my father and mother. More likely it was also a product of osmosis. I was picking up on the current of athleticism and performance and execution that permeated the air.
Parents frequently instruct their children, “Do as you’re told.” In most houses, the emphasis is on the told. In mine, it seems to me now, the emphasis was on the do. I wasn’t very different from most children in one regard. I wanted to please my parents. Much of the pleasure
Similar Books
