We Got a Team

Danny approaches me one afternoon after teaching my final class of the day. “Teach, why don’t you start a basketball team here at school. A lot of us would like to play.”

I don’t respond.

“Is that a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’?”

“It’s neither. Starting a basketball team is not anything I’ve thought about, Mr. Ortega. Sounds like a whole lot of work to me.” 

“Doesn’t have to be. Think about the fun part. You get to be part of a team. I tell you what. I’ll do all the thinking about it and all the work getting it organized. I just need someone from the staff to agree to coach us.” He pauses and holds my eyes in a steady stare.

What’s a teacher to do when one of his best students comes forward with a promise to do all the work for a potentially fun group activity and all I have to do is say “yes”?

“OK, Danny, you got a deal. I’ll do it. But, one question, why me?”

“You told us in class that you used to coach.” I try to remember when I shared that fact. “And nobody else on the staff will do it.”

Before I ask any more questions, Danny’s off down the hall to spread the word. His words echo back to my office. “Hey y’all. We got a team. Mr. McKenna’s gonna coach us.”

It’s 2013 and I am teaching at an alternative high school completion/GED program in Portland, Oregon. Several of my students have spent time in jail, some have been homeless, almost all have dropped out of or been expelled from other high schools. I soon learn that none has ever before played on an organized high school basketball team. 

Danny is one of the students who has never been on a team. “And I don’t want to play on this one. Hey man, look at me, I’m a Mexican who is short and slow. If it was soccer, maybe . . . but I love basketball. Think of me as your assistant coach.”

Another offer I can’t refuse, even if it means jeopardizing a welcome peace of mind I’ve found teaching at a small alternative school with two wonderful colleagues, free to create our own social justice curriculum.  

The following day, Danny is waiting for me outside my office when I arrive for work. I’m waiting for my caffeine to kick in. Danny looks like he’s on his third espresso.

Instead of greeting me with his familiar “Teach,” he addresses me as “Coach.”

“Follow me, Coach.” He leads me inside my small office, pulls out my chair, sets my briefcase on the left side of my cluttered desk, pushes random papers aside and places a manila folder smack dab in the middle of a rare clear space.

“Coach, I got it all right here.” He opens the folder. In contrast to my desk, it’s filled with meticulously organized papers color-coded with Post-its.

I grab for my coffee.

“OK,” Danny says as he points to page one. “This lays it all out. The red section has all the forms you need to sign. The green section contains everything you need to know about the league.”

I grab for my coffee. “You do all of this yourself?”

“No way, Coach. I got a little help from my connection in the main office, that nice lady who came to class to show us how to do the mosaic projects to go along with our writing. She promised she’d be our No. 1 fan.” Danny bumps fists with me.

“OK Coach, back to business.”

“Wait, go back a bit . . . league?”

“Stay with me, Coach.” He taps the green section to help me focus. “Yes, there’s an alternative school league with seven other teams and as soon as we file the proper forms, we’re número ocho,” he adds with a sparkling grin.

A bell rings announcing that classes are about to start. “Thanks, Danny, I have to organize a few things for class. I’ll look through the rest of this later this morning.”

Again, Danny stares me down and taps on the open folder. “Coach . . . just sign where we’ve attached arrows. It will take you 10 seconds and, as I told you, I will take care of the rest.”

Breaking a basic rule that I’ve tried to follow for most of my adult life — don’t sign anything until you know exactly what it says — Danny has me signing my life away.

He leaves me with the information he says I need and takes the rest with him to navigate his way through whatever administrative hoops exist. More power to him. Those administrative hoops are just one of the things that led me to leave high school coaching after a 25-year career at a successful public school program five years ago. It wasn’t the only thing. The thought of coaching again brings some of those other things back to life. Not something I want to think about as I start my day. I’m late. Students await. 

Shortly after class ends, I refill my coffee cup and take a closer look at the folder Danny bequeathed me.

At the very end, designated with a yellow Post-it, is a detailed timeline. The first entry reads: “Today right after school. Team meeting in the community room. Don’t be late, Coach.”

“Great, guess I’ll be late to happy hour instead,” I mutter to myself.

More highlighted details follow. A few catch my eye immediately.

• Games every Friday right after school at a community center on the other side of town.
• The school van leaves promptly at 3:15 to get there on time. 
• If everyone antes up $10, Danny has a deal for team jerseys.
• No weed or other illegal substances before or during the game.
• Remaining details will be discussed at the meeting. (“That’s your piece, Coach.”)

By the time I rearrange and sweep the classroom after my final class of the day, the community room is buzzing. Some students are talking smack about the quality of their hoop skills, others will hear nothing of it, all cheer when I emerge through the door. I can’t recall when a group of students cheered as I entered a room. I’ll take it, been a challenging day.

At first glance, I see that the aspiring squad is a co-ed group: as many young women as young men. After I welcome everyone and ask that they share a thought or two about why they are interested in playing on a school team, I let them know what my expectations are: “If you are on the team, you will play. My goal is to give everyone equal minutes. Remember, we’re a team. It’s called ‘playing a game’ for a reason. We have fun. We support each other. We don’t lose our minds during or after a game. And, as Coach Ortega said, no one gets high before or during a game either.

“Take a look around at who is here in the room with you. These are your teammates. Each of you will bring something different to the team. Just like in our classrooms, each of you needs to feel safe and respected so you can fully share what you have to offer. But we will not be playing basketball in a classroom. We will be in a gym, a public place with people watching us compete against other teams. Things can get intense. So, I want to repeat one of my expectations: If a problem occurs we don’t lose our minds. We work at solving the problem in the context of everything I just laid out. Are there any questions?”

A young man I don’t know very well raises his hand. “Everyone tells me you’re a good teacher. What do you know about coaching basketball?”

“Fair question. I coached high school basketball, men and women, here in town for a very long time.”

“So why did you give it up?”

Danny wants to say something but I let him know I’m good.

“Short answer is I got burned out. Coaching got to a point where everything revolved around winning and losing. I love basketball. Loved it since I started playing at 8 years old. Played in high school, college . . . when I started coaching, it was a blast. When it became too much about winning it stopped being fun, simple as that. You might be wondering then why did I decide to coach you guys? Because Danny promised me it would be fun. He also told me that nobody else would do it. Any other questions?”

After a brief pause, Danny steps up. “Coach, we’re gonna need to practice. Not only have we never played on an organized team but some of us,” he glances at two of the young women, “have never played at all.” 

Before I can react, he assures me “Don’t worry. Don’t worry. I got it covered, Coach. I reserved a local community center for Wednesday evening practices.”

Guess I’ll miss my regular Wednesday night dinner date night as well.

“You know if I didn’t look at the scoreboard, I would have thought your team won by 30 instead of getting your asses kicked again.”

We lose our first game by 30 points. Our team is a little shell-shocked, but everyone plays, no one loses their mind, we play hard, support each other, have a good time and only one player tries to sneak to the bathroom to smoke weed at halftime. 

With each game, our team becomes more connected. We pass the ball to each other, acknowledge good plays, show real support when someone struggles, and bond on the van rides to and from the games with me at the wheel. 

I spend the games pacing back and forth commenting on everything that happens, much like I do as a classroom teacher, just louder with different words.

Instead of exclaiming “great sentence,” I shout “beautiful pass!” 

Rather than “way to help your classmate when she got stuck on her story,” it’s “way to help on defense!” 

“You showed terrific persistence finishing your essay” becomes “great hustle getting that loose ball.” 

I rarely look at the scoreboard except to check the time. 

When a player substitutes out, I greet them with a positive comment followed by a teaching moment. “Did you see how you helped Andre guard his player when he got lost on defense?” 

“When you’re open, shoot. Doesn’t matter if it goes in. If you miss, it gives Erv an opportunity to get the rebound in a good position to score. So if you’re open, let that sucker fly. 

“Remember when the other team gets a rebound after we miss a shot, we have to run to the other end of the court to stop them from scoring while keeping track of where the ball is. 

“If you lose the ball out of bounds like you did on the last play, don’t stop playing. We all make mistakes. Just move on to the next play.”

During timeouts I start with “What’s one thing we did well?” followed by “What do we need to better?” And ending with “How about if we try this on our next play?”

We continue to lose by double figures. After dropping a fourth game in a row by 20 or more, the referee pulls me aside after the game and says, “You know if I didn’t look at the scoreboard, I would have thought your team won by 30 instead of getting your asses kicked again.” We bump knuckles. 

The ref is right. We’re celebrating after losing by double figures, jumping up and down in a collective hug with Danny in the middle. On the way home in the school van, he says to me, “I told you, Coach. We just want to be on a team. Isn’t that right?” The rest of the squad starts chanting our school name in unison. I think back to when I played in high school and college: God forbid we should celebrate after losing four in a row by double figures. I can hear my college coach threatening us with everything from endless sprints to increased bench time to the ultimate warning: “Some of you don’t seem to realize that if you continue to lose with that kind of attitude, we will replace you with new recruits next year.” 

Those coaches led me to quit my college team, forfeit my scholarship (bad planning on my part), and not touch a basketball for almost a year. When I started coaching, I promised myself that I would never be that kind of coach, especially with young people who have endured enough threats to make them give up on most everything . . . beginning with themselves.

As our fun increases so does our ability to play well. We even win a couple of games. It’s not all smooth sailing though. 

The young man who inquired about my coaching credentials decides losing by double figures is not for him and quits. “No hard feelings, man. It’s just that if I’m going to be on a team, I want to win and this playing everybody equal time ain’t gonna cut it for me. Sorry.” 

“No worries,” I tell him. “Thanks for being honest. You’ll be missed. Just don’t give up on school, OK?”

He nods and stays true to his word.

Our point guard isn’t able to make the same promise.  

After missing two days at school, Shontae shows up at my office. She is dressed in a fast food work uniform complete with a small hat that, with the help of a battalion of bobby pins, manages to rest atop her radiant afro. 

Before I can ask how she is, Shontae says, “I got something to tell you, Coach.”

I reach for her hand.

She pauses to check the tears that leak out of the corners of her brown eyes. “Pressures at home. Had to get a job.” She gestures to her outfit. “So I won’t be playing for a while. I’m sorry.”

“No sorry necessary. Seriously, I understand. Sometimes a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do. You know you will always be a member of this team. Don’t ever doubt that. What about finishing school?“

A small smile competes for space on her sad face. “What about practice?”

“Anytime you want to show up. Same goes for school.”

An administrator walks by. Before he can remind her of the no hats school policy, Shontae rolls her eyes, gives me a quick hug and says, “I’ll see you around, Coach.”

It’s the last time I see her.

A week later, one of our basketball newbies, Erika, informs me before practice starts that she’s thinking of quitting as well, but for a different reason. She’s afraid that her presence makes it “not fair to everyone else.” 

I convince her to stay for practice. As her teammates arrive they sense something is going on. Never ones to be shy about asking “What’s up?” they cut to the quick.

Erika tells them what she shared with me. 

Big Erv, our 6’3”, 240-pound center is the first to respond. “Not fair to us?” He looks around at the squad. “Anybody feel that way?”

No one does.

As we talk about it, Erika points out that when she’s in the game, the other teams send two people at her to steal the ball — that our opponents feed the ball to whomever she’s guarding and that she hasn’t scored a single basket all season.

I ask the team for their thoughts. “What can we do differently?”

They brainstorm possible solutions. Erika can set screens for teammates on offense. If she has the ball and is double-teamed, the closest player will run to her for an easy pass or call “timeout.” On defense, we’ll play zone so she can get lots of help.

The suggestions are enough for her to stay with us. Even more convincing is the care expressed by her fellow hoopers. They have her back. No doubts. And her smile says she knows it.

At the end of practice, I ask the team to tell me how we’re doing. Working past their initial one-word reactions like “good,” I ask them to share examples.

“We see the floor better.”

“Everyone knows where to be.” 

“I’m more willing to try and steal the ball on defense knowing that someone’s there to help if I don’t get it.” 

“Your encouragement really helps. Everybody’s encouragement helps.”

“The van rides are a blast.” 

“After all the BS in our lives, it’s nice to just have some fun!”

We gather in a circle in the middle of the court and join hands in the middle. “Fun on three: one, two, three — FUN!”

As we leave the gym, I pull Erv aside. “Good job, big man. Erika needed that.”

“Thanks, Coach. Guess you would say that’s one thing we did well today.”

During our next game, Erv rebounds an errant shot and searches for Erika. He motions her over to where he stands, four feet from the basket, holding the ball. When she gets close he hands it to her. “Shoot it, Erika.”

She looks up, lets it fly and misses.

Erv snares a second rebound and tosses it back to her, screening away two defenders. Erika shoots again and makes it.

The entire team jumps for joy. Erv lifts Erika in the air. The other three players on the court surround them. Erika pumps her fists like she just dunked over Jordan. When Erv lets her down they all skip together to the other end of the court. I call a timeout. Players on the bench pour on to the floor to join the celebration. It’s like we just won the NBA finals and Erika is the MVP.  

By the end of the season, we improve enough to where games are close. Team morale rides high during our final practice. We end up not working on much of anything. Instead, the time is spent playing various games, listening to music and finishes with a dance contest that I don’t win.

Our final game of the season is with a team we’ve played twice before and lost both times . . . by a lot. The playful joy of practice doesn’t carry over to the van ride across town; the usual music and laughter is subdued. I attribute the change to nervousness. My words to “just play and enjoy the moment” fall flat. 

The game is intense and competitive — a different vibe from what we’re used to. We play well though, and embrace the excitement of what turns out to be a nail biter from the opening tip to the final buzzer. The silence of the ride over from school stays back on the van. Everyone stands, cheers, and encourages each other. With five seconds to go, we’re up by one point. The ball goes out of bounds off an opposing player. I call timeout to set up an inbounds play. When we get back on the floor, the referee gives the ball to the other team. Both the opposing coach and I run to the ref to correct his error. He’ll hear nothing of it.

My players are in disarray. I can’t call another timeout. Amidst the confusion, our opponents inbound the ball to their best player who throws up a prayer. Nothing but net. The buzzer sounds ending the game.

We lose by one.  The opposing coach apologizes to us. We share a handshake and a hug. “Thanks, it was a great game. Your team played well.”

The team gathers around me by our bench, motionless, silent, and separate from each other. For the first time all season, losing matters. Losing hurts. Not just because we lost the game but because, as one of the players says, “I don’t want this to end.” 

Her teammate wipes away a tear and adds “Me neither. I love you guys. I love this team.” 

After numerous hugs, Erika asks, “What do we do now?”

Her question hangs in the air.

Before I can answer, Danny steps forward.

“We come back next year,” he says. “Same time. Same van. But we start earlier. And this time, Coach, maybe you can help us win a few more games . . . not that it’s all about winning.”

The team manages a laugh through dismay and tears.

It’s my turn to say something. Danny is a tough act to follow. I try my best. 

I look at each player beginning with Danny, the young man who said he was too short, too slow, who never played a minute but who wanted to simply be a member of a team. 

“What I do now is thank all of you beginning with Coach Ortega. No Danny. No team. But the same is true for all of you. Without any one of you — no team.” 

I hug each player. “Thank you, everyone. I am honored to be your coach. If I have to get my ass kicked by 30 points on a regular basis, I wouldn’t want to suffer through that fate with anyone but you. So, in answer to Erika’s question, what we do now is continue to take care of each other. We take what we learned this season with us. We work hard. We believe in ourselves. We enjoy the ride. We cherish the details. We do it together. We do what’s right. We move on in our lives knowing we shared this season. Knowing that we can lose by 40 and still win. And one more thing we can do: You promise me you’ll do what it takes to graduate.”

The van rocks with loud music and joyous laughter on our way back to school. When we pull into the school lot and park, no one disembarks. The joy continues. No one wants the ride to end.

As I sit behind the wheel, I think back to when Danny first approached me, the last thing I wanted to do was coach. Coaching was something I did in a previous lifetime, something that once, to quote Frankie Beverly, brought me both joy and pain. Little did I know how much being part of a team one more time would help me remember the joy.

I realize now, 10 years later, as I did back then, our time together wasn’t about basketball. It wasn’t about a league. It certainly wasn’t about winning or losing. As Danny said, it was about learning to be a team — learning that we were capable of building something important together, something we didn’t think was possible. What started as a group of relative strangers sharing a desire to play basketball became a connected community where success was measured by what we created together and, maybe more important, how we did it. 

Whatever our final record was, it wasn’t accurate. From what I remember we never lost a single game.