A Game Worth Watching by Samantha Gudger Page A

their entire team practice, as if fearing
Emma would forget about their deal, didn’t help. Talk about suffocation. If the
kid could actually dribble without tripping and taking everyone else down with
her, it may not have been so bad, but as it was, Emma had tripped over her
twice already.
    Practice
finally ended, but Emma didn’t start her individualized instruction with Ashley
until everyone left the gym. Ashley was entirely focused. On Emma. Like Emma
was a professional basketball player or something. Completely annoyed, Emma
hoped she’d survive their one-on-one practice without strangling the kid.
    Ashley
was small for her age in size and shape, and she was limited in experience. She
hadn’t figured out how to use her boney elbows to gain respect on the court, so
everyone jostled her. It didn’t help that Ashley always managed to put her body
in the line of action and get run over. The shortest distance between two
points was a straight line, but Ashley needed to learn how to take the scenic
route to the basket once in a while.
    Emma
didn’t have a clue where to start with the disaster standing in front of her.
Taking a deep breath, she held a basketball in front of Ashley’s face, hoping
words would come if she started talking. “This,” she said, “is a basketball.” A
person couldn’t get any more basic than that.
    Ashley
stared at the ball, her eyebrows arched over wide eyes, her lips slightly
parted, and she leaned slightly forward as if smelling a flower.
    “You
control the basketball.” Emma held the ball against Ashley’s stomach. “The
basketball does not control you. Got it?”
    Ashley
nodded.
    Having
seen Ashley’s lack of talent in practice, Emma started with the absolute basics
to get the kid used to having a ball in her hands without fumbling it. For the
next two hours, two
hours! , Emma taught Ashley how to dribble. Not between the legs or behind
the back or some fancy trick move that would end in tragedy, but the basic one
dribble at a time. Left hand, right hand, straight line, zigzag, waist high,
knee high. In two hours, Ashley became a dribbler.
    “How
far away from school do you live?” Emma asked as they returned the basketballs
to the rack.
    Ashley
shrugged. “About a mile.”
    “Do
you usually take the bus?”
    Ashley
nodded. “Except on Friday’s when my mom brings me.”
    “Starting
tomorrow you walk to school and you dribble a basketball the entire way.
Dribble with your right hand half way and then switch to your left. Got it?”
Emma expected the kid’s jaw to drop in shock or for high-pitched complaints to
come spouting out of her mouth, but Ashley just nodded again like Emma’s
demands made total sense. What would motivate a freshman to sacrifice her
leisure bus rides to school in exchange for a one-mile dribble trek without
complaint?
    “Except
on Fridays,” Emma threw in. What she wouldn’t give to have Friday morning
commutes with her own mom. “You can have Friday’s off. Okay?”
    Another
nod. Emma got the distinct feeling she could tell this kid to jump off a bridge
into ice cold water every morning, and she’d do it.
    “Thank
you,” Ashley said. “I’ve learned so much from you. I already feel like a better
player.”
    “Yep.”
    Ashley
may have felt like a better player, but she still had a long way to go.
    “I
mean it,” Ashley said, lighting up like a six-year-old at Christmas. “You’re an
amazing coach.”
    Emma
scowled at the freshman. “I’m not a coach.”
    Coaches—good
coaches—played a significant role in the life of an athlete. They built
people into players, guiding them to be better and do better, training them to
overcome whatever obstacles tried to take them down. Coaches inspired and
motivated a team to unite together and strive for perfection. It took a better
person than Emma to be a coach, and just because she taught the kid a few
skills didn’t mean she was a coach. Not even close.
    ***
    Emma
didn’t live far from