Coupeville Sports

   I spent three springs playing tennis at Tumwater High School. That’s me, third from the left.

In less than 24 hours, spring sports begin.

Which means I am here, once again, to poke, prod and needle those who are sitting on the fence.

A lot of Wolf athletes will show up tomorrow for the first practice, whether softball, track, baseball, tennis or soccer is their sport.

But a fair amount won’t.

There will be the usual excuses offered, some sincere and some not so much.

So be it. It’s your choice.

Though, ultimately, that is what will nag at me personally the most.

Not that you want to go work, or study, or drive, or hang out with friends, or violate the athletic code without impunity, or any of a million little reasons you will offer for why you’re not playing a sport this spring.

No, what will bother me, personally, the most, is you have the choice to play, and you still choose to walk away.

Because I never had that choice.

For someone who makes their meager living off of writing about high school and middle school sports, I came at the job in somewhat of an odd way.

I grew up playing outside 24-7, whether it was basketball, baseball, football, churning through the neighborhood on my battered bike or waging a constant war with a neighbor kid, who, at the time, seemed super annoying.

Now, looking back, I’m pretty sure I was just as annoying, if not more so.

But what I’m saying is, I was, like most kids in the late ’70s, early ’80s, a natural athlete.

And also rail-thin. But no beard … at the time.

Playing sports was what I lived and breathed for on a daily basis.

If no one else was around, I’d play basketball myself, the Trail Blazers vs. the ’76ers, Jim Paxson knocking down jumpers over Maurice Cheeks all day long.

My dad wouldn’t put up a backboard and rim?

I used a tree with a thick, low-hanging branch, which caused weird ricochets on the rebounds and made me a better defensive player.

During this time, I was miffed my dad wouldn’t let me play little league baseball, but, since basketball was my #1 sport, I let it go without too much arguing or thought.

There weren’t any SWISH-style youth basketball options in our town back then, but, as soon as I hit middle school, I would be able to play organized basketball.

I might not have been crossing days off the calendar, but it was close.

In sixth grade there were three players on the playground who were picked 1-2-3, in fluctuating order, day in and day out, for every game.

We were all wiry guards, with similar games, builds and skills, and it was actually more exciting to be the one who got picked #2, which meant you would have to fend off the other two as they worked together.

Lee and Larry went on to play middle school and high school ball, with Larry making the high school varsity as a freshman.

I did not play in middle school or high school.

It wasn’t my choice, and yes, it still bothers me greatly to this day.

And please, do not for a second think I believe I was destined for greatness, for college or the NBA.

I was a super-skinny kid who topped out at a shade under six-foot and liked to drive people batty on defense. No one was ever gonna give me money for my hoops skills.

But man, I wanted desperately to play organized basketball, and I will always be left to wonder what my experience would have been like.

And why didn’t I play, you ask?

Growing up, I was part of a family which belonged to a rather rigid religious sect, and my father, for many years, was one of the leaders in our local branch.

Organized sports were seen as preparation for military life, something also not allowed by this group.

So, the thinking as best I understand, was why allow children to do one thing, if it was merely leading to something else which also wasn’t going to happen?

We had discussions, my father and I. We had arguments. Nothing changed.

My sister was far more vocal, while I tended to react as passively-aggressive as possible. Which meant I have sulked ever since.

It was only late in my sophomore year, after my father had stepped down from his leadership role in our church, and after I had come within 99.29% of dropping out of school, that he relented a small fraction.

Desperate to find some way to keep me in school, my mom convinced my dad to allow me to play tennis — and only tennis — and I got most of three seasons on the court.

Tennis wasn’t my first choice, my second choice or my 37th choice, but I enjoyed my time playing for Coach Barona.

I was the kid who went full-tilt every practice, then always stayed after practice to keep playing until it was so dark we couldn’t see the tennis ball anymore.

On weekends, I would bike down to the courts and play for hours more.

I still have my racket, a framed team photo from my senior year, my Tumwater High School letter and a second-place trophy from a summer tournament.

The trophy isn’t that impressive, pretty much a run-of-the-mill tennis one, and parts of it have come a bit loose over the years.

But, every time I look at it stashed away on top of a bookshelf, I remember upsetting one high school teammate, James, in the semifinals, then battling my high school doubles partner, Ari, for three-plus hours in the final.

It was a very hot day and by the end, after repeatedly trying to slug the ball off of each other’s faces, and much yapping back and forth, our coach decided we might need a change.

Suffice it to say, I played singles as a senior. Which was probably best for all involved.

That trophy stands as a perfect testament to how drive and commitment can help you achieve anything, while also offering a stark reminder that maybe I’m not the easiest person to get along with.

A fact to which many newspaper editors can attest.

During those three seasons of tennis, I came back at my father often with pleas to play basketball, but he never bent. Ever.

As an adult, I’m no happier with his choice, but time does tend to take some of the edge off of our hurts.

I don’t hate my dad.

Didn’t while he was alive and certainly don’t now that he has passed. In almost every other way, we had a great relationship.

I don’t agree with all the decisions he made, but I know he genuinely wanted the best for me at all times.

But I still wish I had been given the chance to play. And I probably always will.

So, to the Wolf athletes who sit on the fence on this Sunday night, trying to decide whether to play or not — it’s your call, not mine.

But whatever you choose, to play or sit, just be thankful YOU get to make that choice.

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