Quick Hands

As a young boy I played many sports: soccer, tee ball, touch football and my love basketball. I was a relatively small and weak boy. So I struggled at most the sports. I also never too the time to practice much. I desperately wanted to do well for approval of my teammates and the approval of my coaches, but I never could even reach my own expectations. In particular I remember one basketball game. The other team had a small prodigy. A boy named Mitch. He was smaller than myself but who could dribble and score as well as any. I knew I could not match his skills but I aspired to defend him well. I focused and studied his dribbling habits. I slide my feet to stay with him. To my surprise I manage to stay in front of him to the right and to the left. When me picked up his dribble to pass I got a finger on the ball and deflected it away. I don't remember if the ball went out of bounds or if we stole it. I do remember hearing my father's voice yelling "Quick hands, Jase! Quick hands." It was a minor thing. It was a minor play. But it meant everything to me. This compliment seed of self-confidence that sprouted into a tree of self-respect. Thank you, Dad. Thank you for being there. Thank you for noticing my small successes and encouraging me.