Basketball Yelling

For effect, I’m sure, the old man deliberately stood up and shook his fist as he began to yell.

“COME ON YOU IGNORANT ZEBRAS! Why don’t you put away your whistles and finally let a basketball game break out! We didn’t come here to see YOU IDIOTS blow those whistles!”

And then he emphatically added, “GOSHDARNIT!”

Except the grandpa in the stands at the basketball game, obviously frustrated with the number of fouls being called, didn’t really say “goshdarnit”. He was a bit more colorful.

Finally, he sat down and let out a hearty guffaw announcing to those around him, “Boy, in all my 78 years I have yet to find a goof ref. That’s why you gotta yell at them. You gotta set them straight.”



When the teenager’s high school basketball season began there was talk of sportsmanship and respect and personal growth. There was talk of hard work and goal setting and training schedules. There was talk of fundraising and parental volunteering and even, having a little fun playing some basketball.

Nobody, however, mentioned the yelling.


Just like the grandpa in the stands, a coach of one of the other teams in the league had an awful lot to say. You know the team I’m talking about. The well respected, super disciplined, naturally gifted, nationally ranked team that is undefeated this year.

The coach of that team called a time out and quickly ushered one of her players off the court. The coach’s face was 2 inches away from the girl’s face. The coach was seething and shaking and let loose, loud enough for the entire gym to take dictation. “WHAT COULD YOU HAVE POSSIBLY BEEN THINKING? Do you have any clue how to play basketball or were you just born a complete IDIOT!”

The entire gym was silent. We could hear every word. Even the teenager’s coach, trying to proceed with his own time out instructions, paused, not quite believing what he was hearing.

The coach of the other team continued her rant, “Did you see how that girl just made that basket? DID YOU SEE THAT? Or are you blind too? I think you must be blind to let her get by you like that! That basket is on your head. We could lose this game and it could be ALL YOUR FAULT! Now sit down because YOU. ARE. DONE.”

She then pointed her index finger at the 15 year old girl, right at that spot in the middle of her forehead just above her eyes and said with pursed lips, “I’ve told you before…I will only play winners.” She then motioned toward the line of chairs where all the subs sat and walked away, shaking her head.

The teenager’s coach took one look at the group of stunned teenage girls standing before him, focused only on the drama across the gym. “Look at me!” he demanded. “That is not us. We will play OUR game.” He tried to assure them again. “That is NOT us. You are all doing a fabulous job. Now….let’s go out there and finish this game. And let’s remember why we play this game. Because we love it and because it’s FUN.”

While it may not be unusual to have fans yelling at referees and coaches yelling at players, I was not prepared for the teenager herself to come under fire. The competition was intense, the game was close and the teenager was yet again at the foul line, shooting one of the 31 free throws she would shoot in the game. A mother from the other team started making her presence known. Each time the teenager would begin to shoot, the mother from the other team would yell out, “You’re gonna miss it, MISSY, you’re gonna miss it MISSY…because you know that you are NO good…MISS IT, MISS IT……..WOOOOOOO!”

I was surprised how quickly my usually passive nature was replaced with thoughts that any mother bear protecting her cubs would easily identify with. And while I did manage to control myself until the end of the game, I was still fuming on the way home in the car.

“This yelling at basketball games is really starting to bother me. It is not good!” I said to the teenager, a bit louder than I had intended.

“First it was that grandpa in the stands, and then it was that awful, angry coach. And now, today, there was that loud mouthed horrible mother from the other team yelling at you! Basketball should be fun, just like your coach said. All of this yelling does not make basketball fun!”


When we arrived home the teenager turned on the television to her favorite college team’s basketball game. Her team was behind and was not playing well.

The teenager immediately started yelling at the screen, “You are frickin’ idiots! How could you possibly have thought that shot was a good idea! Bunch of….LOOOOOO-SERS!"

Shocked, I asked the teenager if she had heard a word that I had said in the car about all of this yelling at basketball games.

“Oh, I heard everything you said,” the teenager replied. “Sometimes you just gotta yell though. That’s why I like watching basketball on TV. I can yell all I want at the players and coaches and no one can hear me! I’m not hurting anyone’s feelings. Isn’t it great mom?”

Just as she finished her sentence she started yelling again, “Oh, come on ref there’s no WAY that was a charge. He wasn’t set!”

And as I turned toward the TV to see what the teenager was talking about I heard the animated announcers commenting on the ref’s call, “Wow! A lot of people are unhappy with that call. We’ve got coaches, players and the fans all doing a whole lot of yelling right now. But then, Jim, isn’t that half of what makes basketball so much fun? The yelling?”




Check This Out!

Spring is just around the corner. If you need a respite from all of the basketball yelling in your home during March Madness, may I suggest you consider the calming effects that some nice quiet gardening could have on your life.

You could start by reading this fabulous book. Better Homes and Gardens, Garden Doctor, Advice from the Experts- 1021 Questions Answered. This is great bedtime reading chock full of short, easy to understand answers to all of the gardening questions you didn't even know you had.

And once you are done reading, head to your local garden store and pick up a pack of these Ed Hume Dwarf Cherry Rose Nasturtium seeds. This is a super easy to grow annual and a nice change of pace from the usual orange, yellow and red nasturtiums. Even the back of the seed package says, "Thrives in poor soil. Needs no fertilizer and very little water." How much easier can it get? I've planted nasturtiums for quite a few years in recently overturned sod that, after years of grass breakdown would eventually become a flowerbed. While I waited however, the nasturtiums covered the ugly mess and looked fabulous.

Blood on the Court

“Oh yeah buddy, yeah you missed it!! Oh you sure missed that one! What are ya, blind?”

Down on the junior high basketball court the referee turned to look at the man. We all turned to see him standing up in the stands and yelling quite loudly.

“Yeah buddy, I’m talking to you. You missed that call and I’ve got it on tape.”

“Shut up, honey” the man’s wife hissed under her breath. “We’re winning by 21 points.”



The stands were full of people voicing their opinions about the players and the coaches and the referees. You couldn’t escape hearing the comments and accusations. Apparently, this game that the teenager’s team was playing in was a complete mess.

According to the people watching the game, the players were incompetent. Their passes were inaccurate. Their shots were pathetic. They were too slow. They were too fast. They were too cocky and selfish. They were too meek and insecure. They didn’t think before they dribbled. They thought too much before they shot.

The coaches didn’t play the right players. One coach put up with too much backtalk from the superstar player. Another coach was too hard on the sensitive player. One coach let one player play too much but never let another player play enough. One coach had the nerve to stand up while he was coaching, temporarily blocking the view of a spectator. The other coach had an ugly shirt on.

The referees were complete bozos. The referees favored one team. The referees favored the other team. They apparently hadn’t visited the eye doctor in a long time. One referee forgot to bring his glasses to the game. The other referee forgot to bring his rulebook to the game. Both referees forgot to bring their brains to the game.

Even the woman running the scoreboard and shot clock was a complete idiot. She was always too slow to buzz the substitutes in. Apparently, she needed to get her hands out from under her…um…behind, so that she could hit the buzzer a bit faster.



I watched with great fear as the teenager was finally put into the game. She was safe from the opinions of the crowd when she was on the bench. She was safe from the harsh swarm of negativity if she didn’t play. I was nervous for her. Little did I know, however, that it would be the teenager that would cause the crowd and their comments to finally take a positive turn.

The teenager proceeded to play her usual form of basketball which is something like 80% true basketball, 15 % tackle football, and 5% nervous panic. She spent almost as much time sprawled flat on the court as she did upright. She plowed right into large, scary, manly looking girls. The manly girls pummeled the tiny teenager to the ground.

After a few minutes the referee blew the whistle and the game came to a screeching halt. The referee walked over to the teenager and pointed his finger right in her face. “Number 24!” he yelled for the entire crowd to hear. “You’re outta here!” The teenager turned white with fear and embarrassment.

“What did she do wrong?” her coach asked as the crowd hushed for the first time that night to hear what the referee would say.

“She didn’t do anything wrong.” the referee answered. “But she is bleeding quite badly all over my court. Someone should really take care of her.”

As the teenager limped off the court, blood running down her leg, the crowd began to mumble to itself. Then they began to chuckle. Then they began to clap in honor of the teenager’s ability to tackle in a basketball game and still walk off the court unassisted. And then the loud man stood up and started yelling. And for the first time that night, he yelled something positive. He yelled in support of the teenager.

“Blood on the court!! That’s fantastic! Now that’s what I call playing some good basketball! Can’t get any better than that!”

The crowd chuckled and the teenager’s teammates gathered around her somewhat in awe of her blood.

But the loud man wasn’t done yet. After a brief pause he continued yelling.

“Hey ref! When are we gonna start this game back up? Have you had a long enough rest yet?”


Check This Out!

This week at Slightly Exaggerated, the husband is recommending that you check out his favorite car of the week: the 2010 Hyundai Genesis Coupe. The boy is recommending that you get your own Nerf basketball hoop for the back of your door. I am recommending that you plant your blueberries, raspberries and strawberries pretty darn soon. And the teenager is recommending that you always carry a few extra band-aids with you. You just never know when you will need one.

Air Ball

I was 11 years old on the day things went so horribly wrong.

It was supposed to be my one big chance. It was supposed to make me a star.

It was supposed to go in the basket.

After the game, instead celebrating our win with my teammates, I made a red faced escape from the Jefferson Elementary School gym. Walking quickly with my head down I attempted to hide my tears and my embarrassment from my family, from my teammates and especially, from the lady with the sore head.



In 1980, we played basketball because it was fun. And we played basketball because our friends did. And we laughed when we played. We practiced shooting free throws in our driveway at slumber parties until it got dark. The floor burns and bruises on our knees came from the rubber gym floor in the school’s cinderblock multipurpose room where our team practiced. Parents watched games from worn wooden steps in front of the stage at the end of the room. They talked to each other and not to the ref. There was always one problem mother who pushed her daughter to be a superstar. Some of us would be lucky enough to play in high school, but we certainly didn’t think about it when we were 11 and 12. We wore short shorts with white piping and long tube stocks that reached our knees and had colored stripes at the top. When basketball season was over we dug our mitts out from the back of the closet and started playing softball. In 1980 we played softball because it was fun.

29 years later, following in my infamous footsteps, the teenager is playing basketball for her school team. She wears her painful, bruised knees with pride, just like I did. She ignores the fact that she’s one of the shortest players, just like I did. She’s always wishing for more playing time, just like I did.

But in 2009 that just might be where the similarities end. In 2009, many of the girls play for the exposure, they play for the fame and they play for a college scholarship. They practice free throws at the Saturday open gym on the high school court after an hour in the weight room and a 3 mile conditioning run. Floor burns and bruises on knees come from polished hardwood floors with a painted mascot in the middle. Parents watch games from 20 rows up in the metal bleachers that have seats in coordinating school colors. The ref can still hear them complain. There might be one or two parents who don’t push their daughters to be superstars--maybe. In 2009, girls wear baggy, shiny shorts that reach to their knees, with Under Armour compression shorts underneath, and sleeveless jerseys with technologically advanced moisture wicking capabilities. With club play, competitive teams and year round tournaments, in addition to weekly training, basketball season is never over.

After a particularly hard practice last week the teenager limped into the house exhausted and bruised and bleeding. She relayed how she was yelled at by a teammate, fouled to the ground by the 6 ft tall girl and ran lines until she could barely walk. And despite her improving skills, she was certain she wasn’t going to get much playing time this season.

“Honey, “I asked her, “Why are you even playing basketball? It sounds like you are miserable.”

Without hesitation, she turned to me and grinned wide. “Are you kidding, mom? Basketball is great! I’m playing because it is fun. ”




At my mother’s funeral last year, a woman walked up to me and enveloped me in a hug. She offered her condolences. I inquired about her two girls, twins, which I had gone to school with from 2nd grade through our senior year in high school. She mentioned that one girl now had a son who was playing basketball. As we reminisced about the basketball teams her girls and I were on so many years ago, I asked her if she remembered the incident.

“It was the worst air ball in history. “ I told her. “I shot the ball up and over the backboard and it flew through the air into the area where the parents were sitting. My ball ended up hitting you right on your head. Your head was turned at the time so the ball caught you by surprise. You stood up and yelled out in pain. The whole gym saw. I was so embarrassed. I’ve never forgotten it. “

She laughed. “Oh for goodness sakes. I don’t remember that at all! Boy those were good times though, weren’t they? Those basketball games were great. My girls had so much fun. Didn’t you?”



I was 11 years old on the day I shot that air ball. I was 38 years old when I told the teenager about it. She laughed out loud. "That's hilarious mom. But, if it bothered you so much, why did you keep on playing?"

Without hesitation, I answered. "Because basketball was great, honey. I kept playing because it was fun."



Check This Out!

The Afghan, by Frederick Forsyth is a roller coaster of a read. This book about a planned Al Qaeda attack and an imbedded British spy was shocking, thrilling and suspenseful. The ending was a bit flat....but the book is still an escape and well worth checking out.