Thirty- something speaks
Practice makes perfect...parents

Mike Maddock

When I was growing up, I thought my mom was the greatest mother on the planet. She would set up obstacle courses in our basement so I could practice dribbling a basketball. First I'd dribble for an hour with my right hand through the cones, then an hour with my left, and then another hour alternating hands. I thought my mom really cared for me. What other mother would take the time to craft a dribbling maze and then allow her son to practice for three straight hours?

It brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it.

Of course, now that I'm older, and I have kids of my own, I'm not crying tears of sentimentality. Those are tears of laughter, because I can't believe I fell for her little trick over and over again. My mother didn't care if I grew up to be Michael Jordan, she just wanted a few hours of peace. Sure, she might have had to listen to the incessant bounce of a basketball for a few hours, but that sure beat the whining of some bored kid saying he was hungry or thirsty.

My mother was a proud parent, and she took credit when I managed to dribble down the court without bouncing the ball off my foot in the peewee basketball league, but her ultimate goal was not the NBA for me, but a decent nap for her.

I could be angry at her deception. The basketball obstacle course was just one of her little schemes. That basement was also handy for practicing a backhand by hitting tennis balls against the wall. My mom always made sure I had a racket and plenty of balls. She also made sure we had Popsicle sticks and plenty of glue. I made multiple houses for my Star Wars figures with those Popsicle sticks. Funny, I don't remember ever eating Popsicles, but we always had those sticks. Anyway, I thought my mother had big dreams for me; I was going to be a stellar architect who enjoyed a dual career playing professional point guard for an NBA Championship team and had a wicked backhand on the tennis court. It turns out she was just creating dreams for herself…literally.

Like I said, I could be angry, but I find myself admiring her even more these days. My three children spend a lot of time practicing, much like I did when I was a kid. It could be soccer, or ballet, or just running up and down the steps, but it's practice and it gives me the little dose of sanity I need to get through the day. The only problem is that either my kids are smarter than I, or my mom was a little more capable at deception, because after about 25 or so trips up the stairs, my kids will start to wonder what the heck is going on.

"What is this supposed to help us with Daddy?" they'll ask huffing and puffing.

"Speed, endurance, and balance!" I'll say out loud. "And an early bedtime and a decent night of sleep for me," I'll say under my breath.

My daughters may or may not turn out to be the next Mia Hamm or Sylvie Guillem, and my son may not be the next Michael Jordan, but, much like me, they'll get plenty of practice. I wonder if Michael Jordan's parents were well rested when he was a kid.