If there’s one sport that I have a hate-hate relationship with, it’s basketball. In fourth grade, I joined a team and went to practice for three weeks before quitting because the coach kept yelling at me to stop dribbling with two hands.

In 2011, when I first moved to Eau Claire, a new friend pressured me to go to open gym at the downtown YMCA where she insisted on teaching me how to do a layup – a skillset I had no interest in developing. After more airballs than I could count and the most crushing mockery I’ve ever experienced, she gave up and never invited me back.

Many blissful years went by with little to no basketball-related traumas until just a few weeks ago when my worst basketball nightmare came true. Back in the fall, I started volunteering for Big Brothers Big Sisters. Since my Little Sis likes to burn off energy when we hang out, it makes sense that we’ve found ourselves running around and exploring the downtown YMCA during the colder months.

I’m a mature adult, of course, so I had to say yes when she first asked to go and shoot hoops. It was fine because we mostly just chased stray balls around the gym, dodged men sprinting around in half-court games, and played the occasional game of P-I-G which always ended very quickly.

This week, my Little Sis got a new idea. “Should we see if those guys will play against us?” she asked, gesturing to two adult men who clearly played basketball every hour of their lives and probably in their sleep.

“Oh, uhh, gosh, it sure looks like they came here to practice on their own,” I tried to redirect. “I’d hate to interrupt their–”

“Can you go ask them?” she insisted. “We could play two-on-two!”

I pretended not to hear, lobbing my basketball toward the nearest hoop and running away from the thought of getting crushed in a pick-up game.

Sadly, I had underestimated the determination of a ten-year-old. Within seconds, she was marching up to those basket ballers with unrecognizable assertiveness. I stood behind her, eyes wide with an expression that I hoped would scream, “This wasn’t my idea and I told her not to ask,” but that didn’t seem to matter. They happily obliged the aspiring player, shook our hands like good sports, and agreed to have “one good person on each team” as she requested.

"... even the most serious looking athletes can spare a few minutes for a pick-up game with rookies."

Let’s call these guys Aaron and Cal – not their real names, of course, but pretty darn close. Aaron was on my team. He had west coast surfer vibes and knew how to gas me up when I was ruining every play, at one point telling me I would have surely made a shot if I’d just eaten more for breakfast. Cal wasn’t as gentle – at least not toward me. His modus operandi was more hulk-smash blocking my shots and, as they say, “putting me in the blender.” Luckily, he was generous with passing to my Little Sis and encouraging her to shoot, and she was loving his competitive spirit.

A few minutes into our game, I noticed this “competitive spirit” rubbing off on this sweet, innocent child, and it wasn’t long before she was razzing me as if I wasn’t the person who regularly bought her ice cream and laughed at all her jokes. While I played offense, I asked if she was going to try to put on some pressure or just stand there.

“Why would I even try?” she snapped back. “You’re not gonna score anyway!” Aaron and Cal joined in on the heckling which only added to her bravado. After shooting and scoring (that’s right, I made one singular point), she just kept repeating, “Yeah, we’ll see about that… we’ll see about that,” as if I’d never even scored – the ultimate gaslighting experience.

In the exact same gym as my layup failures over a decade before, with sweat pooling on my upper-lip and the sting of mockery still in my ears, I couldn’t help but think of how much fun it all was – for everyone, it seemed.

By the end of the game, I still didn’t understand how to keep score or when to check the ball. What I did know was that the score never really mattered anyway, and even the most serious looking athletes can spare a few minutes for a pick-up-game with rookies. We gave our high fives and said our good games, knowing we’d be seeing each other on the court again soon.