The Whole Truth and Nothing but the Truth

Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.

Robert Frost

In my family, height is a big deal. Son # 4 spent his entire sophomore year lying on the couch after school (and basketball practice). He had to focus on growing. Of course, his eyes were shut, and he was snoring, but he accomplished his goal: he grew six inches that year. While he was on a mission in Argentina, his Mission President allowed Son #4 to make an almost unheard of phone call home so that I could walk him through how to do a hem stitch on his suit pants. The pants had to be let down because he’d grown another two inches–a dilemma which also meant I had to send him new shoes. Because he needed a size 15(!) pair, and no store anywhere in the country stocked that size, the Church suggested I send his shoes in two separate boxes. A single package that big might pose an irresistible theft temptation to local postal workers.

Son #1, who is seriously competitive, used to assure me that he had finally reached one of his lifetime goals by long-term effort on his part—the lofty height of 6 6″. When I mentioned that height is a genetic factor, he brushed off that little detail. It was with some amusement, I got a picture of his cohort the first day on their mission in Hungary. Son #1 was the tallest. The Mission President added a side-note and told me Son #1 was standing on his tip-toes. Turns out the other four new missionaries were all taller than he was. Humility–the first rule of a successful mission.

Not surprisingly, five of my sons and a daughter all played varsity basketball in high school. Which meant I was sitting on the bleachers at least two evenings a week, sometimes watching JV games for a couple of hours and then staying put for the Varsity games thereafter. When my daughter played, that often meant four nights a week. My principal at Bingham once asked me how come I never showed up for any of Bingham’s games. I told him I did–whenever they played Kearns!

But even my tall Son #1 was intimidated by Bingham player Kenny Roberts, who later played for BYU and then in the NBA. When I asked Son #1 what his strategy would be for guarding Kenny the first time they played against one another, Son # 1 chose brains over athletics. He said he talked to Kenny in the locker room before the game. “I don’t expect to be able to keep you from scoring,” Son #1 told him. “Just promise me you won’t dunk it while I’m guarding you.” That strategy was quite effective. Mostly.

Watching Daughter #2 play ball was a whole different adventure. Not only was Daughter #2 tall (5’11”), she was also a track star, so she was fast. On the track, she just had to stay in her lane long enough to lead the pack, then she sprinted to the finish. It took her a while to learn to keep those long legs from tangling up with other players on a basketball court. One day she came home from practice after school and told me she’d been running down the boards and plowed into our neighbor’s daughter, knocking her to the ground and leaving her breathless. “Oh dear,” I said. “How’s Jenna? Is she OK?”

“Yeah,” Daughter #2 replied blithely. “She’s used to it. I do it all the time.” Fortunately, they’re still speaking.

Thinking back over the literally hundreds of basketball games I sat through over the years, one always stands out. I can’t even remember which of my sons was playing on an early spring afternoon as I sat by myself on the bleachers at a junior varsity game. The family section only had a smattering of parents because most didn’t have the luxury of taking off work early to see their kids play. A couple of rows behind me was an unfamiliar face—a student, most likely a sophomore by appearance, who was hunched over, elbows on his knees, intent on watching what I assumed was the performance of a couple of his buddies on the team. But it was the woman a few rows behind him who drew my attention.

She had a loud, raspy voice that carried easily. And she was not happy. She let everyone in the gym know what she thought of the ref, the coach, the opposing players, and even her own son’s team members in obnoxious, sometimes abusive language. She was so offensive that a few parents sitting near her and her friend actually slid away from her or climbed down the bleachers closer to the floor. I was appalled at her behavior and kept waiting for the ref, whose irritation was obvious, to throw her out.

During a timeout just before the end of the half, the quiet kid behind me stood up. He was small, only about the height of an average 7th grader–certainly not tall enough to likely ever make a high school basketball team.  He turned to the screaming mother behind him and interrupted her tirade in a very clear, very calm voice, “Lady, you are embarrassing your son. You are embarrassing our team. And you are embarrassing our school. Please shut up or go home!”

There was a shocked silence. The players turned to stare over their shoulders. Even the coach lowered his play-by-play clip board and looked up. A few parents applauded. The woman glared at the kid, but she ducked her head and was silent for the rest of the game.

Not a single adult in the audience had been brave enough to voice disapproval. Only the boy had the guts to say what the rest of us were thinking. He spoke simply, without rancor or fiery emotion. He just stood up and told the truth. Our team lost, but though most of us did not know this boy’s name, I’ll wager no parent in the gym has ever forgotten that afternoon. He taught us all something that day: it doesn’t matter what our height, or–in fact–whatever our circumstances, courage is accessible to everyone. In society’s current vitriolic atmosphere, it should be a lesson for all of us.