Reflections of a 5th-Grade Girls Basketball Coach. Charlie Duncheon

       “I have missed more than 9000 shots in my career. I have lost almost 300 games. On 26 occasions I have been entrusted to take the game winning shot … and missed. And I have failed over and over and over again in my life. And that is why … I succeed.”

      –Michael Jordan

      In Shenzhen, China, on a late Friday February morning, young Chinese boys aged eleven to thirteen compete in a rigid training session on one of the thousands of new courts recently installed by the Chinese government. Lay-up drills and passing drills are conducted like a military exercise as the sun appears then disappears in a partly cloudy sky. The rigidity of the drills loosens up later, as the red shirt team plays a game against the white shirts. There are no smiles on the young faces, but they are smiling inside. All of them want to become famous basketball players like their hero, Yao Ming. The shortest player on the court dribbles past the tallest and makes a reverse lay-up. He breaks into the first smile of the day, showing a missing front tooth that may have been lost to an opponent’s elbow. Five years ago he would have been a second priority compared to the taller player he just beat, but the Chinese have now learned that fast guards are just as important to develop as the tall “Mings.” A lone government official taking notes at center court observes that this game has both promising forwards and fast, shorter guards.

      Later that Friday in Melbourne, Australia, locals walk past the entrance of a gym and hear the constant squeaking of shoes on wood. The sources of the squeaks are ten girls ranging from ages sixteen to twenty-three, playing on a polished wood panel floor. All ten girls play intensely, with hopes of someday proudly representing their country in the Olympics and wearing the bright yellow jerseys with blue stars that form the Southern Cross. More than half the girls have blond hair bound in ponytails that match those jerseys. A tall, lean six-footer with curly red hair boxes out an even taller blonde, grasps the rebound from the missed shot and quickly whips the ball to the waiting Aussie girl in the wing. Another of a series of fast breaks ensues toward the other basket, as ten girls run full speed in the other direction, ten ponytails bobbing up and down in unison. Even the tenth girl, furthest from the girl making the lay-up, runs full speed toward the basket until she sees the ball fall through the net, then turns around to sprint full speed toward the other basket.

      As that same sun now shines on Wau, Sudan, it relentlessly fries an outdoor asphalt court without a single square centimeter of shade. Eight young Sudanese boys with their black skin glistening in perspiration are going at it on one end of the court, oblivious to the heat or pebbles of sand blowing across the faded three-point line. Three more young boys wait under the only tree close to the court, a scraggly set of branches barely providing any shade for the boys or for the bottles of water taped with their names. Shoes (and in one case, sandals) slip on the sand, but every athlete gives 100% and never blames lost footing. One very thin fourteen-year-old defender anticipates a pass at the top of the key and intercepts the ball, moving full speed toward the other basket. He increases his lead on the other team as he passes the center line. Thoughts of Luol Deng, famous Sudanese basketball hero, float through his mind as he passes the three-point line, then the free throw line. Picking up the dribble and putting both hands on the ball, he begins the launch off his left foot for what he hopes is his first dunk. He slips on the pebbled surface and goes crashing into the sandy terrain just off the court. The ball rolls harmlessly in the sand while laughter erupts from the other seven on the court and three on the sidelines. Embarrassed, but showing his bright white teeth in a broad grin, he gets up with sand clinging to his bare back, shouting “next time!” in Arabic.

      Later that day in Tuzla, Bosnia, a group of young girls plays in an aged stone building with a faded tile floor. One dark-haired girl by the name of Mila, wearing Mujanovic on the back of her shirt, scores a putback and dreams of playing for her country like her heroine, Razija Mujanovic. Flakes of snow from the gray skies outside curl through a broken window, but the heat of battle on the floor shows no effect from the temperature. Despite aggressive man-to-man defense, it seems that fast passing always finds an Eastern European sharpshooter open to make a long three-point shot, touching nothing but net. Some smack talking ensues from Mila, as her defender had not respected her shooting and had double-teamed the pass to the low post, leaving the shot maker open. Unlike her male counterparts in Bosnia, this smack talking is done with a smile, and the beaten defender smiles back and promises she will not leave her open again, as she raises her right hand and presses knuckles with Mila.

      In the streets of Brooklyn, New York, neighbors gather to watch mostly