The Dreaded Red Ribbon: Lessons from Second Place

I managed to get my husband to help me coach what I figured would be a small handful of fifth and sixth grade girls in basketball this year, which is no easy feat, considering the man’s staunch adherence to introvertedness and crowd avoidance. Turns out, the man’s a natural at leading a tangle of sassy, scary pre-teenaged girls. Who knew?

I could write an entire book on the eye-opening, gob-smacking truth in coaching what turned out to be twelve 10, 11, and 12-year old girls. You’d laugh. You’d cry. You’d wonder how I don’t have massive bald spots from tearing my hair out and you’d really wonder about my husband’s sanity for ever letting me make a single, solitary decision on his behalf again.

But this isn’t about us. This is about Saturday’s tournament. A tournament I was hoping would get voted down, but had every single one of my girls chompin’ at the bit for some sweet basketball action. 

My girls are good…both squads (we have enough to have two entire lines and subs for each) are coming together beautifully for the most part. They won their first game of the season with very little drama and lots of high fives. We thought it set the tone for the season.

We thought we were on Easy Street headed towards youth basketball glory, me already penning our acceptance speech into the youth sports volunteer coach hall of fame where everyone would congratulate our team on a world record-setting season. Forgive me. I’m a Leo. We’re into spectacles and optimism and I’m amazing at both. 

But then… Saturday happened. 

I could do an ESPN-worthy play by play, but the crux of the situation is my girls won three hard-fought games and lost three heart-breaking games. We faced rivals and lost, won, and lost again. We played six games within nine hours and we were all out of emotional and physical gas (players and coaches both), so when I tell you they played with absolutely nothing in their tanks in game six, I’m not exaggerating.

We fought so hard and came up short against teams we’ve been pre-programmed since birth to consider our nemeses and watching my girls stand tall through tears as they were handed second place ribbons while the winning team and their families celebrated loudly and joyously (and rightfully so) was pretty heartbreaking.

I handed them their second-place ribbons with as much congratulations as I could, but my players were too shook to appreciate them. My own girls’ ribbons are still at the bottom of their gear bags, likely to be forgotten and thrown away soon if they have their way.

Right now, my daughters don’t want a physical reminder of such a hard day, but now that I’ve had a good solid 24 hours to look at those ribbons, I think they ought to reconsider this notion that those red ribbons are just reminders of a bad tournament and three tough losses.

I think those ribbons should remind them of a lot more--a whole lot more.

It should remind them that they had the courage to be the ones in the arena, sweat in their eyes, tears on their faces, putting every ounce of effort and teamwork on the line. Nobody else can say that, not even us coaches. They put in the work. They put the skin in the game and should be proud of themselves for doing something so many are too scared to do themselves.

It should remind them that they faced their rivals with their heads up and no fear, and more importantly, it should remind them of how gracious they were when congratulating the victors on that final handshake line. I know they wanted to fall apart right there on the floor and let out every hurt and frustration they’d been holding in all day, but they smiled at the other girls and were genuine in their congratulations. I hope they know that’s one of the hardest parts of sports--smiling through a broken heart and not carrying bitterness down that handshake line.

It should remind them that they all played long past the time they wanted to give up and quit. I had girls bouncing off the hardwood in those final games because their legs were jelly and I watched them push themselves back up and chase down their player. My own little beastie girl played those final minutes with giant tears of frustration rolling down her cheeks as she tried to keep her brave face on, dribbling the ball into enemy territory time after time. I hope they remember how they just kept going until that last buzzer.

It should remind them of the older girls they look up to and adore, the older girls whose games we get to as often as we can, who came and watched them play through thick and thin on Saturday. Who watched their tears and saw them falling apart and still cheered them on and believed in them. It should remind them they are part of a community of strong female basketball players who face their own challenges and keep going.

And lastly, I hope those second place ribbons remind them of the love and adoration I saw on their families’ faces as they got out there and put it all on the line. They have no idea just how proud all those moms and dads and grandparents and former coaches are--all the loved ones who couldn't care less about the outcome of the game, but who were so thrilled just to watch their girl do something they love and be brave and fierce and sad at all the same time.

I hope in time, those second place ribbons remind them not only of who they were before that Saturday morning that started it all, but also of that new player who emerged within them from the bruises and the broken hearts… and how, thanks to those dreaded red ribbons, they weren’t the same player that left the court that evening.

I hope those dreaded red ribbons become more prized than the shelves and shelves of trophies and blue ribbons they’ll accumulate over the years--because, as Bruce Lee said, to accept defeat with grace is to be liberated from it. I hope those second-place ribbons remind them all of hitting a wall so hard that it knocked them down and that every single one of them stood back up, ready for one more game. One more try. One more shot…