My dad dropped me off at an outdoor basketball court on a muggy, windless summer evening. It was unclear whether he would park his motorbike or turn around and head home. Part of me wanted him to stay and watch the game. I was thirteen then, and it was my debut in the summer league, facing unfamiliar opponents. We left it unspoken as I handed him my helmet and walked towards my friends from school.
The players from the opposing school were running drills. They looked bigger than us even though we were all seventh- and eighth-graders. Their point guard executed a smooth layup, followed by another kid sinking a mid-range jumper. There was also a tall player who could jump and touch the rim. I wiped my sweaty palms on my jersey as the coach asked us to listen.
The referee tossed the ball in the air to start the game. I waved at my teammate for his attention, but he passed it to another player, who missed the shot.
Should have given the ball to me, I thought. I was wide open!
When the ball came my way, I didn’t think twice—I dribbled, jumped, and released.
It was an airball. The other team ran a fast break and scored two easy points.
It’s okay, I told myself. I just haven’t warmed up yet. My eyes surveyed the court, and my stomach tightened.
I saw my dad in the audience. I wondered if he saw the airball.
The game continued. As the ball moved around, I pictured myself sinking multiple three-pointers amidst cheers from the crowd. I pictured the man beside my dad—whomever he might be—astonished, confirming, “That is your son?”
My teammate passed me the ball. As a defender closed in, my mind raced to strategize, but my body awkwardly took another shot. With the ball out of my hands, I prayed for a good outcome.
At least touch the rim, please.
The ball hit nothing again.
The defender smirked. One of my teammates raised his arms and looked disappointed—disgusted, rather. He didn’t look at me or say a word, but he was clearly upset by another attempt with no chance of scoring. The coach called a timeout and told me not to rush, but I wasn’t listening.
I don’t normally shoot like this. What is going on?
The second half began. My eagerness to impress morphed into desperation. Determined to recover from the deficit, I ran towards whoever possessed the ball and signaled them to pass it to me. My teammates looked the other way.
The ball was finally in my hands. I must not repeat the same mistake. I made a clumsy fake to misdirect my defender, but he didn’t bite. I leaped in the air and launched a shot, but it was too hard. The ball hit the back rim and bounced out.
The coach called for a substitution and pulled me out of the game. Sweat streamed down my cheek, and I gasped for air. Two minutes later, I asked if I could go back in. “Take a break,” my coach said. “Let’s wait and see.” He never let me in again.
I was devastated when the referee blew the final whistle, not because my team had lost the game but because of my dismal performance.
My contribution was zero points and six airballs.
Six airballs.
My dad approached me after the game.
“It was all your fault,” I said before he could speak.
“I told you not to come. Are you happy now that we’ve lost the game?”*
My mother arrived after the game as planned to join us for dinner at a nearby diner, but I walked rapidly past her without acknowledging her. My dad tried to catch up with me, leaving my mother wondering what had happened.
My parents and I laugh whenever we recount this story. To this day, they still tease me about the line I threw at my dad.
“I told you not to come. Are you happy now that we’ve lost the game?”
I recently asked my dad what he thought of the story twenty years later. He chuckled.
“My own dad—your grandpa—never showed up to anything for me. He didn’t even know what grade I was in when I was a kid,” he said. “I just thought I would show up and support you. I was dumbfounded by how angry you were. It was a bit sad but also so ridiculous that it was almost funny.”
My dad said he understood my psychology: it’s natural for children to want to impress their parents, but that can turn into performance anxiety. Of course, he would be pleased to see me do well in the game, but he didn’t really care either way.
“Our interaction was fascinating because this incident could have only happened between you and me,” he said. “In no way would you have dared to say something so obnoxious to anyone who was not family. You couldn’t be that rude or irrational to the coach, right?”
This story was memorable to me for a few reasons. I walked away with life lessons—exercising patience, handling pressure, and confronting disappointment. It also inspired me to become a better shooter—a craft I still enjoy learning today.
Above all, I love this story for its bitter-sweet irony. I wanted to make my dad proud, but that drive paradoxically made it more difficult. When I failed to meet the unrealistic bar I had set for myself, I blamed the person I hoped to impress. Yet, in the end, a temporary painful experience became a treasured piece of family lore.
*The exact words in Cantonese: 「最衰都係你， 叫左你唔好黎睇。宜家輸左波你開心啦？」