All the Colors Came Out by Kate Fagan

Author:Kate Fagan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: None
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Published: 2021-05-18T00:00:00+00:00

Lesson #4

Occasionally Bank in a Free Throw

Ryan and I, neither of us could have grown up boastful. Before we learned to walk, we learned not to brag about our walking, and although that’s an exaggeration, only barely. One of my dad’s core life philosophies was: Don’t tell people you’re good; let them figure it out for themselves. I heard a version of this hundreds of times. Not because I tested his doctrine—I bought in right away—but because so many other people did. Even at a young age, I recognized bragging of any kind as an unattractive quality. Of course, I’d been primed to feel this way.

My dad could take modesty to extremes. In conversation, he would omit factual details if they sounded too arrogant on his tongue, forcing the other person to ask six questions to gather the information that should have come with just one.

“Oh, you play basketball?” someone might ask, to which my dad would reply, “Yeah, I play a little.” Then the person might ask if he played in high school, and my dad would say that yes, he had, but volunteer nothing more. “What about college?” they’d ask next—and on and on. By the time I was in high school, I’d be so bold as to throw my arm around my dad’s shoulder and drop his credentials for him: Division I, five years playing in Europe, probably still the best player in the area, and also…my dad—isn’t he great?

The unspoken rule: anyone else, even blood relations, were allowed to boast on your behalf.

When I was little, this concept of modesty-as-the-apex-of-character seemed black-and-white. Any words or behavior that fell under the very broad umbrella of “arrogance,” including swagger and showing off, I thought were unequivocally off-limits. I did not see nuance. So, imagine my confusion when I was about twelve years old and my dad and I were finishing up in the gym with ten free throws each. Before we started, my dad said, “Whoever makes more gets to pick what’s for dinner tonight, how about that?” Those were big stakes in my world. The food was not as intriguing as the idea of control.

I went first and made nine out of ten. I was feeling pretty good; I had a chance. But I knew my dad could easily make all of his. He walked to the free throw line and, without breaking rhythm, made his first nine shots. On his ninth make, I caught the ball as it dropped from the net and tossed it back to him. If he made this shot, he would win.

“There’s no chance I miss this one,” he said, looking at me, a little smirk pulling on his lips.

“Oh yeah?” I said, having no clue what else to say.

“How about I close my eyes to make it fair? Give you a fighting shot.” He squeezed his eyes shut and lifted the ball to shoot. He released the ball with a perfect flick of the wrist, but I could see right away that the ball had too much arch.

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