By Cory Armstrong-Hoss / Herald Forum
“I think I’m going to stop playing basketball.”
Just like that, one more high school in another town in America lost another multi-sport athlete.
Near the end of his sophomore year, after two years of playing baseball and basketball, our 15-year-old son decided to specialize in one sport.
This was not the plan. But Cole was choosing baseball, pitching and playing first base, going all-in. If he focuses hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars on his craft, could he extend his athletic life? Could he play after high school? Compete in this national arms race with the pitchers who train all year round, in Southern California or Arizona or Florida?
He was joining most other kids his age, following the tide that’s changed dramatically in the last 25 years. Multi-sport student athletes have become an endangered species on high school campuses. Extinction isn’t likely; there are no-cut sports, complementary sports (cross country, track), and those athletes so physically gifted that they can step onto any team and thrive. But most players now specialize.
It might be good for the stats: with better personal records and higher-caliber prospects, the top 10 percent of athletes might bring their schools more records or championship banners to hang in the gym, before they jump to the next level. But is it good for the kids?
“It was very busy. Tiring. But a lot of fun.”
Cole’s thinking back about C-team basketball.
“My freshman year, that was a lot of fun. We were really good, winning a lot of games, and I had a lot of friends on the team.”
At 6’ 6” he was their starting center. He needed a few games to find his touch; and to make himself big on the post, banging bodies with shorter ninthgraders from Snohomish or Lake Stevens or Arlington, but soon he was averaging a double-double (points and rebounds) and three or four blocks a game.
During that year my wife drove the Big Kid to zero period weightlifting class everyday by 6:20 a.m., and two or three nights a week he rushed from a two-hour basketball practice to an evening baseball training. Winter is basketball season, but it’s also when club baseball teams train for the spring season, and pitchers ready their arms. He might have a Saturday off, but Sunday afternoon brought a three-hour baseball training, rain or shine.
“My legs were sore a lot, and I went to bed later than I’d like. [The challenge] is mostly physical. It’s hard to perform your best when you’re tired all the time.”
My wife adds: “It wasn’t glamorous. Quiet and lonely actually, doing the work for two teams and two sports, going to the gym on a Friday night after a game. Throwing plyos [weighted balls] against a wall before basketball practice. Batting on his own during winter break at Rage Cage.”
Cole was often missing something. “For baseball, it’s nine or ten months a year, and for basketball it can be year-round. And there are times when they’re happening at the same time, and you have to choose.”
He missed baseball training for basketball practice and games. He missed basketball open gyms last summer for baseball training and tournaments. He was grinding at his primary sport, choosing baseball for most of the year, but his C team friends were grinding, too, at basketball tournaments, on club teams, and at training centers like Shoot 360 in Kirkland.
Once split into defined seasons, scheduled by school athletic directors, many sports seasons are now ruled by club or AAU organization, who can recruit talent from anywhere, regardless of address, and whose thirst for more court, field or pool time seems endless. Seasons, tournaments and skills clinics now stretch throughout the calendar, relentless. Endless reminders pop up in your feed: while you’re playing one sport, legions of athletes are honing their skills in another sport. Every time you throw a fastball from a mound, there’s a kid your age somewhere practicing the same Hakeem Olajuwon drop step in the low post, again and again.
In a sophomore season of fewer highlights, there were a couple. Cole dunked during a scrimmage at a big preseason rally, the crowd erupting. In one of the last games, playing Mariner’s junior varsity in their auxiliary gym, he dominated down low, with six blocks, 12 rebounds and more than 20 points, unstoppable for that one incandescent afternoon. It was one of the last basketball games that we’d watch him play.
This 12-year basketball adventure was ending. Reality was banging in our ears, like brick shots bouncing off rims: If Cole wanted to hang with the big dogs on varsity, keeping pace with their breakneck speed and guarding their centers, he’d have to dedicate himself to hoops; post moves, footwork on defense, reading arcs of balls to rebound then pass to cutting guards, honing a nice touch around the rim, stamina for running up and down the court. If he did all that, he could transform himself into a reliable center, a big body to guard their tallest kid, rebound, and kick out to a guard to shoot a three.
The Big Kid was never in love with basketball, but he loved playing with his friends: blocking their shots in practice, trying to dunk, trading roasts with Jonah, Vinny or Zane. And he was lucky; unlike most kids whose athletic lives end when they get cut or injured, Cole chose his own exit.
As for this ending: I’m writing this on a plane, flying with Cole to a baseball tournament in late July. Thinking of the things we’ve left behind for our youth athletes. A little sad that I don’t get to watch my son hoop anymore.
Cory Armstrong-Hoss lives in Everett with his wife and three kids. His kids have played a number of different sports. He’s a lifelong athlete, and he’s served as a coach, refereee and youth sports administrator. Find him at substack.com/@atahossforwords
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