WATFORD CITY, N.D. — January is settling in in rural North Dakota, and my husband and I have found ourselves in a new season of our lives — and that season is called basketball.
Anyone who grew up in a Class B school is familiar with the amount of passion a little town can put into their sports teams. And while Watford City has grown out of their Class B status, when it comes to who chooses to sit in the stands game after game, I would say the passion is still there.
Our daughters started practicing for the first time with a little travel ball team in December. My husband picked up a hand-me-down basketball hoop for the driveway this fall in anticipation of this turn of athletic events, and we spent a fair number of evenings teaching the girls to dribble and compete in games of Lightning and PIG.
When I was a kid in the summer, this was a regular after-supper activity, so it’s bringing back some fun memories of shooting hoops with my little sister and my dad on our driveway — the only paved spot on the 3,000 acres.
In the fall, my sister and I were taking a walk down the creek behind our childhood home with our daughters. We were admiring the changing leaves and watching our kids float sticks down the trickling stream when we came across a faded and severely deflated basketball about a half-mile away from the house.
“I guess this is what happened to the ones we couldn’t get to,” my sister laughed, remembering that the way the hoop was positioned meant every single air ball you threw was guaranteed to roll through a barbed wire fence into a gnarly patch of burdock, down the steep hill of the coulee and, if you didn’t make it in time (you never made it in time), land, splash, in the creek.
Rosie is ready to hit the court.
Contributed / Jessie Veeder
Oh, it made a good shot out of my naturally competitive little sister, who was the athlete of the family. Basketball was her sport. So much so that I was able to watch her play in the state tournament in the big town next to my mother, who was dressed head-to-toe in Wolves gear, complete with a cowbell and face paint.
I would have laughed at her enthusiasm if I wasn’t sitting there right next to her with an “Alex’s Sister” T-shirt and a temporary wolf paw tattoo on my face.
I guess I should have seen it all coming …
Last week, our two daughters and my niece played in a huge tournament in our hometown. Over 80 teams participated in games over the course of two days, which meant that — counting parents, siblings and a smattering of extended family — there were probably like 70,000 fans in the building, all emotionally invested in every point, steal, pivot and play these elementary school kids were pulling out on the court.
The me that existed before motherhood, the one who didn’t understand that having children changes your DNA or something, would have been surprised to witness the back-and-forth commentary that went on between my husband and me as we stood between the courts trying to watch both kids play at the same time. (As if a choir girl and a former wrestler had anything constructive to say about playing defense.)
At one point, my husband had to stop me from just yelling “Hey! Hey! Hey!” over and over at Edie, because I was nervous and I didn’t even realize I was yelling anything at all.
What. Has. Happened. To. Me?
“The heart rate spike a mom gets watching her kids play sports equals a full workout.” My friend sent this to me after she, too, had spent that day in the gym going through the physical and emotional turmoil that is being a parent of a kid who plays elementary school sports.
Jessie Veeder’s daughter Rosie shows off her medal from the tournament.
Contributed / Jessie Veeder
“So that’s why I had to lay down on the heating pad when I got home,” I responded.
And let me be clear here, I’m not advocating for the yelling. Nothing good comes from sideline instructions from an over-anxious parent.
But being there to witness the big beaming faces of our daughters’ looking into the crowd for us after making a basket or stealing the ball, well, that’s where the cheering comes in. And I’m a big promoter of that part. Apparently, it’s part of my DNA now.
Anyway, if you need me, I’ll be in some bleachers somewhere. You’ll probably hear me …
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Greetings from the ranch in western North Dakota and thank you so much for reading. If you’re interested in more stories and reflections on rural living, its characters, heartbreaks, triumphs, absurdity and what it means to live, love and parent in the middle of nowhere, check out more of my Coming Home columns below. As always, I love to hear from you! Get in touch at jessieveeder@gmail.com.