Back when Peyton was in elementary school, I helped coach her girls basketball team at the YMCA out at 132nd and Center.
One of her friend’s dads was the head coach and needed another set of hands. I’d known his wife from an old job, they were both great people, and honestly it sounded like a blast.
More importantly, Peyton wanted to play.
She hadn’t played much yet, but she had big dreams. She wanted to be a basketball player like her dad, which of course meant I took that responsibility way more seriously than YMCA youth basketball probably required.
We worked on everything.
Ball handling.
Shooting.
Offensive movement.
Mindset.
All the little things that make a kid feel like they belong on the court.
At that age she didn’t quite have the upper-body strength to shoot from deep, so we even worked in a little strength training.
But as the season got closer, I made a decision.
Rebounding.
She had the height for it. She had the instincts. And if we could make her a great rebounder first, the rest of the game would come later.
So I introduced her to the holy trinity of rebounding:
anticipation and positioning, boxing out, and securing the ball.
Basically, I was trying to turn her into Dennis Rodman in ponytail form.
And honestly?
She picked it up fast.
By the third game, she was hauling in missed shots left and right, and every time she came down with one, I could see her light up.
She was proud of herself.
I was proud of her.
The whole thing was working.
Then came the game I still laugh about.
The gym was chaos.
Parents yelling.
Kids cheering.
A couple rogue toddlers doing whatever rogue toddlers do at YMCA games.
Sneakers squeaking.
Whistles blowing.
In the middle of all that noise, Peyton grabbed a beautiful rebound under the opponent’s basket.
Perfect position.
Strong hands.
Secured it clean.
And before anyone could react, she looked up, saw nobody guarding her, and did exactly what every basketball player dreams of doing.
She took the shot.
Swish.
Nothing but net.
Like Pryce Sandfort burying a clean three.
For one perfect second, she was the hero.
Then the gym got weirdly quiet.
That was the second Peyton realized she had just scored for the other team.
Her face changed instantly from triumph to absolute horror.
From the sideline I yelled, “That’s okay, Peyton! Great rebound. Next time find the outlet first!”
And just like that, the panic passed.
She went right back to doing what she’d become great at.
Rebounding.
Boxing out.
Owning the glass.
The funny thing is, I honestly don’t remember whether we won that game.
What I remember is how proud she looked before she realized what she’d done.
And years later, that’s still the part that matters.
Not the wrong basket.
Just one perfect second where she felt exactly what it’s like to believe in yourself.
If this story resonated with you, you’re not alone.
