My son Emmett is 12, and tonight his youth basketball team, the Lakers, lost to the Warriors 46-19.
In four seasons of hoops, Emmett is now 0-35. Yes, that’s zero wins in 35 tries. And while the kid is no LeBron or Harden, he’s never been the absolute worst player on the roster. He’s a hustle kid—tries hard, feisty defense, gives his all.
I digress.
We’re driving home after tonight’s setback, charting about this and that, and I say, “It’s really amazing.”
“What’s amazing?” he asks.
“That you play, lose badly, and you’re not angry.”
He paused a brief moment. Emmett’s line for the game was 0 points, two rebounds, 0 assists, three fouls. With each infraction, he looked toward me in the stands and grinned. He never glanced at the scoreboard. Never fretted over the margin. Never griped about the two ball hogs who take 95 percent of the Laker shots. He just plays, and enjoys it.
“Why would I be angry?” Emmett Pearlman said.
I love that.
