Family Matters: Go Tigers!

Like most parents I know, I vowed to raise my children differently from how my parents raised me. Of the many things I wanted to do differently, the most important was to raise my children in a safe, community-oriented town (instead of the mean streets of Queens—and yes, I am still bitter about it), and to try and take full advantage of that community.

Though I do not love taking my young children out at night, for the sake of building that sense of community I lacked as a child, I forged ahead to the 7:00 p.m. girls varsity basketball game at Ridgefield High on a recent Friday night.

It had been a long day for everyone already—work for my husband and me, school and then dance class for the kids, diner night at Dimitri's—before we headed up the snowy road to the high school. It was Ridgefield Basketball Association night, where kids who wear their RBA t-shirts get in for free, a wonderful pro-community idea I just couldn't pass up.

We arrived 30 minutes early and lingered outside the gym doors, hearing the JV game currently in progress. Though the kids were excited by the noise in the gym, they were distracted by the colorfully-adorned concession table that literally blocked our entrance. My son selected a king-sized Kit Kat and my daughter strawberry Air Nerds, and we happily munched our way into the fairly empty bleachers.

"Are the Tigers winning?" asked my son, tripping over the strap of someone's backpack as he tried to walk up the bleacher steps, his eyes peeled on the court. My husband directed his attention to the score board. "Who got all those fouls?" my son asked.

Explaining to him that we all had just arrived and didn't know any more than he did, we settled in to cheer for the Tigers.

A few minutes later when the JV game ended, my daughter, who had already downed her air nerds, looked angry.

"It's over already?" she exclaimed in despair. "We just got here!"

We reiterated the concept of a junior varsity team, which is more difficult to explain to a Kindergartener than one would think, and watched the two varsity teams perform their perfectly-synched warm ups.

As more peopled filed into the gym, I didn't notice too many RBA shirts around, so I guessed that we were most likely the only people there who did not have a daughter or girlfriend on the team. But none of this bothered us as we used the program to discuss all the players and their stats.

We gently fielded about a million questions: "Who's the tallest? What grade is number 23 in? Is she taller than you, Daddy? Mommy, how tall are you? Why are the girls on the other team so short and the Tigers are so tall? Do you have to be tall to play basketball? Why do you have to be tall to play basketball? Am I tall enough to play basketball?"

I smiled apologetically to one of the dads sitting near us and positioned myself in between him and my son, who was the generator of most of these inquiries. The understanding man returned my smile as if to say, "I've been there."

By the time the tip off started the game a few minutes before 7 p.m., I was already pretty exhausted.

"We are leaving at half-time, OK?" I whispered to my husband. He nodded in agreement.

"No!" said my daughter, who apparently has super-sonic hearing. "We want to stay for the whole thing! Can I go get more Air Nerds? That was really good. Strawberry is my favorite."

By half time, both home court sides of the gym were packed with fans, and we could see more and more RBA shirts peppering the crowd. Though the Tigers were winning, it had been a relatively slow game thus far with little scoring action. I was ready to pack it in when the cheerleaders came out for a little show.

"Yay! Cheerleaders!" my daughter said, and the stereotype was not lost on me.

Before we knew it, it was the fourth quarter, and the Tigers were losing. The crowd sensed that its team needed some help. The volume level increased tenfold, competing with some visiting team fans from the other side of the bleachers. I felt like I was inside a version of "High School Musical," in a world where people really go to high school basketball games, cheer for their home team, and discuss the stats and plays in as much detail as they would on ESPN. This kind of stuff never happened at my high school in Queens.

Ridgefield pulled ahead at the end and my husband, an avid basketball fan, started getting into the game and discussing strategy with a couple sitting nearby.

"Great shot! Nice pass!" my kids mimicked. They were mesmerized. My son could not take his eyes off number 10.

"Number 10 is the best player! What's her name again? She's the best basketball player in the whole world!" he said.

When the Tigers pulled out a win, the crowd went wild. As the fans filed from the gym after the ending buzzer, people continued talking about the game, Sports Center post-game style.

"Can we go to another game?" my daughter asked. "Maybe tomorrow or next week?"

When we arrived home at 9 p.m., all four of us were tired. My husband and I ushered our kids into bed with military efficiency, sans book or any other calming bed-time routine to bring them down from the excitement.

"Do you want to know what my favorite part of the game was?" my daughter asked with a slinky smile. "The Air Nerds were great. I love strawberry. Oh, and number 10 was a really good player."

I knew we had hit a home run (or, more apropos, a basket) on so many levels. Besides making it out until 9 p.m. without any major meltdows, I loved seeing my kids connect to their town in a way I never could when I was a child. Being at that game reminded me why we moved to a "small" town and how easy it is to reap the benefits of living here. Thank you, Tigers, for the Air Nerds, the Kit Kat and the great experience.