THE INDEX CARD

My dad didn’t say much after games. He just handed me an index card in ALL CAPS—and somehow that became the clearest way he could tell me, “I watched. I’m here.”

My dad didn’t coach me from the bleachers.

He didn’t yell directions. He didn’t second-guess the refs. He didn’t pace the sideline like the game was happening to him.

He just… showed up.

And after every high school basketball game, as the gym emptied and the squeak of sneakers faded into mop buckets and folded chairs, he’d walk out with me and hand me a small index card.

On it, written in his neat, unmistakable handwriting:

SHOTS TAKEN & MADE. ASSISTS. TURNOVERS. REBOUNDS. STEALS. FOULS. FREE THROWS.

All capital letters. Every time.

His printing was unique—distinct, bold, and clean. The kind of handwriting you’d recognize on an envelope before you even saw the name. The kind of letters that felt like they were meant to be read from a distance, easily visible to anyone… but really, they were for me.

That was it.

No speech. No lecture. No “you should’ve.” No “why didn’t you.”

Just the card.

The quietest routine

Here’s the part that still makes me smile: my dad never drove a car.

So my mom drove us home. Dad sat in the passenger seat, calm as could be, while the dashboard lights glowed and the road stayed quiet. I’d sit in the back seat with the index card in my hands, reading those numbers like they were a headline—except they weren’t for the paper. They were for me.

My dad rarely said a word while I looked it over.

He didn’t need to.

Because the stats were what they were.

They didn’t lie.

Film doesn’t lie either. Rasheed used to say, “Ball don’t lie.” In our family, it was more like: Paul, don’t lie.

Not to yourself. Not about your effort. Not about your aggression. Not about your decisions.

That idea—tell the truth about your game—is a big part of what we teach today at Next Play Basketball. Development starts with honesty. You can’t improve what you won’t acknowledge.

Where he sat told you everything

My dad was an introvert.

At my games, he’d sit by himself in the corner—almost like he didn’t want to be part of the social scene that comes with high school basketball. Not disrespectful. Not cold. Just… comfortable at a distance.

While other parents gathered in clusters and talked through every possession, my dad kept his space. He wasn’t there to network. He wasn’t there to be seen.

He was there to watch.

And somehow, that made it feel even bigger to me—because I knew he didn’t love crowds, and he didn’t love small talk. But he loved us. He loved being present. He loved the ritual.

A new lens on the game

I started collecting every card.

A little stack at first. Then a pile. Then a record of a season. Then a record of who I was becoming.

And what surprised me was how much you could learn just by looking at numbers over time.

If my shot attempts were low, I knew I wasn’t being aggressive enough—or I was drifting.

If the free throws were high, I knew I was putting pressure on the defense and getting to the line.

If the assists dipped, maybe I was over-dribbling or missing the early pass.

If rebounds climbed, I was locked in—engaged, physical, present.

It wasn’t about chasing stats.

It was about using the stats to tell the truth.

That’s a lesson we use constantly at Next Play Basketball, especially with young athletes: stats and film aren’t there to shame you—they’re there to show you. They help you learn how you’re playing, when you’re sped up, and where you can make the next adjustment.

The card was his language

And here’s the part I appreciate most now:

That index card was my father’s way of communicating with me about what he saw—without stepping on my pride, without turning the car ride into a critique, without making basketball feel heavy.

Only if I asked him his opinion did he offer it.

And I think that mattered. It taught me ownership. It taught me to reflect before I reacted. It taught me to seek feedback the right way—when I was ready to hear it.

Looking back, I’m pretty sure that approach came from years of trial and error with my older brother and sister. I don’t remember him doing the index card thing with them. Maybe he learned that every kid needs a different kind of support. Maybe he learned that silence can be a gift if it’s paired with presence.

Because the card said: I watched. I cared. I’m here.

And the quiet said: You tell me what you need.

That’s the heart of the Next Play mentality, too: focus on what’s real, learn from it, and move forward—no drama, no excuses, no shortcuts. Just growth.

What I’d tell the younger me

If I could go back, I’d tell that high school kid in the back seat holding that index card:

Those numbers aren’t pressure. They’re a mirror.

And your dad isn’t distant. He’s just loving you in the way he knows how—steady, consistent, and honest.

It’s funny what you remember from high school.

I don’t remember every score.

But I remember the corner he sat in.

I remember the way he handed me that card.

I remember the quiet ride home with my mom driving and my dad saying almost nothing.

And I remember what that little card taught me:

The truth is a tool. And love doesn’t always sound loud.