Alright folks, sit down, grab something cold. Today’s gonna be a ride. “Jason Kidd California.” Yeah, that Jason Kidd. Coach. Point guard legend. Ended up coaching out here in Cali sunshine. Wild, right?
So, where does this start? Honestly? Me, sitting on my lumpy couch Sunday afternoon. Watching old NBA clips. Specifically, those dirty Kidd passes with the Nets. Got me thinking: how’s he running things now? Right now. Coaching these California kids?
The Chase Begins
First step? Finding out where he even coaches publicly nowadays. Easy, right? Nope. Took digging. Called a buddy who works part-time with AAU stuff down south. Texted someone who knew someone. Honestly felt like detective work. Finally got whispers: community center clinic. Coastal town. This Wednesday morning.
Alright then. Set the alarm for stupid early. 4:30 AM. Pitch black outside. Why so early? Gotta drive down from the Valley. Coffee? Gallon. Threw on some sweats, old sneakers. Just wanna blend in, watch.
Walking Into the Thunderdome
Rolled up to this community center place. Looked… normal. Cheap brick. Inside? Different story. Court smelled like sweat and polished wood. Bright lights glaring. Felt the buzz immediately. Saw him straight away. Kidd. Taller than I pictured. Way more intense up close.
- Standing near the baseline, arms folded.
- Barking instructions.
- Eyes scanning everything.
- Not smiling. At all.
Kids? High school age. Serious players, you could tell. Focused. Sweating buckets already. Just simple passing drills. But Kidd? Stopped them every five seconds.
“No! Feel the pass!” his voice cut through the gym sharp like a whistle. “Not your eyes! Your fingertips! Again!”
Got closer. Pretended to stretch near the bleachers. Felt like an idiot, but whatever. Needed to hear this stuff.
The Unexpected Nudge
Then it happened. He stopped the drill. Looked right at me. “You.” My stomach dropped. “Yeah, you stretching over there. Why you just watching? Get in.” Felt the blood rush to my face. Everyone looked. Kids smirked.
Panic mode. Me? Middle-aged guy running on coffee. Playing point guard with teenagers? Kidd just stared. Waiting. Fine. Tossed my water bottle aside. Walked onto the court. Feet felt like bricks.
Kidd pointed. “Point guard spot. Lead the weave.” The weave? Right. Simple three-man passing drill running the lanes. Piece of cake? Nope.
- First catch? Ball slipped right through my hands.
- Took a bad angle cutting.
- Passed behind a kid making him stumble.
- Kidd’s stare got harder.
“Anticipate!” he yelled. “You see the lane? Open! Hit. Him.” Tried again. Sweat pouring down my neck now. Managed to complete two passes? Maybe? Felt clumsy. Slow.
He finally waved me off after maybe three minutes that felt like hours. “See? Seeing it’s different than feeling it. Back to work.” Just like that. I slunk off the court, legs already starting to shake. Kids went back to flying around me.
The Drive Home and The Soreness
Got back in my car. Silence. Drove home replaying every dumb second. The dropped pass. The wrong turn. The sheer terror of Kidd’s voice yelling at me. My legs started screaming about halfway back.
Point? Kidd out here? Still operates like it’s Game 7. Doesn’t matter if it’s a community center on a Wednesday. He wants you to feel the game. Deep. Messy. In your bones. And yeah, I felt it. Mostly in my burning thighs this morning.
California sunshine, legendary point guards, and my dumb rookie mistake feeling fresh. Funny world.
