I remember a few years ago, I was leaving basketball practice one warm December night. It was a night like so many others I’ve had over the years. Like always, I was the last person out of the gym. I began walking to my car.

I saw a group of my players around one of their cars, lightly pushing & shoving each other, jostling for position in the car; working hard for Shotgun and NOT sitting in the middle back. The loud hip-hop music coming from the car disrupted the quiet, otherwise empty parking lot.

There were 5 them. They were full of life. Full of energy. Just five 16 and 17-year olds, having a normal, good time after high school basketball practice. But they were Black. Instinct immediately kicked in and I yelled, “Hey! Hey! Hey! What are you guys doing?!?!?”

They all froze. One of them spoke for the group and said, while still trying to maintain his position inside the rear passenger door, arm bar on his teammate’s chest, an innocent smile on his face, “We’re just going down the hill to get something to eat, Coach.”

All I could think of was some police officer, seeing a car full of young Black males and suspecting them of being criminals. What might happen?

Or some white woman (who we would call a “Karen” today, but didn’t have that terminology then) would see them shoving each other out of the car in the parking lot of the strip mall, “offensive” music playing, them being loud, maybe even cussing. What would she do?

All of this flashed through my head in an instant. So I told them, “You guys need to calm down. Stop being so loud. Turn that music down. Don’t speed. And if you get pulled over, be polite. Don’t make sudden moves. Keep your hands on the wheel....”

Their postures melted. The spokesman of the bunch said. “Yeah, yeah, Coach. Okay. Don’t worry.”

I interrupted, raising my voice and sternly warned them, “I’m serious. You guys are a car full of young Black men, and to some people, you are a threat!”

“They will shoot you first and ask questions later,” I continued. I walked closer to their car so that I could make eye contact with each of them, and get confirmation that they would comply with my demands.

They agreed, changed their body language, turned the music down, calmly filed into the car, and slowly pulled out of the parking lot. But to tell the truth, I worried about them all night. And this is part of what it means to be Black in America.

What should have been just a normal, gallivanting to the taco shop, listening to loud music, laughing and joking with your teammates kind of night was dampened by the reality of being perceived as guilty and a threat for just being Black and beyond puberty.

This is what you have to do if you teach and coach young Black men in America. I’m not saying it’s an easy conversation for white coaches to have, but you better figure out how to do it. You likely send groups of young Black men into the night all winter long.

Do you realize that any night could be the night they’re perceived as a threat? Any night could be the night that they don’t make it home because some police officer puts his knee on the back of their neck for 10 minutes?

This is America.