An Important Sporting Event
My son Jake is an athlete built in the same mold as his old man. That's to say that he can't jump, has little court sense, and runs like an old, worn-out dump truck. Yet he also wants to do well and will work hard, and when he gets the ball, he's looking to shoot first and ask questions later.
Yesterday afternoon, he ran into the house screaming delight - "We have a playoff game," he said. "It's tonight at six o'clock. Are you going to come and watch?"
I didn't give him a real definitive answer because I certainly wasn't growing excited about the prospect of doing anything.
"I'm going to be playing for Uncle Jeff," he said. It was an innocent statement that brought tears to my eyes.
I didn't tell my wife that I was going to the game until we were ready to leave. I certainly didn't tell her why I was going either. (I don't go to a lot of the games because the over-bearing parents usually drive me crazy - and besides, my kids never win).
The game started innocently enough - parents screaming at the refs, Jake's team looking god-awful, but a funny thing happened about a third of the way through Jake's first set of minutes.
One of the kids on the team missed a shot, and Jake grabbed the rebound and from about seven feet away put it back up - and of course, with his uncle gazing down - straight in. I jumped out of my seat, pumping my fist as if Jeter just ended a World Series game with a homer.
"It's cool when he scores, isn't it?" Kathy asked.
She had no idea.
The rest of the night was spent watching a nail-biter of a contest. Jake looked lost out there at times, but he blocked a shot, played good defense (all right, so I never did that), and hustled on every play - I had never seen him play so well - but in the back of my mind, I knew he was playing for a grander purpose.
Jake's team won by two when one of his buddies scored with ten seconds left. Jake ran off the court doing painfully awkward high-fives.
"How'd you like the game, Dad?"
"You were awesome," I said.
Even if he never makes another basket, he hit one for me and my brother, and it was certainly bigger than any of those three homers Reggie hit in the '77 Series clincher.
Yesterday afternoon, he ran into the house screaming delight - "We have a playoff game," he said. "It's tonight at six o'clock. Are you going to come and watch?"
I didn't give him a real definitive answer because I certainly wasn't growing excited about the prospect of doing anything.
"I'm going to be playing for Uncle Jeff," he said. It was an innocent statement that brought tears to my eyes.
I didn't tell my wife that I was going to the game until we were ready to leave. I certainly didn't tell her why I was going either. (I don't go to a lot of the games because the over-bearing parents usually drive me crazy - and besides, my kids never win).
The game started innocently enough - parents screaming at the refs, Jake's team looking god-awful, but a funny thing happened about a third of the way through Jake's first set of minutes.
One of the kids on the team missed a shot, and Jake grabbed the rebound and from about seven feet away put it back up - and of course, with his uncle gazing down - straight in. I jumped out of my seat, pumping my fist as if Jeter just ended a World Series game with a homer.
"It's cool when he scores, isn't it?" Kathy asked.
She had no idea.
The rest of the night was spent watching a nail-biter of a contest. Jake looked lost out there at times, but he blocked a shot, played good defense (all right, so I never did that), and hustled on every play - I had never seen him play so well - but in the back of my mind, I knew he was playing for a grander purpose.
Jake's team won by two when one of his buddies scored with ten seconds left. Jake ran off the court doing painfully awkward high-fives.
"How'd you like the game, Dad?"
"You were awesome," I said.
Even if he never makes another basket, he hit one for me and my brother, and it was certainly bigger than any of those three homers Reggie hit in the '77 Series clincher.
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