Definitely the Last Year

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Not sure what made me do it, but I headed to the basketball court for a few shots with Sam after dinner last night. Sam wanted to play me in a one-on-one so we went for awhile and I finished him off with a shot from about 15 back.

You see, I won't let the kids beat me. Even a nine-year-old with a nice little bank shot. I could throw the game, of course, but will they ever learn to lose? They need to have a challenge.

Which brings me to Matt. He is now over six-feet tall. He scored 45 a couple of weeks ago in a basketball camp game. He will be a starter on the varsity team this year. He has also been banging on me about playing the annual game against him. I certainly wasn't up for it after a day of work.

It was Kathy who made sure it happened. She pulled up a picnic table bench, got Sam to root, root, root for Matt beside her, and announced that I was certain to lose this year.

Now for all that have ever seen me play hoops, you are certain of four things: 1). I can't handle the ball all that well. 2). I'm old and slow. 3). I have absolutely no left hand and 4). Most importantly, mind you, I can still shoot the lights out.

"Game to 15, win by two, basket out, I start with it," I announced.

Five minutes into the game I was winning 10 to 1. I hit 8 straight from the same spot on the floor, about 15 from the hoop with Matt draped all over me."

The crowd was dead silent.

"He can't be stopped," Matt announced.

But, oh, I could. Age and bad legs stopped me long enough for him to make a healthy run. It was 13 to 12 before I knew it.

"Why didn't we just play to 11?" I asked.

Matt missed a long jumper. The crowd groaned.

I dumped a water over my head and limped to the place before him. I had only one chance and we both knew it. I had to use my weight.

I muscled him down under the hoop and hit a bank shot.

Still breathing heavily. I was sweating like Patrick Ewing in Game 7. The muscles in my chest were tight.

Matt gave me the ball and immediately crowded me. I muscled in some more, backing him to the basket.

I stopped, swung around, did the fade away and announced: "Maybe next year."

(There's no fun in playing if you can't talk trash).

The ball kissed the glass and dropped through the net.

I am hear to tell you, it will be the last time. I will not beat him again next year.

And oh by the way, if you think I'm bragging, I'm not.

Only one of us is walking without a limp today.

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