He Hates A Mess

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My sons were shooting hoops in the driveway.

"Come on and play," Sam begged. "We'll go two on one. You and me against Jake."

I was heading out to the grocery store (go figure).

"I can't play a game," I said. "I can't run on these feet."

"Oh, come on!"

I headed to the grocery store. As I backed out of the driveway I watched them shoot and it hit me that my time as a Dad is finite.

They won't be shooting hoops in my driveway forever.

"We'll do a shooting contest when I get back," I said.

And there they stood waiting for me as I returned.

"Let's go, dude!"

I dropped the few bags in the house and laced up my shoes. I told them the rules of the game as I warmed up with a couple of shots that were well short.

"You shoot until you miss and count your baskets. We alternate shots. First one to 21 wins. If you miss, you can chance it. If you miss again you go back to zero."

A simple game that we played in the backyard of my parent's home. Usually it was Jeff who was the heartbeat of the event. He'd let you shoot, of course, but he'd aggravate every step of the way.

There was little surprise who would be taking his place in our game on Saturday. I hit my first bucket to take the lead and Sam bounced the next pass right off my front foot.

"Pass it to me!" I yelled. "I can't get on a roll if I'm bending to get the ball."

"Duh!" He said. "That's the point."

(Just like his Uncle).

So I was chasing his errant passes back to me on every made shot.

And then he started to throw imaginary things at me as I tried to bring the ball into shooting position.

(A move perfected by Jeff).

Yet I was still making them and had a lead - 19-17 - just two more to hit.


Sam began to scatter things around the court. He turned to Jake.

"He won't be able to handle this," he said. "We all know how he hates a mess. He's cooked."

And I must admit that I was a little thrown. I do hate things out of place.

I hit one to bring it to game shot.

Sam bounced the ball off my front foot. Jake stood beside me and yelled something. Sam pointed out the mess and then he pretended to throw a rock at me as I headed into my shooting motion.

As the ball made it's way towards the hoop from 18 feet away I turned to the front door. I knew it was in the moment it left my hand.

"Clean that shit up," I yelled just as the ball settled into the bottom of the net.

"Your Uncle did that stuff to me every time we played," I called over my shoulder. "I'm used to it."

"One more!" Sam called out.

There wasn't a chance I'd play two...

...but man, playing one was fun.

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