Hoop Dreams

At the top of my wish list of all the things I wish my children were (instead of just loving them for who they actually are) would be having children with a passion for playing basketball. My misplaced parenting priorities and I got our comeuppance the other night at my son’s new class in basketball skills (hold your judgements—he requested it).

The background to all this is I spent most of my waking childhood hanging out with friends, doing school work, and playing basketball.

My daughter, 15, is athletic but not really a dedicated athlete.

My son, almost 12, is more deeply into sports as an athlete and a fan, except, naturally, for basketball.

Lately though, basketball has become the sport of the realm when his friends are hanging out, and he’s feeling a bit frustrated with his game.

Adam: I’m not good at it.

Me: You’re actually quite well for someone who has never played and doesn’t know what they’re doing.

Underpinning all of this, of course, is my hope against hope that basketball could be a source of bonding for us.

Which brings us to his new class in basketball skills on Monday night.

Comeuppance Number 1: We arrive a little early at the gym. We’re hanging out watching the prior class finish up, and I suggest to Adam that we pass around a ball in opposite corner of the gym. No.

Me: Why not?

Adam: Because it’ll look silly. He clarifies: You don’t look like someone who plays basketball.

In other words, I look like a 50-plus paunchy former athlete who he doesn’t want to be seen with.

Okay, instead of coercing him, I exit the gym, go have dinner, and return later to catch the end of the practice. This is what I walk in on…

Comeuppance Number 2: The kids are basically playing a rag-tag game of full-court, and they’re a mix of kids with skills and kids, like my son, with developing skills. There’s a breakaway, another kid (who just happens to be the son of our Temple’s cantor) jukes Adam out of position and continues on his way toward making a layup.

How does Adam try to stop the other kid? By kicking his foot up in the air so as to sling his loose sneaker at him! And, then, rolling around on the ground in his own hysterics.

I turn to the dad sitting next me (not the Cantor), and nod smirkingly: “My son’s a defensive specialist.”

Later, the coach, a young women who played basketball in college, tells me, quite graciously: “Your son’s a great kid. He’s a lot of fun.”

I leave it there.