When my son Ryan was in the third grade, I taught him how to play basketball. This training amounted to me using every trick I knew in order to win. Some tactics were legal; as for the others, I suggested he call 1-800-LEE-FREE.
It seemed fair to me.
He would go up with a shot, and I would block it into our next-door neighbor’s yard and have him retrieve it. Well, it was his shot after all.
The years passed like the wind and before I knew it, Ryan was stronger and fitter than his dad.
We played three-point shooting games to twenty against each other, and in the past I would win. Now I was huffing and puffing hoping to hit 12 before the soon-to-be-grounded kid yelled: “Twenty!”
One summer I desperately needed an equalizer to help offset his youth and my advancing age. Lady luck came through for him and me in the form of full-time employment for the lad.
And it wasn’t your average counter-person job at Subway either. It was an extremely labor-intensive landscaping job. Mulch, bricks, push mowers, and wheelbarrows filled his day. By the time Air Jordan finally made it home, he was as tired from eight hours on the clock as I was from bending over and tying my shoes.
One night we went to the gym to give him a little extra shooting practice. Next thing you know, we were playing “threes to twenty.”
And then Ryan said, “Let’s play 21. If you’re up to it.”
Nothing gets my Metamucil boiling more than a kid whose diapers I once changed calling me out.
Challenge accepted.
“You take the ball first because you’re never going to see it again,” he said.
Heh. My wife sure raised a mouthy little kid.
I grabbed the rock and before you could say, “Help-I’ve-fallen-and-I-can’t-get-up,” Metamucil Man held a 9-0 lead.
The boy was dazed.
I, on the other hand, was beleaguered. I wasn’t sure if I had another twelve points in me; but I didn’t want to let baby boomers around the globe down, so I wearily trudged on. Sweat was dripping off me like a rinse cycle at the local car wash.
I had also splatted myself to the gym floor while attempting one of my yet-to-be-patented moves. My right ankle was swelling and was soon going to pop. I deduced that all of my innards had dropped into my socks and the weight was too much for my ankles.
Free throw up. Free throw in.
“21!”
It sure felt good to give the lad a lesson in hoops.
“I’ll go one more,” I told him.
“No, Dad. You don’t have to if your ankle is bothering you.”
“I can play one more,” I said through clenched teeth.
It was entirely possible the whippersnapper had taken it easy on the old man, so it would be good to give him a chance to redeem himself.
Soon it was 9-0, and this time the little pipsqueak had the lead.
Concentration became my worst enemy—well, second worst enemy, I guess. A lack of conditioning was the first to rear its ugly head.
I had trouble focusing on the basket. Everything I threw at the rim barely missed by five feet.
Soon enough, however, a shot here and a shot there started to fall and the score tightened:
Generation Y: 14. Baby Boomer: 9.
I hit a shot that was pure junk and held a slim (yes, I said slim) 19-17 lead. Two free throws were all that was required to put the runt out of his misery.
“Rattle…clang.” 20-17.
Only one more point was necessary for me to win not only the game, but also the championship of the world!!!!!!
I grabbed the ball in a hurry and was prepared to shoot because I know how competitive some guys can be. With the winning bucket on the line guys will:
- Throw the ball back at the shooter’s feet, making him move and re-adjust his next shot
- Burp
- Lift their shirt and twirl their finger in their belly button clearing out week-old lint
- Cut some serious cheese
- All of the above—on a Taco Bell night
Before Ryan could make a selection I drained the charity toss.
Ballgame.
Finger Twirler: 21. Ryan: 17
Score one for the oldsters!