I'm the boy's mother. I'll admit he has a good shot at being taller than me, but even a mother has to recognize when her little boy has a long shot of seeing the successful side of a three-point line. Basketball was the easiest to resist. and the most likely sporting casualty Gyms smell of fifty years of sweat-soaked wood, unless of course you play in suburbia. Then, gyms smell of fresh paint, Cheez-It dust, and Gatorade. Regardless, all gym floors squeak, and bleachers rarely have seat backs.
Somehow, we find ourselves at a fifty-year old YMCA gym every Friday night watching RJ run drills, trip over his red shoelaces, and pitch one air ball after the other at a goal that has been lowered by the high school guy manning the front desk. Kudos to the coaches. They've got a practice plan, skills, and patience that far exceeds the height RJ will reach. They know that RJ's strengths lie not in passing, not necessarily in dribbling, and certainly not in shooting. RJ's singular strength in basketball rests firmly in a skill set honed over five years of being a big brother: pure, unadulterated annoyance. This child is in the face and space of any opposing player near the ball. He waves his arms. He uses his booty like a battering ram. A year ago, the opposition laid him out flat mid-game. Even his mother had to admit he totally deserved it.
His enthusiasm on the court is unmatched and is exceeded only by his enthusiasm for his favorite basketball team:
It's rare that I get to treat the boy to something he loves.
But once a year or so, I get the opportunity to take him on a date night and be a cool mom.
He's still young enough to believe I'm cool. I'll hang on to that distinction as long as he'll let me.
We had good seats, but the company was even better. We chatted. I fed him a pretzel and Sprite. He thanked me a thousand times. He told me I'm the best mom ever. For three quarters, it looked like the Thunder was winning. And then they weren't. "But mom," he pleaded, "I just know they can win! I know they'll do it!" I doubted, but his enthusiasm kept us in our seats a few more precious seconds.
And then? Then the game went into overtime. On a school night.
He's a baller. I suppose sometimes I can be too.
After all, only a true baller of a mother would keep an eight year old out until 11 o'clock on a school night and feed him French fries before taking him home. These nights are few. I'm grateful for each one. (And tonight, I'm grateful for an hour to finally start catching up on all of the little moments that have made the past month so fantastic.)
