Basketball Throw Down

It finally stopped raining after a long week of grey sky and grey moods around our house. Motivated by the sun's vitamin D boost on Sunday, a little blacktop basketball with my son Chad, served up with a side of bike riding seemed pretty smart. After my driveway holler to shake-a-tail-feather, Chad slothed to the hoop looking about as excited to play hoops with me, as I look when I get a pap smear. In hindsight, I now know that my annual pap smear is actually a much more rewarding experience. 



Undeterred by his lackluster attitude, I checked the ball to him and made good time getting underneath the basket. I was all fast feet, fun attitude, perched with my arthritic knees bent waiting for the ball and the lay-up. Instead, Chad took the ball, kicked it at the hoop, went after it and then fell to the ground hugging the ball singing a Guns and Roses song. This happened over and over again in slight variations. What?

Berlent Point Guard

Okay, okay, up you go buddy boy, this mama is not going to get side tracked too easily by your shenanigans. I tried everything to get the kid to want to play, to embrace this sunny moment with his super cool basketball-playing mom. Nothing worked. The shooting game called Horse could more easily have been called Jackass based on how he purposefully threw the ball to the street, up in the air, into the garage, literally not giving a hoot or a hoop if he played with the basket or me. Rebounding was a resounding failure. Three-point shooting was more like a three strikes and you’re out debacle and plain old passing and shooting never got off the ground. 



So I quit on him. I threw the ball to him and spit out my challenge, "Hmmm, I guess my mad-skill makes you too nervous to take me on huh?" and while strutting into the garage added, "I guess I'll go find a pick-up game in the ‘hood where I can throw down my NBA moves." He was unmoved, literally. 


Holy cow was I a tangled yarn ball of emotions. I was so annoyed that on this beautiful day, my son only wanted to watch TV. Pissed, too, because this body of mine is no temple of fitness and playing ball is a physical sacrifice. The knees now lack reflexes and cartilage. The tennis elbow never healed properly. The left hip is always a sway behind the right and the lungs have no capacity for aerobic activity. Yet there I was ready to shoot some hoop with my boy. 



I wondered if it were his dad on the blacktop, would he be chomping at the bit to play.  Maybe playing with your mom at age 8, in a public arena is just not cool. And then our friend Steve pulled into the driveway and a fireball of youth burst out of his dad's car; Chad's friend Dylan came to play. 



Out of the house came a peppy, amped, athletic-looking Chad. Eden followed suit and so did Dylan's little brother Ethan. In one instant the basketballs were bouncing, three scooters were dragged to the edge of the driveway and the football was corkscrewed to the front lawn.  Vrrrrroom went the Big Wheels. Brrring brrring went the bell on Eden's purple Mystic Trek bike and our driveway was filled with frenetic youthful energy and activity. Chad ripped off half his thumbnail stealing the basketball from Dylan and still took the layup. Dylan took a mean spill on the driveway curving the Razor scooter. No bother for either of them because the sun was starting to set and there were many more balls to be thrown. 



Sitting in my office watching the silhouettes of the two boys playing a game of football in the fading sunlight, my heart swelled and so did my knees. This is what kids are supposed to be and do – suck the life out of every last minute of every day just being kids. Passing the football and tackling each other in an imaginary arena packed with cheering fans is perfect. Racing your best friend on scooters as the wind chaps your cheeks and turns the rim of your ears pink is perfect. Whorl a football longer and faster than you have ever done before - perfect. Doing it with anyone other than your mom - perfect.