Sugar and Spice, and No she Di-ent!

My career in organized basketball ended after 6th grade. The Blackburn Elementary Bobcats had completed a strong season, making it to the playoffs. My contribution was exactly two points: a single basket shot in a meaningless, mid-season game. I have no idea if it was a beautiful shot, as my eyes were closed when I launched it. I do know my Raggedy Andy arms flailed as I pushed it up from somewhere behind the free throw line; and I know the shot was fueled entirely by the fear of getting creamed by the lumbering forward clumsily approaching my starboard side. Now Wayne Gretzy says you miss 100% of the shots you don't take. And while that's true, I can honestly say that I was the only Bobcat to make 100% of the shots I did take that season. I finished with a 1.000 field goal percentage. If I wanted to step out at the top of my game, that was the time. So I left the hardwood (still clinging, to this day, to my infrequent ability to score) and moved on to other pursuits.

Fast forward nearly 30 years and I'm enjoying a blissful Sunday afternoon with the family. 80 degrees, no humidity, sunny skies. The eight year old (Molly) wants to play basketball with me. "Sure, why not. It'll be fun," I say. Molly's a gymnast, and a good one. She's built for the gym: short, compact, powerful, and did I mention, short? Not to be a height-ist, but she is not the typical size of someone I'd expect to excel at hoops. Plus, she's never played on a team before. All these factors led me to believe one thing: it was my time to shine!

For disclosure's sake, we were playing on a nine-foot goal using a junior size ball. We started with a simple game that she came up with. The winner would be the first person to make 20 jump shots from wherever they wanted on the court: easy enough. So we started out and for the first few shots I'm taking it easy, not really caring if I make it or not. Molly, on the other hand, is like some kind of possessed savant. She's making shot after ego-crushing shot from all over the court. It's like I'm raising a female Pistol Pete (feel free to insert a more timely analogy here; I'm not too up on current b-ball stars). When the score hits something like eight to two, I figure it's time to really try. . . and I can't make a basket to save my life. Meanwhile, she continues to pile it on. All of a sudden the tune of "Sweet Georgia Brown" starts playing in my head as a film-worthy montage of my athletic ineptitude plays out in real life. Now I love my children and I want them to do well in life; certainly much better than I've done--but I don't want my eight-year-old to beat me at basketball! C'mon!

As she continued to beat me loudly, I went into a self-pity induced trance. It didn't last long, though, as a metaphoric glass of cold water hit my face in form of Molly trash-talking me. Yes, my sweet little girl whose diapers I changed and spit-up I cleaned, was now spitting hyperbole suggesting I should be wearing a diaper. "Oh, my what kind of a man are you letting a little girl beat you?" "Wow, it must stink to be a 40-year-old getting beaten by your eight-year-old daughter!" Well, I may be 40, bald, and largely unsuccessful, but I've still got my pride! My wounded ego led me to "the zone," and I brought the rain. Swish after sweet, sweet swish I was closing the gap. This was all out of love for her, too. She had to learn that you don't grab a tiger by the tail (even if that tiger drives a four-door sedan, works in a cubicle, and now has "issues" after eating spicy food).

When I drew within two, at 15 to 17 and sensed I was going pull this thing out (In your face, daughter!) I let go with some trash talk of my own--an admittedly pathetic, "oh, you are so going down!" Molly then sized me up, and quickly replied, "yeah, right. Down the toilet, just like your career." The fatal blow was struck and we both knew it. I cracked up (keeping the tears on the inside so they can become heart disease later) and she summarily sank her last three shots. The day belonged to Molly and I was a fool to think I could overcome fate, or my absent skills. As it turned out Molly was handing out two things that day, lollipops and butt-whoopins. And sadly, she was all out of lollipops.