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I owe my father an apology for now I realize he wasn’t out to get me in my youthbut rather struggled to support me. All the years of his stern lectures while I simplywanted to enjoy being an athlete. I branded him hateful and someone that saw onlynegative in what I did. In retrospect, I was too young and devoid of wisdom to know thathe acted out of love and in the fever brought on by watching a child play a sport.This clarity of mind occurs as I travel over the Wando bridge cutting through thefirst rays of light on a Saturday morning. Sipping on a warm cup of coffee, I am takingmy daughter to meet her teammates as they prepare to play a basketball game. We chatabout trivia as her legs nervously twitch. When she admits to the nervousness, I almostcry. Like my father, I am feverish with excitement as it is clear to me she enjoys thisgame. She loves being part of a team. A team that is quite good (as of Saturday, theyhad won three games and lost one).As she leaves the car, I watch her interact with her ten year old teammates. Theyare giddy and chatty like we expect fifth graders to be. You would never know thatwithin an hour, they would morph into ball hawking fiends accepting nothing but a winfor themselves and their coach. Don’t grow up I plead internally! I want her like thisforever. I wished the same when she was three yet it did not come true. Now I want tohug her but know this would be mortifying and would create indelible embarrassment.So I tell her goodbye and depart for the game. Alone with my thoughts for thetwenty minute drive, the butterflies are afloat in my stomach for there is nothing, nothinglike watching your child compete in a game they love. She better hustle. I pray shescores a basket. I ask that she not get hurt. It’s all about fun. I warn myself (my wife isat another child’s game) to not yell too loud but know that the admonishment is futile.Horror! I can’t find the gym. I get a great tour of Summerville as I try to followthe directions from Mapquest. Twenty minutes to tip-off and I’m not there yet. Forgetstress from work or from a water damaged house. Being late to your daughter’sbasketball game breaks out a cold sweat and anxiety cured by no pill. The inevitable stopat the gas station allows me to arrive as the team begins to take lay-ups.At the moment, I am the only parent in the bleachers. There is a chill in the air asthe heat has not warmed the cavernous building. I worry about her not having a shirtunderneath her jersey. She will surely catch cold though this is the furthest thought fromher mind. The pony-tailed team talks and laughs as the call to order begins. The worldbecomes balanced as a girl once goofy catches a pass and seriously cuts to the basket fora right handed lay-up shot off the correct foot.The other team takes the floor to the oblivion of our team. Me, I am studyingeach girl. The tall ones. The fast ones. The good dribblers and shooters. I am playingthe game in my mind simulating what my daughter will go through. I hope she willalways be in the right position on defense and will grab each rebound with two handsbefore passing to an awaiting guard. I remember it’s just a game and take another sip of coffee.Game time approaches as more parents arrive. Soon, I am joined by othernervous fathers and mothers who broke their late, Saturday sleep to sit on hard, cold steelseats comforted only by the love of the team and instant, dull coffee from the concessionstand.My daughter jumps center for she is tall for her age. As she stands at center court,her eyes are bulging. My heart is thumping. She raises her right hand in anticipation of 
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