Some of my favorite high school memories are of watching Scott play basketball. It seemed like everyone in the stands would start raising their hands to signal "3" before the ball even left his hands. But I was a lovesick schoolgirl, so some of you who were there and more levelheaded at the time may need to verify my story. I do know that my own grandfather once traveled 30 miles out of town to watch Scott play even though I had a basketball game that same night less than a mile from his house. Can't say I blamed him.
Owen got to see Scott play for the first time last week. The two of them shoot around in our driveway together all the time, but Owen had never seen Scott play in a real game. (Accountant rec league games at the YMCA are real, right?)
Owen sat in my lap and watched the entire first half without moving. By the second half, he was much more interested in the cooling effects of lying out on aluminum bleachers. I suppose we've done a decent job of hammering home the importance of sharing and cooperating with others, because Owen had a hard time understanding why some of the men on the court were actually trying to keep his dad from making baskets.
Then Scott was clobbered while shooting a 3 but made the basket and the free throw for a rare 4-point-play. I'm cheering away until I notice the look on Owen's face, and I realize he's thinking, that man just hurt Daddy, and not only does he not have to go to time-out, but Mommy is really happy about it.