The NBA playoffs is the only time I’ll really sit down to watch NBA basketball anymore. Back in the day of Jordan and Bird and Magic, I could watch any game on any night. Not anymore. I hate the regular season and I don’t necessarily love the playoffs, but if I’m gonna watch it, that’s it. But while watching the playoffs I almost always become nostalgic and get an itch to play some pick-up games in hopes of reliving some of my past glories from the good ol’ days in high school. (It depends on who you ask as to whether or not they really were glory days, but the farther I get from those days, the better I remember myself.) However, even though I’m only 32, I feel 52 the day after I play. Even though I know the exercise and the camaraderie of the game are good for me both physically and emotionally (just ask Dr. Phil), it’s still hard to make myself do it. Well a few years ago, while still in Nacogdoches, the playoffs were on and I was coerced into playing a pickup game. I gave in one Saturday afternoon and was off to the gym. I already felt guilty enough going on a Saturday and Baylie added salt to my wound. As I was walking out the door, she gave me those pouty eyes and asked why I had to go on a Saturday. She already has me wrapped around her little finger; and that look she gave me made me feel like she was squeezing the life out of me like a python wrapped around a lab rat. But I’m a man. So I did what most red-blooded, tough-skinned, manly-man guys would do…I scooped her up, was gonna put her in the car and take her with me. Drew was only 2 at the time and on our way out, he was standing in the kitchen. At this point, I was ready to abort the mission and just stay home. He looked up at me, pointed and said, “Ga Digga Digga. Ga Nugga Nigh.” Whew, he was cool with it. He understood. That’s my boy. So off Baylie and I go. On the way there Baylie was playing every 1st grade child’s favorite game—20 questions. And every question started with the word, “Dad”. As if there were anyone else that she could possibly be talking to. “Dad, why are you going to play basketball?” “Dad, do you like to play basketball?” “Dad, did you play basketball when you were a little boy?” “Dad, can I play basketball when I get bigger?” “Dad, did mommy play basketball when she was a little girl?” “Dad, how old is mommy?” “Dad, when I get big, I’m gonna have lots of kids just like you and mommy (Casey was almost 1).” Whoa!! Let’s listen to some music, what do you say? So we get to the gym with no more talk of my innocent little angel bearing a multitude of children. She was pretty good during the hoop-fest. She stayed pretty patient and was running around entertaining herself while we were playing. In general, she was not paying a whole lot of attention to us. Every now and then, she would see me make a shot she would yell at me, “Good shot, Dad.” (I knew I brought her for a reason.)Later that night, I thought it would be a good follow up to the day for Baylie and me to sit down and watch a little B-ball together. You know, some high quality father-daughter bonding time. Well I turn the game on, (the Lakers were playing somebody), and I walk to the kitchen to get us a snack. I barely get back to the fridge when I hear Baylie yelling at me. “Daaaaaad! Daaaaaad! Cooooome Heeeeeere Pleeeeeease!” So I go back to the living room anticipating a profound discovery. She looks at me, points to the TV and says, “Now, that’s how you play basketball!”
What does she know? She’s only five. Not to worry, in a few years, I’ll look back on that pick-up game and remember myself as the reincarnate of Pistol Pete Maravich. Ugly days today, glory days tomorrow.