"You shouldn't pressure Bart like that." "Well, if you know a better way for me to live through your son, then I'd like to hear it."
When we bought our new house, I had a short list of things I wanted in the home: Good structural quality, multiple bathrooms, and a basketball hoop in the driveway. We found a house that seems to be in good structural quality in spite of the previous owner’s “improvements,” has 2.75 bathrooms that should ensure that at least the kids will always have an option, and, most importantly, a basketball hoop towering over the driveway. The only way it could be more perfect would be if it had a net behind the hoop to catch airballs before they sail into the neighbor’s yard.
As a high schooler, I spent many happy summer nights shooting hoops by myself in my parent’s driveway. It was a great way to exercise, plus it burned off some of that pent up energy that I wasn’t using for socializing. I like basketball, not that I’m any good at it. My sole experience playing organized basketball came in a fifth-grade YMCA league. I believe I made one basket all season, but I think I only shot four times, so that’s not a bad percentage for a fifth-grader whose teammates would (wisely) never pass him the ball. Despite my offensive deficiencies, I was always on the floor with the clock winding down, in crunch time, when the game was decided. That was probably because the league required everyone to play half the game, and our coach played his best players in the first and third quarters. Still, I was a difference maker in one when, after taking a four-point lead with seconds left, our coach told everyone to stand still, and I dutifully planted my feet and didn’t foul.
I want our new house’s basketball hoop so my children to relive my glory days. Plus, maybe I can get some exercise while burning some of that pent up energy that I don’t use for socializing. Our current home has a neighborhood basketball hoop in front of it, but I don’t use it. The hoop is in a parking lot, making it a less than ideal place to take the kids.
Last night, the kids were driving me crazy wanting to go outside. We’d just finished a weekend of heavy rains, though, and the ground was soaked. The backyard was a bog, and the swings were over a swamp. The only remotely dry area outside was in the parking lot, though I’d have to be desperate to take them out there with the potential for cars driving past.
Several minutes of unbroken screaming later, were we in the parking lot. Traffic was light on a Sunday night, and the lot has one entrance far from us. As long as I watched the entrance for incoming vehicles, and stayed alert for movement among the parked vehicles, we should remain relatively safe.
The kids immediately split apart when we stepped outside. Ian looked for hiding spots among the parked cars. Tory took off for a puddle. Abbie picked up an abandoned basketball and walked to the hoop. I followed her thinking she might want a lift to dunk the ball. Instead, she handed the ball to me, wanting to watch me shoot. I shot, missed, rebounded, shot again, and missed again. This time Abbie rebounded and brought the ball back to me. If only I had some to shag rebounds in practice for me in high school, my team might have won a game in gym class.
The boys quickly followed to the hoop to investigate all the ball movement. Soon, I had a triangle defense to penetrate. I kept trying to give the ball to Abbie. She kept pushing the ball back to me, so I kept shooting. I did lift Tory up so he could dunk once, so at least I could feel some bonding.
I never knew the pressure of taking a last second shot when I played, but knowing that a missed shot could likely bean an unobservant 18-month-old in the head added tremendous pressure. I moved in close when I needed to be sure I made it, or at least sure that I could rebound the ball before it bounced off anyone’s head. Sometimes the boys cleared out to search for puddles, and I’d step back for a try or two. I airballed most of those shots, so that net idea at our new house sounds tempting.
As a high schooler, I spent many happy summer nights shooting hoops by myself in my parent’s driveway. It was a great way to exercise, plus it burned off some of that pent up energy that I wasn’t using for socializing. I like basketball, not that I’m any good at it. My sole experience playing organized basketball came in a fifth-grade YMCA league. I believe I made one basket all season, but I think I only shot four times, so that’s not a bad percentage for a fifth-grader whose teammates would (wisely) never pass him the ball. Despite my offensive deficiencies, I was always on the floor with the clock winding down, in crunch time, when the game was decided. That was probably because the league required everyone to play half the game, and our coach played his best players in the first and third quarters. Still, I was a difference maker in one when, after taking a four-point lead with seconds left, our coach told everyone to stand still, and I dutifully planted my feet and didn’t foul.
I want our new house’s basketball hoop so my children to relive my glory days. Plus, maybe I can get some exercise while burning some of that pent up energy that I don’t use for socializing. Our current home has a neighborhood basketball hoop in front of it, but I don’t use it. The hoop is in a parking lot, making it a less than ideal place to take the kids.
Last night, the kids were driving me crazy wanting to go outside. We’d just finished a weekend of heavy rains, though, and the ground was soaked. The backyard was a bog, and the swings were over a swamp. The only remotely dry area outside was in the parking lot, though I’d have to be desperate to take them out there with the potential for cars driving past.
Several minutes of unbroken screaming later, were we in the parking lot. Traffic was light on a Sunday night, and the lot has one entrance far from us. As long as I watched the entrance for incoming vehicles, and stayed alert for movement among the parked vehicles, we should remain relatively safe.
The kids immediately split apart when we stepped outside. Ian looked for hiding spots among the parked cars. Tory took off for a puddle. Abbie picked up an abandoned basketball and walked to the hoop. I followed her thinking she might want a lift to dunk the ball. Instead, she handed the ball to me, wanting to watch me shoot. I shot, missed, rebounded, shot again, and missed again. This time Abbie rebounded and brought the ball back to me. If only I had some to shag rebounds in practice for me in high school, my team might have won a game in gym class.
The boys quickly followed to the hoop to investigate all the ball movement. Soon, I had a triangle defense to penetrate. I kept trying to give the ball to Abbie. She kept pushing the ball back to me, so I kept shooting. I did lift Tory up so he could dunk once, so at least I could feel some bonding.
I never knew the pressure of taking a last second shot when I played, but knowing that a missed shot could likely bean an unobservant 18-month-old in the head added tremendous pressure. I moved in close when I needed to be sure I made it, or at least sure that I could rebound the ball before it bounced off anyone’s head. Sometimes the boys cleared out to search for puddles, and I’d step back for a try or two. I airballed most of those shots, so that net idea at our new house sounds tempting.
posted by Matt at
11:40 PM
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