I went out to the driveway last night to shoot some baskets with the 15 year old, my son. It�s something I don�t do nearly often enough, both the shooting of hoops and the mindless joy of doing something just to do it, and having the company of one who looks (a little) like me.

It had been another spleen wrencher of a day, the kind where you check the sky often for falling pianos. And I asked Ben, with a weary shake of the head, �Why don�t you just tell me you�ve gone and gotten some girl pregnant and make my day complete?�

He put up a 20 foot jumper, canned it, and laughed. �No way, Dad.�

In the world of 15-year-old boys-who-are-nearly-men this was not yet an option, I suppose. And it�s nice to be able to say something to him now, now that he is close to the time when he will more nearly understand just what it was that I asked, and hear him laugh about it. Catch my pain and toss it in the hoop.

He wasn�t missing many last night, which made up for me and my picture perfect release that often wound up woefully short of the rim. I used to have the touch, would play for hours just as Ben was doing, in the driveway, alone. It�s something inherent in the Outfoxed gene, to go and dribble away your thoughts on the pavement and heave up a prayer at a slightly sagging basket. But now the touch has gone the way of adulthood, of many beers and mid-day meetings and endless rows of spreadsheet formula.

At 15, those things didn�t matter. I�m not too sure why they should matter now.

Now that I know better.

And I�m going to cut down that one protruding tree limb that kept blocking my shot, too.

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