So many kind words. Words from people who spin yarns and prose and make right the day. I thank you for them. It means much to know there are gentle souls and hands that reach out easy and unbidden. The days will get better, Iíve traipsed through too many of them not to have some hope for a cool breeze and a hammock to swing in.
I went out to the driveway last night to shoot some baskets with the 15 year old, my son. Itís something I donít 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, ďWhy donít you just tell me youíve gone and gotten some girl pregnant and make my day complete?Ē
He put up a 20 foot jumper, canned it, and laughed. ďNo way, Dad.Ē
In the world of 15-year-old boys-who-are-nearly-men this was not yet an option, I suppose. And itís 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 wasnít 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. Itís 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 didnít matter. Iím not too sure why they should matter now.
Now that I know better.
And Iím going to cut down that one protruding tree limb that kept blocking my shot, too.
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