Hoop Dreams

I'm not going to be the dad who pushes sports on his son. He'll be free to pursue what makes him happy, unless it's one of those trends I'm too old to understand.  Like milking, or planking, or owling, or whatever bewildering trend is looming. With that being said, there's an old basketball goal at the end of our street. The pole shows some rust and the plastic backboard is weathered and faded, but when I was a kid a hoop was a hoop, (until your dad comes down with a tomahawk jam that rips the rim off of the backboard, but that's for another post).  When we moved into our house a few years ago I tightened up the rim and replaced the dry rotted net that had been blowing in the wind since the Reagan administration.  

The goal may not look like much, but I can already envision a little Simon bouncing the ball down the street to join dad for a game. I know, it may be a few months.  It’s an adjustable goal so I will lower it for him.  I don’t expect anything spectacular, nothing youtube worthy anyway, just some good old father-son bonding time.  Who knows, maybe we’ll let Mom join us.

As much as I want him to like basketball, I won't force it on him. If it's not his thing, no big deal, there are plenty of other hobbies out there. So down the road if I end up at a chess match or a debate, or even...gulp, a soccer match, I’ll be just as proud (and maybe as loud) as I would cheering him on the court. 

Whatever he decides to do I'll support it, even if it's hockey. I'm game for whatever the journey brings. But one thing is for certain; the kid will have to get outside.  Whether it's riding his bike, playing in the creek, or even reading a book, I want him to come home dirty.  Just like dad.