It was a beautiful autumn afternoon: mellow, the sun maturing, the trees loaded with bright leaves, each one a flower - to mix my Camus and my Keats. Even on the municipal basketball court, not known for its beauty, it was a beautiful afternoon.
My younger son and I were shooting some hoops. I used to practise scoring goals in netball when I was his age, but Ball is an altogether cooler sport. It has an immense vocabulary: a pass becomes an Assist when it leads directly to your team mate scoring. A Swish is a ball which goes through the hoop without touching the rim. A Chucker is a player who makes frequent and imprudent shots. A Granny shot is an underhand shot taken with both hands. A Toilet Bowl is a shot which circles round the rim - it can go in or out.
My son was on form, scoring repeatedly from way out. His current aim is to jump high enough to perform a Slam Dunk. He's not far off. A few more centimetres of growth, some extra leg muscle and, well, there'll be no stopping him.
As for me, I achieved my own Ball nirvana this afternoon. For a laugh, I attempted a Prayer - a shot very unlikely to make it - from five metres out, facing away from the hoop. I chucked the ball in a Granny shot back over my head. I turned round to see the ball go through the hoop, and my son's broad grin, "Wow! Swish, Mum!"
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