Love & Basketball, and Tacos

I come from a long line of Eastern European peasant farmers.

I’m also 5’ 10”. The chances of anyone from my direct lineage making it to the NBA or playing basketball at any level with a high degree of competence likely have lower odds than those same folks getting attacked by a shark dropped into Illinois by a tornado.

The other undeniable fact about my family is that we’re not particularly adept at math, so maybe one of us is more likely than I think to be an amuse bouche for Jaws.

But probably not.

So, about a year ago when my son decided to hang up his skates, after nine expensive years punctuated by things like rabid suburban hockey parents starting brawls in the stands, in favor of basketball, I was terrified.

I kind of knew he’d be ok. But these days, the kids, or really their parents, make them specialize like a keen proctologist in a single sport before they can walk.

Every potential missed free throw, travel or double dribble lodged in my consciousness.

Would the other kids break his ankles with their Iverson-level crossovers?