That first season

It is a Tuesday evening in February in this contented little town.  Inside a well-worn gymnasium, the Heat of the co-ed 6-and-under basketball league have fallen behind early, four to zero, in their final game of the season.

"Could be a long game," I remarked to Mrs. Bone.  After all, we had seen these types of starts before, such as in the devastating twenty-four to zero loss to the Bulls -- a team which, by the way, sported a couple of "6-year-olds" -- I use that description loosely -- who already at like four-foot-ten are probably destined for the NBA.  Or at least community college.

Then something remarkable happened.  You made a basket.  Later, a free throw.  Then early in the second period, another basket.  The Heat were ahead five to four.  And the gangly kid with the hair I used to have and the deep-set eyes I still do had scored all of his team's points.

The Heat would go on to win 15 to 11, finishing the season with a record of six wins and four losses, good for a tie for fourth place in the league.  But when I think about that first season, it's not the wins and losses I'll remember.

Instead, I'll think about how far you came. 

From the shy kid who I wasn't sure would ever want to play organized sports, to one who--even before we left the court after the game--was excitedly saying, "Momma, you have to sign me up again next year!"

From the kid who was reluctant to shoot and always looking to pass, whose first basket of the season was a long one from near the 3-point-line that took everyone by surprise--not just that it had gone in, but that you had shot the ball at all--to the one yelling, "I'm open!" and shooting at most every opportunity.

From the kid I was teaching in November you had to dribble and couldn't just run with the basketball, to the one who practiced out in the driveway almost every day, and by that last game was directing his teammates where they needed to be on defense.

But hey, you're not the only one who accomplished something this season. Your little sister successfully created the as of yet unchartered Bleacher Barbies Social Club, which by the end of the season had grown to a membership of 4 to 5 younger siblings playing with sundry Barbies in the stands, one hundred percent oblivious to anything going on on the basketball court.

And me?

Well, I had "progressed" from a dad who began the season saying I just wanted you to have fun and didn't understand all these parents who get so upset over children's sports, to one who was sitting in the stands during that final game, continually making the traveling gesture to the official.  An official, I might add, who was obviously was unfamiliar with that basic rule.

"They're six!" Mrs. Bone scolded.

Hearkening back to the 4-foot-10 goliaths we had succumbed to earlier in the season, I thought to myself, "...but are they?"