Basketball

 Whose kid even are you? A couple of weeks ago we were at the playground in Salem Common and you spent an inordinate amount of time watching some dude shoot hoops. I didn't think that much of it at the time.

Then last week at school your teachers reported that you found a baby-sized basketball in the gross motor room and spent the morning tossing it through some rings that hang from the ceiling. And you loved the basketball so much that you took it back to your mat to nap with it.

They sent a picture as proof.

When we told this story to Manamana and Grandpa Greg, they got so excited that they overnighted you a Little Tikes plastic basketball hoop and ball set - precisely the sort of object I pledged never to own - which is at the moment erected in the study where I can see it from my desk. YOU LOVE IT. We have raised the net just enough that you can tip the ball into it from your baby hands, and you spent the weekend practicing throwing the ball up to reach it. You've gotten pretty close too. You harangue any adult within finger-grabbing distance to throw the ball in the hoop for you to watch. And then, this weekend, your dad and you and I were playing with it in the kitchen and you made like you were going to pass me the ball but then you didn't. You actually faked me out, Succotash. You're not even one and a half. This is troubling on so many levels.

Today you brought your home basketball to school to show everyone. Grandpa Greg has it all worked out that you will play point guard for Harvard for all four years and then decide not to go pro but instead to do graduate work in Roman architectural history before going on to med school. So. No pressure. 

Your father and I are now wondering if this is going to be a passing mania that is over in two weeks, or if it is a harbinger of years of sitting in bleachers. I guess time will tell.