هلا اختي اعتقد هذي قصة عن كرة السلة..
It was a warm summer afternoon during my third year of really learning and working at a game that had become my life. Yes that was me, the kid in elementary school always picked last, but who had grown those two left feet into some semblance of grace. I had a sweet jump shot, a quick little hook, and a love of banging under the boards hard enough to make Sir Charles envious.
Every day in that schoolyard I worked on my jump shot, my handles and feet, and learned to play defense. I was mastering the basics of a game that in its purity is such a beautiful thing. Every afternoon, that schoolyard was my home ... "My House," as they say. I knew every bump in that asphalt, every fault in the rims--every sweet spot I had was on that schoolyard.
And everyday working with Him. I say working because I had so much yet to learn. Learning the hard way with every loss--every day I walked away from that court with Him I had found something new in my game and his. He never showed me all his repertoire, but would ration it out in daily doses, with every one of my losses. I laugh now only because He taught me that basketball was more than a game, that if you truly wanted anything in life you have to work for it. And I worked relentlessly.
Then came that day, a summer day when everything came together. My shot was dropping, my post-up was working, my handles were quick enough. He knew every move and weakness, yet I was able to sustain. He taught me everything on that blacktop, and finally that day had come. That beautiful sound of the swish of the net, moving Him into the post, feeling His body sense what I'm going to do, yet being unable to stop it until the last shot fell. I finally beat Him. I finally beat my Dad.
I love you, Dad.
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