Gary Brown: Passing down a game
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Despite what the lyrics of the old song say, this wasn't the noise made by a trolley.
It was the sound of a father throwing up "bricks" – bad shots – on a driveway court, letting the young son he loved beat him in a baskeball game.
Clang! Clang! Balls bounced off the front of the rim. A few were shot by the boy, of course, but they were inadvertant misses. He was trying. He's always trying.
The man's missed shots were, without doubt, intentional. They were shot too sharply against the front of the rim – too accurately in their aim – to have been intended as true shots expected to descend into through the net.
Now, with failed shot after failed shot, the father was falling behind his son in the game of "PIG." Like the longer ''HORSE," it was a time-tested driveway and playground contest in which competitors match shots. If they fail to make their opponent's shot, they get a letter. Enough letters to spell the animal is a loss.
"Miss!" shouted the elated 5-year-old, after his father missed the shot that the boy had made.
"You've got a PI," said the son, happily, "and I've only got a P."
"Yes I do," the dad agreed. "OK, now you can shoot any shot you want."
"All right!"
A kid doesn't get that kind of open-ended – "do what you want" – offer very often.
Son had been practicing
In defense of the ability of youngest of the ballplayers, he was shooting pretty well even without his father's tanking.
Before his father came out of the house, I had been passing the ball to the boy, my loved one's grandson, so he could shoot shot after shot. Oh, I would shoot every now and then, but seldom two in a row. After all, I have access to the backboard and rim perched on the side of the railing of the deck every day. The young guy was was only here on vacation. I was the home team and he truly was the visitor.
"I have an idea," he told me, when he saw his father descending the steps from the deck, and walking toward the driveway. "Why don't you and my dad play each other?"
That was a disconcerting thought. His dad is young and athletic. Currently, I am neither. I might be able to hold my own, even look good from time to time, against a 5-year-old, but that isn't an accomplishment. The basket – a backboard and rim erected for my loved one's son, when he was a child – was only 9 feet tall and I stand 6 feet tall, perhaps 7feet with my arms extended up. Two feet is not a long shot, even for an old guy.
Playing against a boy's father would be more challenging.
"I know, why don't you and I play 'PIG,'" his father suddenly suggested to his son.
The son, of course, jumped at the chance to play against his dad.
And, I welcomed the opportunity to watch a father and son as they competed in basketball for what I came to understand was the first time.
Generations compete on the court
Swish!
The boy's shot, put in flight toward the basket with renewed energy and hope, dropped through the net without touching the rim. But, his dad did the same thing. Each player made another shot, then missed a couple as well, before the dad's deception began.
Clang!
"My shot!" shouted the son after his father's miss.
And, the boy made it.
Dad, suspiciously smiling, did not. Although the youngest competitor did not totally understand that the rules had changed, the goal of the game had changed. A son's newfound love of a basketball would be fostered by the strategic failure of the father. Not all of his shots would be missed, but just enough would fail to find their mark, and the boy would be allowed to emerge victorious.
"You've got PIG!" the son shouted. "I win!"
Hours passed after the game. Other activities took precedence. Eventually, however, during a bit of down time, the son asked his dad to play basketball with him again.
"Sure," dad answered, "but I'm not going to be as easy on you this time."
Another lesson would be taught that day. Life is not always one long victory. Neither clangs nor swishes can be guaranteed. The game was on.
Reach Gary at gary.brown.rep@gmail.com. On Twitter: @gbrownREP.