My son adores his daddy, the big man he literally has to look up to, yearns to be like, and begs to play with. My son often requests one-on-one basketball games in his bedroom with my husband. I’m not sure why he repeatedly takes the pounding. He is all giggles over it and my husband is all game. My son laughs so hard he can’t breathe, and my husband takes every advantage to slam-dunk.
Anywhere in the house, one can hear the screaming and shouting, the thundering footsteps. It sounds like an entire team up there. Nope. Just my husband and son getting in that quality one-on-one time.
I usually stay away from these sweaty mismatched match-ups, but the other night my daughter and I had front-row seats. My husband takes it to the rim and dunks. “OOOOOOOOOOOHHHHH!” he shouts with all the gusto of an announcer calling the Eagles’ Super Bowl–winning touchdown, falling to his knees in utter glory.
My son somehow manages to score between the taunting, the wrestling moves that pin him to the floor, and the tricks that have him reeling with laughter. My husband stuffs the ball under the back of his shirt. “Where’s the ball?” he teases, then displays it as he makes a run toward the net. My son is cackling all the while. “Oh. Did. You. See. That?!” says his dad.
My son gets a few surprises in of his own. My husband takes one to the groin. Luckily, it’s just a foam ball. The crowd and the opposing team roar with laughter.
It’s been a close game, but Dad gets a second wind and a few more shots. “Oh man, off the ceiling, off the clock, and iiiiinn!!!” my husband screams.
48-40! Game over.
My son decides to just make practice shots for a bit. I’m sure his face just needs a break from all that smiling.