There’s so much to love about a basketball team of 6- and 7-year-old boys.
They’re like swarming bees on the basketball court.
“Hey, buddy, keep your hands out of your pockets when you’re out there.”
“Wrong way. Wrong way. Wrong way.”
“Take the ball toward the basket. Toward the basket… toward… the… there you go.”
“I got six hoops.”
When a player gets hurt, he looks for his mom. And he’s not afraid to find her.
Uniforms are interchangeable. For which I was deeply thankful, since I lost Tucker’s jersey in a sea of boxes between two houses.
I’m hoping the borrowed jersey wasn’t Tucker’s lucky charm to get him those “six hoops.” Or six points. The league doesn’t keep score, so we all speak in hypotheticals. Since everybody knows.
Thankfully, there’s no penalty for excessive celebration, since my son does what I call a “Nixon Dance” when he scores a basket.
Our new vocabulary word is ‘humility.’