It took our trip to Ohio to make it clear that the days of shooting hoops have officially begun. The Eldest wanted nothing more than a basketball to play on the courts nearby.
His face lit up like an Alabama yard during Christmas when the King walked into the house with a blue and black tucked under his arm.
Shooting has become second-hand- a way to think through things, a way to do something with his hands that isn't so obviously stimming. Best of all, a way to enter any conversation in any city in any part of town that has a orange hoop and a little concrete.
Nowadays, while the girls dance ballet at Riverwood Classical School, the Eldest shoots hoops. I tried to join the four boys alongside Max this week. They were playing a game called Knockout.
I got knocked out first.
Perhaps excited by the latest craze to hit the castle, Prophet has started working on her dribbling as well.
"Let's stop somewhere with a hoop," a refrain more frequently heard during our weekly spring picnics.
I never played basketball when I was growing up. Maybe I tried it once in gym class, but it didn't catch my interest. That said, I love watching the Eldest dribble and shoot from the front window of the house.
And I love the lingering possibility that one day, I, too might find myself shooting hoops in the front yard. Just because it seemed like the right kind of day.
