It was February 28th, 1981. I was not yet six. I was in Cameron Indoor Stadium on the campus of Duke University at a basketball game with my dad. That afternoon, an overmatched Duke team, led by my idol Gene Banks, pulled out an improbable overtime victory, 66-65, over archrival North Carolina. Banks had sent the game into overtime with a last-second shot and hit the game-winner with 19 seconds left in overtime. I was even then a basketball fanatic, shooting hour after our in our neighbor's driveway, honing the shot that would never get me on a competitive team, but would be good enough to win the free throw contest at the Golden Bear basketball camp when I was 12 (where I claimed my crown by vanquishing some lesser aim who was also on the high school varsity). That afternoon at Cameron, in that hot, sweaty, deafening gymnasium, I got my first taste of ecstatic holiness.
I still love basketball.
A few weeks ago, as I sat in my chair on a Saturday afternoon watching hoops on the Tube, James crawled up into my lap. He seemed engaged in the action. I helped him follow along. "Dribble... dribble... dribble... shoot!" These days, James cruises our apartment, orange Nerf ball in hand, exclaiming, "dwibble... dwibble... sheeewt!" He has great knee bend.
I had no choice, seeing his natural inclinations, to initiate him in another rite of passage: National Corndog Day. Call it "Holy Communion."
James, it seems, is a basketball believer. Just like his dad.
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