Trouble in Paradise

This is the most wonderful time of the year.

Well...normally, that is. It's the most wonderful time of the year if your favorite basketball team doesn't suck. In situations such as the past two seasons, I guess I can always claim to be a fan of Butler, right? *shifty-eyed*

Anyway, I've got some trouble around these here parts.

Basketball-related trouble.

I've raised my daughter right. She loves basketball. She might not be the voracious connoisseur that I am (what's this? Siena versus Fairfield? Sign me up!), but she has an appreciation for watching the game. And that makes me smile.

However, she's also decided that she's going to root for one of the local teams. And by local, I mean local. My daughter is a self-proclaimed Duke fan.

*chokes down bile*

My son, who is only 5 and doesn't know any better, and who wants desperately to have something in common with his older sister, aside from 50% of his DNA and a passion for Legos, is also a Duke fan.

In order to focus on the silver lining in light of this new-found catastrophe, I keep chanting to myself "At least it's not State...at least it's not State..."

I mean, I guess it makes sense, given where we live and all. I do drive past the campus every day--twice!--and my first "real" job was at a biotech company that was, essentially, a glorified research lab backed by a professor at Duke.

Saturday evening, when UNC decided not to even bother showing up to play visited Duke, I was a good father and let her stay up to watch the first half of the game. She sat on my bed and cheered for Duke and celebrated as they built a 30-point lead before halftime.

And then she said the most brilliant--and inadvertently the most ironically hilarious--thing I've ever heard her say:

"Wow. Duke doesn't get called for travels very often."

She also loves playing basketball, and though my backyard isn't the greatest place to shoot hoops, it beats not having anywhere to play at all.

The past two nights, it's been nice enough to go outside and shoot some hoops together. I've been trying to improve her shot a lot over the past couple of days. She's gotten stronger, so now she doesn't just shoot bunnies, but actually is developing a mid-range jumper. However, I'm trying to get her to put some more arc on the ball, and give her some good shooting form. You know, shoulders square to the basket, hips firmly underneath you, bend your knees, keep your toes pointed toward the basket, keep your feet apart.

It's this last part that she doesn't want to do most often. So, I keep telling her "Pull your legs apart", "Spread your legs", "Feet apart".

The irony of what I am saying is not lost on me.

As her game continues to grow farther and farther away from the hoop, she's been getting a bit more...cocky...as she's consistently knocking down shots from farther out. She wanted to know where the 3-point line would be, so I stepped off approximately 19 feet for her.

"Wow! That's really far away." Then she paused. "You couldn't hit that shot."

Never one to back down from the challenge of an 8-year-old girl, I said, "Give me the ball."

In what could possibly be the highlight of my basketball career, I turned and buried the shot. Nothing but net. It was, easily (and sadly) the most badass thing I've done with a basketball in the past ten years.

Because I'm not above gloating over an 8-year-old girl, I cupped my hand behind my ear and repeatedly asked, "What did you say?"

"I didn't say anything," she responded. Clearly, she was awed.

"What did you say?"

"I didn't say anything!" she insisted. Still awed, naturally.

"I think I heard you say something."

"I think dinner's ready," she responded.

All in all is all we are, I think it was a pretty constructive session. Not only have I helped her develop a bit of range to her game, but I've also taught her to ignore trash-talking assholes on the court.

And knowing is half the battle.