Watching YaYa’s basketball games has been a nail biting experience – and I’m not one to bite my nails. The level of competitiveness has long passed the “fun-to-fun” stage leaving YaYa on the sidelines for much of the game. Unfortunately, when he does go in, he’s inadequately warmed up and out of synch with the rest of his teammates. Subsequently, errors happen.
My thoughts went back to when BoBo was the same age. Aside from BoBo seemingly gifted with sporting ease, BoBo had a deal of time playing the competitive balls-out basketball with his dad, older brother, and often times many other guys that just hung out around our house. In contrast, YaYa has only me: his mother whose historical aversion to any-sport-which-utilizes-a-ball is justified many times over. I’m good for about 30 minutes of H-O-R-S-E, or Around the World, but that’s it. I basically…SUCK.
When I arrived in the parking lot to watch YaYa’s last basketball game, I was relieved to have the season finally come to an end. While I feel it is 110% essential that I be there, I must admit that I have (in previous moments of nail biting frustration) wondered why.
I glanced at my stubby little fingernails (with fresh manicure already chipped off) and sighed. Perhaps now they can grow back. As I walked toward the gym a woman stopped me to ask for directions to the hall. I pointed to the darkened building. She looked at her flyer with frustration. I tried to encourage her, “Are you early? They’ll probably be here in a few minutes.” She nodded and went back to her car to wait. I entered the gym and was met with stares. I was late but, still. I wondered why everyone seemed to be looked at me.