Diana had some important hotness maintenance to do at the salon yesterday, so Elijah and I had some father and son time. It was too cold to take Grover outside and we didn’t have access to the car, so we spent most of the day in Eli’s room.
Boooooooring.
We actually resorted to reading stories. Bleh. Fearing I’d turn on the genetic code for nerdness he inherited from me, I called my brother Steve. He arrived several hours later with the object of my affection: The baby basketball hoop.
Alright alright, I’ll admit it. Elijah’s freakish height may have attributed to my desire to get him into basketball. So twenty years from now when he turns pro he can buy me a Humvee. Or whatever post oil dependence status symbol is in vogue in 2028. I’m pretty sure it will be a Humvee.
Thankfully, he loved it from the first moment I put the ball, or “rock” as the kids call it, into his meaty fists. He began dunking the ball immediately.
I began praising him in a manner that will most likely scar him years from now. But then I taught him a time-honored lesson. Your dad will be able to beat you in basketball as long as he is two feet taller than you.
Oh man I schooled him. Yes, he can dunk. But his defense sucks and he has no outside shot. I, on the other hand, am automatic from the three-point arc, or the shag rug as it is better known.
Eli got bored pretty quickly and moved on to throwing his other toys across the room. I shouted, “Who got next, jerks?” Grover posed a mighty opponent. Mostly because his defense consists of biting me in the collarbone. And his propensity for eating the basketball.
When I woke this morning I found Eli practicing his dunks. “Good luck, sucker,” I said as I chomped into a croissant and flipped through the Humvee catalogue.
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