February Madness

Basketball season should have culminated in March since it's the endless, ficklest weather, worst. month. Ever. 

Instead, it was all over by then. All the understated court drama. Done by March. 

But, here is the highlight reel: 

Kincaid's season of hitting free throws in a Fisher Price hoop was a bit -well- lackluster.  When every kid gets a medal, referees are refused and double-dribbling is dominant, the game lacks that certain je ne sais quoi (competition?). 

And again:  Fisher. Price. hoops.

If  Caid wasn't insulted, he should have been.

He deserves more than a plastic backboard.  His skill is worthy of some regulation size nets and whistle-blowing. Look, I'm not trying to raise a hipster here, who can't handle rules and milk with hormones. 

But, he is only six. Next year, we can start the suicide-drill conditioning program.

The real bonus was the coach: Once again, my baby daddy, Jason.  And when your dad is the coach, sometimes he subs in chubby, three year olds. 

And your toddler mind is blown.

Every dream Colson held came true in that moment when he was beckoned from the bench.

And with fleshy, baby arms raised on defense, he charged down the court like a tiny Chris Farley. Labored breathing. Aggressive hustle. All heart.  That kid's got game.

Watching my little men execute a (not terrible) play, I swooned. Like a sentimental fool. 

And Jason is a hero.  He maintains that coaching this year is *still* like herding drunk, whiny cats.  I don't disagree. (Feel free to revisit last season here.)

Maybe next year will feature less team tantrums.  

Oh and Eowyn had a commendable season too:  Disciplined dedication, improved skills and that resilient buoyancy she applies to pretty much everything but her laundry.

So, as we conclude yet another basketball season with award ceremonies, I would like to take this opportunity to thank Jason for corralling Ritalin-doped children on a court for 2.5 months.

I would also like to thank myself for making everything else possible: 

For showing up at every practice and every game with a steady supply of snacks and water and wipes like a lipsticked-concession stand.  

For faithfully laundering countless jerseys, stinky socks and discarded hoodies.

And for memorializing every shot, every dribble, every jump. 

Truly, we couldn't have done it without me.

And I would do it all again for just a court-side wave from my three (super white)
 Jordans.  

A slight height disadvantage