Earlier this week, my dear, sweet wife and I went over to a north Phoenix rec gym to watch our son, Eric, play basketball. He and his teammates were competing for the championship of their league.
Their team's name is the Hoopin' Haboobs. A haboob, as you might know, is a massive dust storm that rolls into an area or community and simply engulfs everything. A haboob is not pretty but very impressive. I thought Eric and his friends had come up with a pretty creative name for a team.
Walking into that gym brought back lots of pleasant memories for me. I played basketball in high school and continued on with city and church league basketball for years. Hearing the squeak of tennis shoes on the floor and the ripple of the net as the ball went through the hoop were sounds that I loved and now miss a lot. I have to admit, it was a thrill to watch my son doing something I used to love so much.
Alas, the Haboobs lost the game in overtime. They started out slowly, came back to tie the game at half time and had the lead for most of the second half. A few untimely turnovers were the undoing of the Haboobs.
Still, it was a joy to watch Eric and his friends play a little b-ball. And, at the end of the game, Eric told me, "Don't worry, Dad. We'll get 'em next year."
Which is exactly what I would have said.
