On Thursday night I had a chance to play some one-on-one half court basketball with my son, as is our custom practice and, as is customary, he beat me two out of three games. I had a lead in the first game, but he came back and won. I had my three-ball in the second game, so he had to come outside the arc to guard me and I was able to take him inside a couple of times when I caught him moving out to cover the long ball. The threat of my going inside got me a couple of looks from beyond the arc and I hit them, solidifying the victory. I’m embarrassed to say that in the third and final game—the one for the money—I failed to hit a single shot. I don’t expect to win, because he is much better than I am, but I ought to have been able to hit a shot.
The thing I came away with though, is the fact that my son is obviously my son. He is like me in so many ways that I realized that some of me has rubbed off on him. When we shot around before starting to play we had a long talk about life and jobs and houses and money and relationships—in general the little things that life is made of. I realized that my son had taken on many of my own values and some of my personality.
It is our purpose in life to pass on our genetics to our offspring. That is a biological function and we do it instinctively. What makes civilization, however, is that we pass along our behavioral characteristics as well. Long after I am gone that part of me will continue to live on. And, maybe, if he chooses, that part will be passed along to someone not yet thought of—both genetically and characteristically—and the lineage will continue.
For the present, however, if you ever find yourself on the court guarding my son, make sure you stay between him and the basket. If he gets inside—within seven feet of the hole—you can’t stop him. If he picks up the dribble, plan on getting a hand in his face as quick as you can. If he gets off an open shot, you are probably wasting your time looking for a rebound.
At least that is our advice here in Jimbo’s world.
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