A Couple of Fans In the Stands

Yesterday evening Marty and I stopped by to watch my father coach his basketball team of kids. Before going on with that subject, I should state that a few weeks ago Marty met my parents. It was going to be a short visit. We stopped by their house for what was supposed to be a just minute so I could borrow something from my mother. We ended up staying for more than an hour. My dad really liked Marty. I think the feeling was mutual. They are both cut from the same cloth, more or less. Marty is a little sillier than my father while my father is more of a physical fitness type. Both can be philosophical in their own way. There is a lot of personality overlap. My mother liked Marty too. He is very personable, which is something my mother takes to. But I know she would prefer it if he were a little younger, never married, not a father, and had a more prestigious occupation, and it would not hurt if it he were paid more too. But if push came to shove, I think Mom would be okay with Marty should he be around for the next twenty years. 

Just before we left, Marty slipped up and called me by my nickname in front of my parents. They are the only ones outside of maybe a blog reader or two who now know I am Marty's "Spec". It got a giggle out of Mom.   

Anyway, as for Coach Dad, the kids, and their basketball; it was actually pretty entertaining. There was one slightly scary incident when two of my dad’s players collided on the court in pursuit of the ball. One of the kids took a head in the midsection and he did not get up for a few minutes. Several people, including Dad, hurried out on the court. It turned out the boy just had the wind knocked out of him and was unhurt. My father led him off the court and to the bench with his hand resting on top of the boy’s head. It was really kind of cute scene. I was reminded of two-plus decades ago when it was time to go home and Dad would usher me off the playground with his hand on my head. 

In another incident, one of the kids shot at the wrong basket following the halftime break. The ball did not go in, of course, and the kid was quickly informed of his error by a couple of teammates. As the boy ran by my father, Dad shouted to him, “That’s okay; you just had your directions mixed up.” My father then turned, looked at us in the bleachers, smiled, and rolled his eyes. I think my father might actually be enjoying this coaching thing.