Six years ago, I was lost. Life felt heavy, directionless, and overwhelming, and I needed an anchor—something to hold onto when the waves of uncertainty and struggle became too much. That’s when I turned to basketball, a game I’d known since childhood but had never truly studied or appreciated. It had always been there, waiting patiently in the background, a quiet companion through fleeting moments of joy and escape. Little did I know then how deeply it would reshape my life and the bond I now share with my son.
As a child, basketball was casual—a hoop in the driveway, friends at the park, and hours spent shooting aimlessly. I loved the game, but I didn’t understand it. I didn’t see the beauty in its intricacies: the discipline, the teamwork, the unspoken trust between teammates. But six years ago, when I picked up that ball again in my darkest moments, it felt different. The court became a sanctuary. The steady rhythm of the dribble, the satisfying swish of the net, and the endless hours of practice taught me more than just skills—they taught me life lessons.
Basketball became my teacher. It showed me how to grind when no one was watching, how to embrace discipline and work ethic, and how to appreciate progress that only I could see. It gave me confidence in myself, taught me resilience, and, perhaps most importantly, helped me rediscover self-love.
Fast forward to today: my son, now seven, has naturally developed a love for the sport. It wasn’t something I pushed on him, but I can’t deny the joy I felt when I saw his eyes light up while watching clips of NBA superstars pulling off moves that seemed almost magical to him. His love for the game has reignited my own passion, and now, basketball isn’t just my outlet—it’s our connection.
Every week, we attend my alma mater, the University of Manitoba, to watch basketball games together. We cheer for the home team, debate plays, analyze calls, and share a bond that feels as pure and unbreakable as the hardwood under the players’ feet. The joy of watching him absorb the game’s nuances, asking me questions and forming his own opinions, fills me with pride.
At home, we play together. He’s still small, so our hoop is set to a lower height, but his dreams are nothing short of lofty. He watches me shoot on a regulation-height hoop, knowing that one day—when he’s around 14, as we’ve estimated—he’ll be strong enough to take on that challenge. One day, he asked me, “How old will you be when I’m 14?”
I broke down the math for him: “Just add 30 years to whatever age you are,” I said.
With that innocent, thoughtful look only a child can muster, he told me, “Stay healthy—remember your promise to beat me when I’m 14 and you’re 44.”
Those words hit me harder than any jump shot ever could. It was more than a playful challenge; it was a reminder of what this journey has become. Basketball isn’t just a game to us—it’s a promise, a shared dream, and a testament to the love we have for each other.
I’ve come to realize that the beauty of basketball—and life—isn’t in perfection or victory. It’s in the moments of connection, the lessons we learn along the way, and the relationships we nurture through the game. Through basketball, I’ve found a way to be present for my son, to teach him the values of hard work, patience, and perseverance, and to show him that love is something you express not just through words, but through shared time and experiences.
So, when I step onto that court with him, it’s not just about shooting hoops. It’s about honoring the journey that brought me here, the game that helped me find my footing, and the promise I’ve made to my son—to stay healthy, to stay present, and to always keep playing.
One day, when he’s 14 and I’m 44, we’ll face off under a regulation-height hoop. I’ll be ready for that game—not because I want to win, but because it’s a reflection of everything we’ve built together. And no matter who scores more points, I know I’ll have already won.
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