Delight Number Two

I wrote yesterday about Ross Gay’s The Book of Delights and enjoyed writing my own delight so much that I am adding one more today. If you haven’t read his wonderful book yet, with an essay a day for a year (a little less, but still, what a goal!), I think you would really enjoy it!

I am shooting baskets in the driveway and worrying a little what the rest of the neighborhood thinks as my whole family takes turns playing a drawn-out version of HORSE, tweaked by my daughter, who doesn’t really like basketball and plays mostly under coercion. I’m not any good but I can hit a shot every once in a while, especially when the goal is lowered because we’re all, with the exception of my husband, short. He gets a kick out of dunking every now and then.

My son wants to try trick shots, and when he hits one, he bends double, beats his chest, and runs across the driveway, mouth wide in a silent scream. He plays in the NBA; he’s the star of the game, of every game, and I can’t stop watching  him. A part of me envies that easy abandon, that fearless confidence and joy in his own performance.

HORSE ends, and my daughter wanders off to find lightning bugs. My husband goes inside. My son wants to play one on one and demands that I guard him. I’m tired and want to go inside too, so I halfheartedly jog in front of him and then chase him to the basket. I’m short but still taller than he is, and it feels weird to try to block a child. He hits it, cheers for himself, and then fixes his eyes on me.

“Did you do your very best at guarding?” he wants to know, and, laughing, I have to admit that I did not. He cracks a grin, but he is still serious about this. “You always need to do your best.”

We run the play again, and this time, when I do block his shot, I should bend double and run the driveway beating my chest, but I know he would not be impressed.