My husband and our son just returned from Tubby Smith’s father- son ball camp. Justin walks in the house with a big smile and an autographed basketball. His father limps behind, carrying a tube of ointment for sore muscles.
“So how was camp?” I ask.
“It was sooo cool, Mom. I got to see J.P.’s locker and I got my picture made with all the players.”
“And how did you like camp?” I ask my husband right before he collapses on the sofa.
“It was great. The fathers did all the drills the kids did.”
Apparently the drills didn’t affect the sons the same way it did the fathers. An hour later Bill is snoozing on the couch but Justin is still going strong.
“Hey, Mom,” he says as he dribbles the ball between his legs, “come outside and I’ll show you what I learned at camp.”
The dinner dishes are still on the table. The house is a mess. And I still have a column to write for Kentucky Living.
“Might as well,” I answer, “I haven’t accomplished much around here today anyway.”
Justin smiles at me. “If you come outside and watch me play ball you will have accomplished making me happy.”
If he doesn’t make it to the NBA there’s always politics. The kid has a way with words.