est. 1981


In Life on June 13, 2011 at 10:48 am

My dad taught me to play basketball. We played HORSE and Around the Key, and fought it out in games of 21. He coached my team when I was growing up, and we faithfully followed our local team which finished their first season the spring I was born: the Dallas Mavericks. We frequently attended games at Reunion Arena, buying nosebleed seats and then sneaking down when people in the more expensive seats didn’t show up. He waited with me to get Derek Harper’s autograph on a game-day giveaway tank top, and took me to draft day parties on the court. We fumed at the Kidd / Jackson / Mashburn fiasco, and joked about hunting down the Mavericks War Room when they selected Cherokee Parks in ’95. Our attention wavered when I entered high school, and by the time they made it to the ’06 Finals, he couldn’t follow the games anymore. I never got to talk to him about that year’s collapse against the Heat, or the next year’s humiliation against Golden State. I followed this year’s playoffs as best I could, fearing the stress and heartbreak that could come from another loss. Despite my fears I made myself watch last night’s game, if for no other reason than the fact that I could not watch it with him. It was an amazing game, equal parts stressful, exciting, gut wrenching and satisfying: a fitting end. I wish he’d been able to see it.

  1. Many thanks for this article and for your website on the whole. I’ve just subscribed to your news feed.

  2. This piece was cogent, well-wretitn, and pithy.

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