So, we're playing basketball, only with a squishy green inflatable gertie ball. It bounces well enough, but the important part isn't the game but telling the story of the game. My son tells me that I should tell the story of Jim's Amazing Rigs, who are back from Florida to play in California. The "teamers" who are playing now are very fast. One is named Sports Naked Boy (my son, sans pants), and the other is Chuck (me, with pants). (The benefit of me playing is that we waive the rule of no ball throwing in the house. This is not spoken, but understood.)

I make the mistake of looking at the mail while S.N.B. fetches an errant bounce of mine, and I'm promptly banished from the game. Until S.N.B. realizes that he needs me to fulfill a new role, that of the basket.

I don't mind holding my arms out to form a hoop, since it gives me a chance to sit on the couch. But Sports Naked Boy is not one for swooshes. Every single shot hits the backboard first.... which, if you're following along (and if you're not, make a basketball hoop with your arms in front of you now), is, of course, my face.

Bounce, bounce, wham.

Bounce, wham.

Wham, bounce.


It's going to be a long--Wham--afternoon.