Happy Mother's Day!

To all the mothers, but especially to the one who took on the task of raising me. I love you Mom.

I can't believe I ate the whole thing

I don’t often overeat anymore. But tonight I just couldn’t help myself. We were celebrating Capt Steve’s birthday, and we ate out at the Southern Smokehouse, an all you can eat buffet with great variety and quality. It’s the kind of restaurant that once seemed created just for me, and on nights like tonight can still carry me back to that time. Here’s what I had to eat:

Strip Steak
Ribs
Fried Chicken
Barbecue Chicken
Salmon
Shrimp
Hot wings
Macaroni and cheese
Rice
Pierogis
Green beans
Collard greens
Broccoli
Black eyed peas
Yams
Plantains
Fried Okra
Mushrooms


And that’s before dessert. I haven’t been this full in a long time. Happy Birthday Steve.

It finally happened

It had to eventually.

I got dunked on. Hard. We’re talking posterized. And I never even saw it coming.

I was guarding him on the perimeter and he dribbled by to his right. I closed out as he smoothly took his steps and effortlessly elevated, like Clyde the glide, and he just kept going up, and up, and up, and what I once assumed might be a reasonably difficult lay-up turned into a powerful jam, right on me.

And you know what? It wasn’t that bad. I almost wish I could buy that poster.

Proverbs 16:31

This afternoon I went out to play some basketball. The park where I normally play was deserted except for three young kids, ranging from 6-11. Wanting a more serious game, I almost turned and went to the park a block away. But since I try to go to this park regularly to develop relationships, I stopped in to shoot around for awhile. The kids were all kids I knew, and they challenged me to a game of knockout. I never say no to a game of knockout.

Once they got tired I headed over to the other park, and eventually ended up in a game of everyman (21). The players here were older and much better, although still apparently unaccustomed to someone actually playing defense. There was no one here I had played with before, leading to the following exchange:

“From across the park, I thought you were fifteen.”

Really?

“Yeah, but then I got closer and you look like you’re fifty. How old are you anyway?”

I’m twenty eight.

“Whoa, twenty eight!”



I have no idea how to take this. I can’t quite grasp if they were amazed that I was that old and out on the court with younger guys, or that I was that young despite my celebrated gray hair. I don’t really look like I’m fifteen or fifty (again, despite the gray hair).