And1 Plus Two
How I Beat My Father At A Game of 21
After the divorce, my father came up with a way to keep us connected that would involve just him and I. Being significantly older than my brothers had its advantages. Much of the post-divorce world in the early stages are not memories of recollection for them, but they are for me. I do not recall if he suggested basketball or if I did, but we decided that we would play a game of 21 every other Saturday.
My dad, in his prime, was a beast on the court and the field. He played both basketball and football and had a presence about him that ensured victory. He would tell me, “I was a big boy. Them clowns couldn’t move me, baby.” And he was right. My dad was, in fact, a big boy, but quick and sure of himself. When I was twelve-years-old, he was thirty years of age. Not exactly old, not too young, but old enough for his body to begin strumming up minor aches and pains.
We agreed that if he won, I would have to spend a little more time with him during his weekends. Oftentimes when we were all hauled off to his place, I kept to myself. I did not want to socialize with him or my soon-to-be stepmom. I shelled up, but on the court, it was a different story. On the court, I wished my dad and I could remain there forever.
He taught me how to perfect my finger-roll, how to gain a better stance when I set myself up for a three. He showed me how to spin a basketball on my index finger then take the ball while it was still spinning down to the middle and ring fingers. He showed me how to dribble nearly as perfect with my left hand as I could with my right hand (I am right-handed.) One thing that I loved to do was crossover and my dad instructed me on how to “break ankles" and use that as well as my quickness as advantages since I was considerably small.
The agreement if I won was two scoops of mint chocolate chip ice cream in a waffle cone from Baskin-Robbins and his time and his time only. For what seemed like hundreds of Saturdays, my dad ran over me, through me, above me, and shattered me on the court. He would not let me cry about any of the losses. He would say, “Tremaine, I see how you play them youngins in your neighborhood. What’s stopping you?! Play ball, girl!” And every other Saturday, I’d give what I thought was my all and I would still lose.
Fast-forward to when I was fifteen-years-old and my dad remarried. The arrangement was still in play. Every other Saturday afternoon was our time to play basketball. I do not know what happened this one Saturday, but my dad faltered a few times. He missed a couple of free throws that were surefire but bounced in and out. His crossover was not weak, but it was not as strong. I stole the ball from him several times and made a number of 3-pointers. All the while, I remained focused on gaining twenty-one points and my ice cream.
It was not my dad’s game. It wasn’t. It was the fact that I finally realized that there was no chance of him and my mom getting back together again. I had to let myself let my dad go in a major way and with that came a fire in me that I did not have during any other game. There was no boiling motivational factor to attempt to win, but this particular game, I was unstoppable. The moment I made the final shot, I gloated so heavily that my dad couldn’t do anything but smile. At thirty-three, he watched his oldest channel her anger and acquired pain and use it to the best of her abilities.
He watched me soar.
I remember saying, “Okay, dad. We don’t have to play anymore. I got my win.” My dad roared out a bountiful laughter that shook the park. I laughed along with him. I had endured so many losses that this one win was enough. I did not need anymore. My dad kept his word. We went straight to Baskin-Robbins and I peeked over the counter with a beaming smile and yelled, “two scoops of your mint chocolate chip in a waffle cone, please!” He ordered his favorites; a scoop of pistachio and a scoop of butter pecan in a cup.
I never thought ice cream could taste so good.
©Tremaine L. Loadholt, 2018. All Rights Reserved
