Hope, more squeeze than a hug

I felt a hand grasp my thigh, and everything in my body -- including my breath -- tightened.

In that instant, my son had the ball, and, without hesitation, he had launched it toward the basket in a one-armed hook that had no business making it to the hoop, let alone through the net. The ball, closer than it had a natural right to be, glanced off the rim and bounced back into the boxed defense of the visiting team.

Another kid dribbled it away.

My neighbor in the bleachers - another team mother whose son has long ago proven his ability to dunk - let go of my leg as if it were hope itself.

"So close," she said without fanfare. It's a tone I instantly recognized as one that was ready, willing, and able to celebrate if there had been a swish.

I nod and start to breathe again. There are worse things in life than never scoring a basket during a game though I would never use those exact words with him.

In the years I've been watching him play, I've seen the other boys gain speed and the precise amount of aggression necessary to get ahead of the play and change the direction. They charge in and foul out.

My son lopes along to his position and adjusts his hair.

I elbow his father, sitting on the other side of me, as he shouts the things everyone shouts: "Hands up ... Get ahead of them ... Turn around."

It's no more helpful than me letting out the sign of pent up breath the moment the ball ricochets off the rim into the hands of the other team. I keep reminding myself that disappoint FOR them sounds the same as disappointment IN them.

It is best to try and be silent.

His need to make points in a game has a direct correlation with the time he spends in the driveway practicing free throws. My need to point out the cobwebs hanging from the net usually has the opposite effect of what I intended.

Silence is hard.

There will be more games. More chances to be in the right place at the right time and make his shot. He doesn't need me to say the words "It will happen," though I say them anyway. Filling the air of the car with the participation trophy of encouragement.

The truth is, I already marvel at my kids' ability to try new things or stick with them no matter how futile it all seems. His skills move - not by leaps and bounds - but in increments.

When I was his age, I never gave any activity in which I didn't immediately excel time or attention enough to improve. I always quit post haste.

This kid clings to every moment of half-hearted, trying with his game face on.

None of which will change two games later when the basket he finally makes slips through the net silently.

The crowd didn't go wild. The team didn't hoist him onto their shoulders. It was just a little bump in a game they wouldn't win.

But the kid didn't care. He quietly celebrated by sitting smack dab in the middle of the bench, leaning back with a huge grin ... and adjusting his hair. He had made his basket, and it counted.