March Madness

I like the idea of being a good father. It seems goal-worthy and aspirational. I want to be like Phil Dunphy on Modern Family, all up in my kids’ business telling bad jokes and inventing family activities with unbridled enthusiasm. In theory, that’s the kind of father I want to be. In practice, I think I’m too easily annoyed.

I played hoops in the driveway with all four of my kids this weekend. We are not a naturally athletic family, and nothing confirms that like a game of H-O-R-S-E. I came walking up the driveway just as they were finishing one round, so they invited me to play as they started over — everyone with a clean slate. I eagerly agreed, feeling proud of my dad-ness and the opportunity for some quality time.

My kids refused to find a spot fifteen or so feet from the basket and take a jump shot. In fact, nothing they did was even remotely basketball-like. Nick began the trick shot parade. “You start here, you can take two big steps toward the basket, then you shoot while still in the air. And no run-up.” What? Aren’t we shooting hoops? Why all the rules? Joey’s turn. “You have to stand here on one foot, and shoot with one hand, and the ball can touch nothing but net.” Andrew stood under the basket, and tried a hook shot, and called that it couldn’t hit the backboard or rim. Cathryn explained to me that they outlawed the “punch shot.” I gave her a confused look, so she explained that…