another five year old bites the dust
A girlfriend of mine has this kid. Cole Moody. He is a real cute kid. Five years old. In kindergarten. He is pretty short. I do not even know how short, I am not good with stuff like that. But probably about three feet tall. Built like a little tank. Short and thick. And he is a real sweet kid. I love this kid.
But I had to beat him at H.O.R.S.E.
Now this seems wrong. Most “adults” [I use that term loosely] playing basketball with a five year old would coddle the five year old. You know. Let the kid win. That is the right thing to do. The adult thing to do. Let the kid win.
Here is the thing about Cole.
He is good.
I am not making that up to save face. The kid has been playing basketball since he could crawl. Probably was making foul shots from the crib. Is the only kindergartner in history [okay I do not know a lot of kindergarten kids but take this on faith] who plays on the official school team with and against 6th graders — and that is just because he is in elementary school. If he was in high school they would induct him into the varsity team.
[Good thing they do not take five year olds in high school.]
I did not know any of this when the kid asked me to play H.O.R.S.E. and I [dumb me] said “Sure.” I mean, okay, his dad is a coach, his three older siblings are all on school teams, but he is five, right? And three feet tall. How hard could it be?
I was only outside by the hoop in the first place because I was smoking a cigarette. So there I am, cigarette in one hand, basketball in the other, wearing a flowing sweater and heels, click click click, thinking, No prob, I’ll let the kid win, right?
And then he started to beat me.
Little fu —
I mean, um, cute little tyke.
How was I supposed to know in a prior life he taught Larry Byrd how to play? Cripes.
Off went the flowing sweater. Off went the heels. Then the final indignity. I had to stub the cigarette out. Because, if you even gave the kid a shot, you were going down so hard.
I tell people it was the driveway that put me in the emergency room. But it might have been that game of H.O.R.S.E. [Okay, those twenty-five games of H.O.R.S.E.] And I did beat him. But just barely.
Right after that game I hurt my thumb. Now I can not play basketball. But he is waiting. He asks about it every time I see him. “How’s your thumb?”
Considerate little monster.
I better put up a hoop here and practice. This thumb injury cannot last forever. . . .