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I haven't missed a single one of my son's basketball games since he was in middle school. We've done it all. Scholastic, travel, AAU, you name it. He's been to camps all over the Northwest, and I've even met some of the big name college and pro coaches. Basketball runs deep in both my husband's family and my own. We live it all year long, and we love every minute of it.
It's my son's senior year in high school. We're playing our crosstown rivals for the last time before he goes to play college basketball at a Division II school. I recognize you. We've played against you for years on different teams, never with you. You're a fierce competitor and a fierce rival.
Tonight, you are on fire, setting a school record for your school. You beat us in overtime, knocking us out of the playoffs. I can't take my eyes off of you. Even though it's one of my son's last games, I watch you. Even when you're on the bench. And you notice.
After the loss, my husband and son don't want to go to their regular post-game establishment, and I tell them that I'll meet them at home after I run by the grocery store. When they leave, I find your car and wait there, nervously.
"Hey. Good game."
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Let's set up the scene rather than jump right in. I am picky, so impress me. We can discuss our ages in messages.
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