Today was Hanna’s third basketball practice.

After negotiating her extra large team jersey atop a bedazzled, pink, tank, we made our way into the gym.

We tried to keep the baby occupied by pointing out things like the big clock, score board, other kids, her sister’s shirt dragging on the ground like a nightgown and quickly realized, we forgot her books, toys and “merkers” for drawing “peeturs” and would spend the next 1.5 hours cursing our mistake.

The final ten minutes of practice is reserved for a three on three game. It became painfully clear the other two athletes on Hanna’s team had played the game before, knew the rules of dribbling, blocking, running and shooting a ball at a net. Hanna seemed distracted by an uncomfortable bead poking through her jersey and the other girls used every opportunity they could to pass the ball to each other rather than choosing Hanna. Thankfully, neither of us knew the rules of the game so we weren’t bothered by the girls in-the-know exemplifying all that is right with the sport—throwing the ball in the direction of a teammate who knows what they’re doing.

At one point Greg encouraged, “Come on Hanna. Be an outlet!” and perhaps a gentle knee squeeze wasn’t warranted but I was combining my fear of not understanding the game with Hanna’s lack of interest in dribbling with my confusion over what the hell he meant by being an outlet. Did he mean she should stay “plugged in” to the flow of the game? Was he referring to an outlet mall? Cheap, free, stay open?

Somehow, late in the game, I’m not going to suggest this was a beat-the-buzzer kind of moment, the ball rolled awkwardly off of someone’s pretty, sparkly court shoes and arrived at Hanna’s feet. She bent to pick it up and in an effort to release the ball, thus relieving herself of possession as quickly as humanly possible, threw it in the direction of the net. IT.  WENT. IN!!!! The crowd (Me, Greg, Ellie and Chloe) went wild!

Hanna ran over as though the game was over (it wasn’t) and delightedly squealed, “That was sick!” Which I think means rad. That or she might be coming down with something.

Proud Mommy—it really was sick. Like totally dude. Gnarly you might say.