I have cried many times over the simple things that I will miss about him; one of those simple things is shooting free-throws with my Dad. I have actually cried numerous times about it and I am not sure why. It was a simple thing just between my Dad, my brother and me. It was something that I thought I had lost forever. Something I would miss.
Today, I went over to the house to spend time with him. We sat on the front porch and he told me about a book he read called "Chasing Daylight". It's an inspirational story of former KPMG CEO Eugene O'Kelley, completed in the three-and-a-half months between his diagnosis with brain cancer and his death in September 2005. He told me it was a haunting yet hopeful story. It spoke of how we should embrace the fragile, fleeting moments of our lives-the brief time we have with our family, our friends, and even ourselves. He was reaching out grasping at his own moments, right there beside me. He felt his own mortality. I just wanted to hold on to him and him hold on to me for as long as we could. Just one more conversation. Just one more hug. Just one more free throw. I never mentioned my longing to shoot free throws with him one last time. But I had told my husband about how it made me sad and prayed to God about it, no matter how silly that sounds.
Sitting on the porch tonight, my Dad suddenly said to me, "Do you want to shoot some free throws? Best of ten wins!" I knew he was too weak for this but I wanted to let him try. My Mom was worried but I had heard his words. This was a spiritual thing, not a physical one. So I helped him to his feet and helped him get his balance. I walked him down the front stoop stairs, careful not to let him fall. His first shot was an air ball. He couldn't shoot on a 10 foot goal anymore. That was ok with me. This from the man that I would watch shoot 40 free throws in a row without missing 1 shot when I was a kid. It was amazing. So I lowered the basket down to 8 feet. He air-balled 4 more shots. The 5th one went in, you know, the kind of shot where all you hear is the crisp sound of the net "swish." My Dad said, "I love that sound." I knew he did. I loved it too. And tears came into my eyes. I had to turn away, thinking this might be the last time I would ever play basketball with my Dad.
But I know this is not his final free throw. Someday, I will meet him at the free throw line again. 10 Foot Rim. We will take as many shots as we want and every shot will make that sound. Just me and you, Dad. I promise. This is not your final free throw. I love you.
