Bouncing a ball on a hardwood floor...dribbling... is tough. If you don't think so, just go to a basketball clinic for seven and eight year olds. I couldn't do it when I was seven, I couldn't do it very well when I was 17.
"Now switch hands..."the coach shouted. What, dribble from the other side? Again, a sloppy transition in my day, but not so with the kids I watched on Saturday.
Asher finished his basketball "camp" this week and it was a delight to watch him...and the other kids, improve their skills. They listened, they worked and they improved.
"Now, let's do some three on one..." again the coach calling the instructions as he challenged threesomes with his big hands, long arms and even loner legs. The little guys (and girls) were up to the challenge as they doggedly pursued the ball to the other basket to make a shot, which most of the time went in. What energy. What determination.
"Look at all these adults," the coach again, this time waving his arms in the vicinity of the adults lined up to take pictures. "These people, your parents and grand parents, all care about you. Tell them you love them. You can't say that enough."
With that the 3/4 size basketballs came out...one for each kid...and the dribbling started again this time down the carpeted hallway on their way home, medals in hand.
Fun. One of the joys of grandparenting.
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