“Can I come rebound for you?” My father often asked when he came home from work.

“YES!” I’d shout as my scrawny seven year old body sprung to life and sprinted out the door to find my basketball. Out we went to the basketball hoop in our driveway. I’d shoot (or heave when younger), he snared the rebound and pass it crisply back to me.

Shoot. Rebound. Pass.

It was an assembly-line-like process that over the years morphed into a subtle dance of movement and connection. The ball’s dull thud on the asphalt and the harsh collision of ball and rim were the only sounds. Those times held more than sparse conversation and hundreds of shots.

There was space, added dimension to our relationship that went beyond the repetitive rhythm of reminding that is often the primary language between parent and child. It might have been this space where I felt most affirmed - where I knew my dad not only loved me but liked me.

I occasionally wondered why we never played one-on-one. Didn’t he get bored of the constant passing? Back then I chalked it up to his creaking knees and my “deadly” jumpshot that would forever put him to shame. But there seems a wise intentionality in my father’s decision to serve and not star.

Passing in basketball is easily recognized as selfless, but it also carries belief in the recipient. Someone passes the ball not only for the good of the team, but because they trust and believe in the recipient’s ability to use it well. There’s a tendency for passing to stop when players miss shots or turn the ball over.

Yet my dad’s passes kept coming.

Despite my current streak of missed shots, the passes kept coming.
Despite the fight I got in with my brother earlier that day, the passes kept coming.
Despite my insecurities exposed at school that day, the passes kept coming.

Shoot. Rebound. Pass. Or maybe what really was happening was: Ask. Hold. Affirm.

I was borderline addicted to basketball. I wore basketball shorts in freezing temperatures and my ball was smoothed slick and gripless by hours of practice. Practice produced skill and many offered compliments, but few joined me in it. My father did more than offer praise from a distance, he engaged it with me. He delighted in my delight.

I loved basketball - its surprising mix of athleticism, wits, and angles that at its best was more art than competition. And as is the case with any art, my heart was opened by it. My dad saw that opening, and entered it.

Whose delight have you seen, joined, and delighted in recently?

Jesse French
Restoration Project Executive Director