I have a confession to make. I used to hate basketball. Even as a kid I didn’t like it. At 5’8” I was always asked if I played. I’d try not to roll my eyes. Yes, I’m tall, I’d think. But tall does not equal enjoying running back and forth chasing a ball.
My stepfather loved watching it, but that didn’t make me like it any more. And my second husband also loved watching it, but that only made me come to loathe the sound of sneakers screeching on polished wood.
Heck, the only time I’d ever gotten excited about a basketball game was when my dad told me he had two tickets to see the Dream Team play in Barcelona in the 1992 Olympics (he was living in Madrid at the time, so we were within driving distance). I didn’t even mind not going to the game (there were four of us, but only two tickets). I just wanted to go to the Olympic Village. But my dad, the ever-cautious Marine, didn’t want two college-aged girls wandering the streets of Barcelona alone while he took my younger sister to the game. So, we never made it to Barcelona. I’m still grumpy about that one.
And I still didn’t like basketball.
Until last year.