Watching my child play basketball is like having the ghost of Christmas Past show me shadows from 35 years ago.
I adored the game and everything about it. I spent every spare minute bouncing, dribbling and swooping. I spent more time at Suns games in the '70s than I did in the classroom.
Now I spend time at sons' games.
My boys aren't as crazy about the game as I was. That's OK. But if you knew me then and had fallen into a Rip Van Winkle stupor for 35 years, you could have looked at the court today and sworn that was me out there. Anders may not be spitting, but he has my image.
