one shining moment.

 {the fsu men's basketball team, circa 1972... the year they went to the championship, with the padre as their manager}

There are so many things my parents have passed down to me. A love for the beach, a need for breakfast each morning, a desire for higher education, an appreciation for local foods… and an understanding of the thing we call sports.

Please do not confuse my understanding with ability.

I am no athlete.

But here is what happens when a hippie and a jock meet, fall in love, and procreate:

Me.

A nerd who reads four books a month and also happens to enjoy a good game of basketball.

Wives, I don’t offer much marriage advice. (Mostly because I don’t have any.)

But I will say that being able to sit through an athletic event without complaining — and, what’s more, while calling the occasional play — has only improved our already-blessed marriage.

I like going to football games with Jordan.

I like eating hot dogs as the player rounds third.

I like staying up until the wee hours watching a no. five seed come this close to unprecedented victory.

I like watching SportsCenter on occasion.

I like the fact that I bet with my husband each March (even though I consistently lose).

I like that my husband doesn’t have to go hang out with the guys to enjoy the game — although he most certainly can if he so wishes.

The point is, my hippie mother knows next to nothing about sports. (But not, I will say, for a lack of trying.)

My jock father, though, made sure that ignorance didn’t make it to the next generation.

And I am grateful.

Because last night, as I watched “One Shining Moment,” I couldn’t help but think of him and all the late nights Chet and I would were permitted to sit, curled up on the couch, far past our bedtimes, just to watch the white nets be cut down from their perch 10 feet above the court. I remembered how those first few notes of the tournament's anthem would begin to play, and my dad would (and I bet still did) turn up the volume until I thought our eardrums would burst, informing us, “This is what the tournament is all about.”

So, thanks, Dad.

It’s true, neither of your children really became athletes (though, again, not for lack of trying).

But we sure do love the game.

And as we both know, that might be what’s most important anyway.