50 years...

I did very personal, important work this week. Sunday, I memorialized the 50th wedding anniversary of my best friend's parents. I made pictures of all kinds, including video, but mostly I watched and, in the end, was amazed and wiped away very honest and heartfelt tears.

What must it be like to have been the significant other to another, married or otherwise, for a half century? Having none myself, I am terminally curious about long term relationships. A 50th anniversary, I guess, is the mother of all long term relationships. In three years, my own parents will reach that milestone. I will host the same party, recognizing an achievement I cannot fathom.

The anniversary was something to catch the eye and heart. The fancy invitations, the family pictures, the wonderful decorations, food and the incredible power of a gathering of friends and family that works in the mysterious ways of generations to defeat time, age, fraility and even death itself. My best friend's mama cried until her eyes were swollen. Fifty years. I was happy for her. The oxymoron of tears.

They are not my family but they are close. I watched their bond, their sincerity, the essence of their family. It makes forever seem achievable. Perhaps that is why I cried along. I want so much to believe that, it brings tears.

I somehow did not think to cry on Monday when we convened for the first game of the Regional Elementary Tournament. Forgive me for always equating life with sport but, to me, that's what it is. There is no difference between the routine effort of living together 50 years and playing your heart out in a single a featured contest. In my book, knowing sport and being a member of the team of your heart are a vital part of life. If you persist for one season, giving it everything you have, you have tried. I am a disciple of complete and focused effort. If you parlay that trying into life, which is the basic foundation of sport, then you may be successful. If you manage to extend that effort, that heart, for 50 years, then you are a winner.

The points on the scoreboard determine the rankings, perhaps, but never tell the full tale of the game. And so it was with this game. Fifty-six long seconds left to play in the bottom quarter and Ann has never seen the bench. Her face is red. The score is 17 to 17 and she has played the next definitive game of her young life, even winning standing applause from the crowd come to see the OPPOSING team. She has two fouls, 10 of the 17 points, a half-dozen assists, twice that many rebounds and feels nothing but the possibility of forever. I know this because I have been there, in that buzzed part of the zone. She isn't thirsty or tired, she is poised to create outcome.

I crowd the stadium railing, taking more pictures. There is a lull in the action, a time-out, with only 53 seconds on the clock. The court hums, calling all players. One of the refs is a a blond fellow about my age with a too-long crew cut. He says, "Have you seen anything like Number 34 this young?"

Well, first of all, zebra, the number is temporary. She is supposed to wear 24 but the existing jerseys were all too small. If and when we get serious about this, then she will wear 24, my basketball number and the basketball number my father wore. If and when. I thank him anyway and he remarks that that he knew she must be mine. Because she looks like me. Hmmmmm. Never heard that one before.

Fifty seconds and Ann's team has this match at least in control. Our ball and time to spend. But Ann's best friend makes a bad pass and the red team picks it off. We fall back into defense, suddenly vulnerable. Ann is playing the best girl on the opposing team one-to-one. All evening this girl, strangely sporing my number, has bobbed and weaved, sometimes faded Ann and has sometimes been faded. Thirty seconds and the red number 24 dribbles above the key. I thought she was wasting time until I realized that sometimes luck and fate and determination contribute more to learning than deliberation.

Twenty-two seconds and Ann backs off, daring her opponent to drive. How can you be 12 and know this much about life? The risk failed. Number 24 red takes a deep seat and fires from above the top of the key. At this age, only her daddy and her teammates will kiss her good night. In the future, things will be different.

A three-point shot, clean through the net like a whisper to win the game, 17-20. Damn.

My kid didn't blame herself. She simply saw it as a game well played, well-thought out and well lost. Knowing the nature of winning and losing, I smiled. She has what it takes to make it 50 years, no matter what the game.