I was about 19. I was playing in a pickup basketball game in my father's neighborhood when, for the first time in my life, he decided to attend one of my games. Sigh. It would have to be in basketball.
Still, I appreciated his encouragement. "Move your ass, John! Jesus Christ, it's like you're running through sand! Stop passing, you pussy! Shoot! Shoot! Ha ha ha. What a brick."
After 20 minutes of such scintillating wit, we lost several players. I pointed to my 50 year old father, standing on the baseline. "Him." Everyone agreed.
Because everyone but Dad knew what was coming. (Perhaps if you had come to one of my games, Dad, you too would have known better than to whip off your shirt and trot on to the court without a care in the world.) He insisted on guarding me, naturally, and it wasn't long before I was going up for a rebound and felt him trying to go up my back.
"MY EYE!" he screamed, cupping his face like his eye might fall out of its socket. "MY FUCKING EYE!"
In his haste to leave, he left his mangled eyeglasses lying on the court. My elbow felt better the next day. His glasses and cracked eye socket, not so much.
Dad never went to one of my games again.