My mom refuses to discuss last night’s game. You can read about it here.
After she came home, we ran into our neighbor James. He asked, “How are you?”
Cathy: “Depressed. The Storm Lost.”
James: “Umm…I don’t follow sports. Is this a tragedy? And what about Gracie here? She doesn’t care about winning or losing.”
Actually, I do. You should see me at the dog park. I dive for balls and run with them. If I were a basketball player, I’d grab the ball, don’t let anyone else get it and run like hell. And then I’d pass to someone taller who could shoot.
My mom thinks the Storm fought valiantly. She thinks Sue Bird played brilliantly: Sue turns away from
whoever’s guarding her, just like I do when three dogs are trying to steal my favorite stick.
After Sue Bird, Cathy admires Yolanda Griffith. She likes Tanisha Wright’s improbable scores, Camille Little’s solid consistency and Sheryl Swoopes’s smoothness. She loved the last reguar season game, when the coach turned the game over to the bench players (but the Storm still beat Atlanta).
You have to realize my mom didn’t know what a point guard was ten years ago. Now she’s a fan. That’s nice…but that’s about the same time she got the First Dog. And that’s how I ended up here. That’s what’s really important.