It was always in the cards...

Jenna was just one of those kids who never, ever did anything that she wasn't told to do (physically speaking - verbally she says things that she shouldn't say a lot). She never climbed out of the crib, never attempted to scale a baby gate, never went where she wasn't supposed to go. When my youngest was about a year old, I realized that where one excelled verbally, the other would excel physically. And, holy wow, that is a complete understatement.

The Hannimal (whose name was earned, not ascribed lightly, mind you) taught Jenna (3 years her senior) how to climb over a gate. The Hannimal taught Jenna all kinds of things that never entered Jenna's realm of thought to try.

Unfortunately, Jenna's ambition was found almost immediately to exceed her ability.

Herein lies the problem.

When I had to teach Jenna how to jump, I knew that we weren't looking at a future WNBA player, future Women's World Cup competitor, or even a worthy table tennis adversary. As far as I can tell, though we keep trying, sports and all things athletic fit Jenna about as well as period pieces fit Tom Cruise. That is to say, not well and with much nausea.

As we ready ourselves for the third try in a series of athletic related endeavors, we must ask ourselves why? Why does my lovely daughter insist on being completely pumped for basketball season even though I know that she is going to draw fouls with the same ability that Georgia O'Keefe has of making flowers look downright dirty. Because once we draw the foul, we get the opportunity to put the ball through the hoop - while everyone is watching...

I woke up in a cold sweat this morning with the realization that my daughter could, very well, ruin one of my greatest pleasures in life - the sport of basketball. It's possible that after stomaching an entire season of 6 year olds playing this sport that I might never recover. I may never be able to enjoy the sound of the swoosh again. Could it be?

Part of me thinks that I must stop this from happening. I must sign her up for singing lessons, or tap dancing lessons, or art class instead. However, I cannot.

For I know, deep down inside, that I will always be able to enjoy the sound of the swoosh. The swoosh will always bring me back to the empirical love for the sport.

And, of course, the good news is if Jenna's basketball team is anything like her soccer team from last fall, I won't have to worry about getting tired of hearing the swoosh.