Firm and smooth, it left my hands and returned, with a steady thum, thum, thum. The day was ending and there I stood, as the sky was becoming dimmer and as the last of the sun’s rays peaked behind the horizon. I once again lofted the ball in the air and it mockingly bounced off the rim and thrust itself back to me. I gripped the ball. I felt the familiarity of its shape and the hominess of it. No matter where I went, no matter how many times I left it, I found myself standing here before my competitor, trying to get the ball through its narrow rim. How many of us try so hard, in sheer determination, to prove to ourselves that we indeed can do this? Years ago, was my dad in this same position, holding the same ball, with my finger tips overlapping where his once were? Holding this new information I felt the skill of him and the strength he had held in him and I knowingly shot the ball. I once again missed the shot, and when the ball found its way back to me, I grasped the ball and promised myself to come back tomorrow.