BEHIND THE BASKET

On the Saturday before basketball season, Dad, Maggie, and I would cut old shipping boxes and paint them into posters. Almost every year, we would paint flames onto megaphones and foam fingers, since they would wear out fast. One time we dipped a whole basketball into orange paint and then made a sun with hot glue and Maggie’s tiny tutu. We kept a corner in the garage for the props as well as some odds and ends Dad might like for the Suns games. He was the only one who went, and his seat was right behind the basket, where he would sit every single home game. Anyone who had attended a Suns game recognized Dad as that guy. When word spread he was an oral surgeon, the fans started calling him Doc. Maggie and I watched the games on TV as much as we were allowed, but Mom couldn’t stand Dad’s intensity.

Maggie and I grew up and moved out. I married. Ten years later, I divorced right before Maggie introduced us to Doug, who was fresh out of rehab. We all objected to Doug, Dad most of all. They eloped, and we stopped hearing from her. Then Dad’s props became increasingly bizarre—a purple and orange umbrella, a giant cheese wheel, a dummy dressed in a small jersey and a pair of jeans. After a white elephant Christmas party last year, Mom put a rubber chicken in Dad’s pile in the garage. When he swung it around at the game, an opposing player complained at the free-throw line. For weeks afterward, Dad stalked the aisles of the dollar stores and toy departments. He even asked me to make an Amazon order for him. During the following games, he held posters that fans couldn’t make sense of: “Where are you?” “I miss you.” At the last home game of the season, Dad lugged three hundred rubber chickens into the arena and gave them to the entire section. That night, Dad was banned by the NBA.

When he gave me the rest of his tickets, I gasped. It would have been unforgettable to see Chris Paul so close, even if I had to behave like I was at the ballets my ex-wife dragged me to. But Dad said, “Scalp them.” So I sold them online and invited him to watch the playoffs at my bachelor pad. We ate on my sagging couch, we talked about how the Suns were the top team, and we yelled at the refs even though they couldn’t hear us. In the third quarter, the Mavs were shooting at what used to be Dad’s basket. The Suns were ahead by thirteen, so I was at liberty to get more snacks. While the popcorn was in the microwave, I heard a crash and rushed to the living room. Dad’s mug lay shattered on the floor, yet he was standing, staring at the TV. The camera showed Luka Dončić from behind for a free throw.

Maggie wore an old-style jersey and a purple wig. She held up a sign made of a shipping box: “Forgive?”

Elizabeth Smith is a freelance editor and writer with a bachelor's degree in English from Brigham Young University. She recently co-founded a literary blog, where you can find more of her writing: thepensieve.site. She currently lives in Utah with her husband and daughters.