to tell them truth

I was no doubt bred a basketball fan, through and through. My father has had season tickets to a local DII basketball team since the early 70s, and post-infancy I was the new seat-holder next to him. I could write a book about my love of going to these games, the father-daughter bonding time, the glee in winning seasons and sadness in losing seasons.

One of the former head coaches was one of my father’s good friends while i was growing up, to the point of visiting over family vacations, 4th of July’s at our homes, and of course, we visited the bench after every home game – win or lose. The Athletic Director, Dick, was friends with my dad and as I grew older and started attending more road games on weekends with my father and the other guys in our season ticket-holder section, I got to know Dick’s wife. 

Irony of ironies, I can’t remember her name. Why is that ironic? Oh, because she can’t remember mine. Well, she thinks she does. For the last 12 years, she has called me Michelle. But I used to feel so guilty correcting her that I just let the lie maintain. My dad and I laugh each Christmas now when I head home for the basketball tournament held just before New Years as “Michelle” and Dick’s wife catch up. 

So last night after the game, my dad called me and said to call back. I assumed it was to discuss the box scores. Nope.

When I first called, he said, “Hey Michelle!”
“Huh?”
“Are you coming home for Christmas?”
“What? Of course I am.”
“Ok, I’ll tell Mr. D’s wife.”
“What are you talking about.”
Commence parental giggles. “Haha, Mr. D’s wife wanted to know if ‘Michelle’ was coming home for Christmas.”

And that my friends, is a group of people from my 3rd home. I kinda miss Gannon basketball games! A LOT!

raise the tree – trent dabbs

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One response to “to tell them truth

  1. very funny! I have a former prof who calls me Kevin, and and Uncle who used to call me David. And one time, when I was praying for lunch when my aunt was at the house, I couldn’t remember her name. I stopped in the middle of my prayer, looked at her, and said, “What’s you name again?” When I got the answer, I continued: “God, bless Aunt Sharon.”

    The sad part? I was 14 at the time, not 4 as you would expect.

    Thanks for your story 😉

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