These are things my father and I can talk about:
1). the weather, driving in the weather,
2). girls’ high school basketball.
My father: How was the weather on the way up here?
Me: Not that bad.
My father [fifteen seconds later]: The girls are looking pretty good this year.
Me: Yeah?
My father: That Polkowski girl’s a real horse.
By which he means she’s a real workhorse.
By which he means as a compliment.
As in: she’s a tough-nosed, hard worker who rebounds well and can take a beating and still make her shots and get to the free-throw line.
You might be thinking that a 80-year-old man fixated on high school girls in shorts and tank tops is creepy.
I like to think my father came to feminism late in life.
He doesn’t go for all that razzle-dazzle, slam dunks, between the legs, no look passes from the boys.
He believes in fundamentals.
Proper chest passes, screens, footwork, motion offense, working without the ball.
My father believes in young women who’d be flattered to be called work horses.
Or anyway: this is what we talk about when we’re not talking about love or the weather or the drive home in the weather.
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Photo by Fabian Burghardt on Unsplash
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