Requiem for a Plasterer (Fulfilling Fathers Wishes‪)‬

My father wanted me to play ball. My poor father, his arms bleached by lime, his stucco encrusted work clothes. When I was a little kid, he attached a basket to the side of the garage over the flagstone patio, and when he came home late in the afternoon covered in plaster, he always waved from the cab of the old Chew track loaded with scaffolding. He loved to imagine me practicing for hours. He knew someday I'd play for UCLA. I knew better. I played in high school, but not much. Even though I could shoot the lights out, I was thin and slow. I'd get at most five minutes a half, and then only if I matched up with a slug like myself. I usually took two or three shots a game. "Why doesn't the coach use you more?" my father often asked. Sometimes he would break away from a job and show up at practice. I'd see him standing in the shadow of the bleachers next to the entrance and trying to look inconspicuous in his dirty clothes. If I made a basket, he'd smile so wide his mouth would stretch like a clown's. I imagined him talking to himself or cheering aloud. He was used to being an embarrassment. He didn't care.