Shea Serrano took his twin 6-year-old sons to a week of basketball camp. This is what transpired.
Each Summer, I enroll the boys (“the boys” = my sons, not my testicles, though the transitive relationship among the sets does not escape me) in a basketball camp. It’s fun enough for them, and that’s neat, but mostly the reason I enjoy putting them in there is because, I mean, have you ever spent a summer with twin boys before? That s–t is horrendous. They’re everywhere, always. It’s like hanging out with Sonic the Hedgehog, except there are two of them, and rather than trying to collect rings they spend a good portion of their time trying to sneak punch you in the cock.
But anyway, the positive: The boys like basketball. We play it on screens (I bought an old XBOX from a guy on Twitter that turned out to be the assistant to Clutch, the Houston Rockets mascot, which is a job that I didn’t even know existed until I met him) and we play it in real life. (They play with some weak ass rules though. Like, they just start making things up if they’re losing. I got called for a violation once because I was “too big.”) And that’s dope. I’m glad we’re able to share that. I shared/share it with my dad, and they’ll (hopefully) be the same way.
But so the camp is a dual purpose thing then. It keeps their tiny brains happy during the long days of summer, and it allows me to rest my brain from being on steady Cockpunch Defense, which is an especially arduous and heavy effort (anyone that’s ever hung out with a group of drunk white guys knows). The camp is five days long. The boys went last week. I sat in the stands and took notes like a total creeper.
Monday, August 5, 2013 the year of our Lord
The last sport the boys played was soccer. A microcosm: Each game, Boy A tried to rip the femurs out of any legs dumb enough to exist near him. He is an especially competitive kid. Anytime he’s ever lost at something, he’s followed it with a gigantor-scream, wiped the tears from his face, then demanded a rematch. Boy B, by contrast, spent almost all of the second game of the season trying to give a Cheeto to a butterfly. That’s just how they live.
They were the same way today at basketball camp. A attempted to win EVERYTHING, and B walked around telling people that his new shoes made him faster than a puma. I guess technically he could’ve been telling the truth, but I don’t know. Really, I don’t even know what a puma is. I think it might be a made up animal. I’m not the king of pumas, bro.
The most exciting moment: During a rebounding exercise, Boy A was pitted against a tall, lanky (probably) 8-year-old. It seemed like an automatic L for him. And at first it was. The bigger kid chased the ball with a proper swiftness after it caromed off the rim, simply out-quicking A. Their second going though, A did a flat-out Dennis Rodman dive and got there first. One of the instructors gave him a high five. A didn’t even smile. He’s a murderer.