Early Sunday evening, after I finished writing a wrap-up of the Brad Smith Memorial Poker Run on Oklahoma’s Grand Lake, I poured myself a strong Father’s Day drink and watched the last two quarters of the NBA Finals on television with my 20-year-old son, Alex. My 16-year-old daughter, Anna Rose, popped in and out of her room between Face Time chats with some boy I hope I never meet—he doesn’t know this yet, but he really doesn’t want to meet me, either.
And I realized as I watched the Spurs demolish the Heat with my son, a journalism student at the University of Oregon and the biggest and most knowledgeable sports fan I know, that my kids were enjoying something Brad Smith’s youngest son and daughter will never know again. That thought made me catch my breath.
Photo courtesy/copyright Autumn Terry.