I LOVE Sports.

I stood facing my dad, the rest of the kids waited scattered across the yard. He held up four fingers pressed against his chest, so only I could see. I moved into position and he said in his low, rough voice, "Hut hut hut!" and I took off toward the house following the line of the flower bed at the east end of the yard. I reached the rose bushes and turned and clumsily caught the football he tossed at me. Then I took off across the yard. I had to make it to the neighbors carport without any of the kids touching me with both of their hands. I made it just past the Apricot tree and my brother got me and I fell down gasping for breath. I gave the ball to my tackler and he headed off to the corner of the yard where Dad waited to give the next play.

In the front yard again. Now, I am with the scattered group of kids. Only this isn't football now. It is a new afternoon, with a similar theme. Dad stands in front of the flower bed. In his hand is a frisbee. We in the yard, move around vying for the best position. Dad lets the frisbee sail high into the air above us. We scramble around. There is my sister, her hand out reaching higher than mine. She grasps the frisbee and at the same moment lifts one foot, making it a one legged catch, three points. Dad says, "Well done! You have fifteen points now." I only have 5 points. I just can't seem to master the higher point moves. My oldest brother can catch the flying disk while jumping off the ground. My just younger brother catches it and then immediately falls to the ground. After all, the diving catch is the most valuable. The goal is to reach 21 first. Dad makes sure we all get turns as we laugh and run around the yard.

Saturday mornings were all about basketball. On the carport was a ten foot high basketball hoop, but even better was the Saturday mornings spent at the playground. At the playground they have the ten foot hoops and the little bit shorter ones where I liked to play. A half dozen basketballs bounced and dribbled. I worked hard at my overhead shots, but when it comes to really winning at H-O-R-S-E I usually stuck with the granny (underhand up from between the leg) shots. Dad was playing with the big boys and my sisters and I were taking turns together. I already had H-O-R, but my older sister had just an H. She was older and taller so, naturally she would do better. She picked a particularly far out spot and lobbed the ball up high. It bounced off the backboard and through the basket. Now I had to repeat the shot or take an S. I stood there looking at the basket. I concentrated on the corner of the painted square on the backboard. Dad always taught that if you hit in one of the corners of that square you will always get a basket. I had practiced for hours and so far I hadn't missed when I hit just where he said. I focused on that spot and threw up the ball. It came close enough and fell through the basket.

It's NBA playoff time again. It takes me back to the weeknights spent cheering for the Phoenix Suns. Dad yelling at the TV. I would ask him questions about the game. What does that mean Dad? What is a foul? So much of basketball seemed all about men running up and down the court each taking a turn to make a basket. Dad taught me about the defensive side of it all. He taught me about the importance of free throws and fouling out. I'm also reminded of the Saturday's spent watching football. I would question then too. What do the signs the ref's make mean? Oh, that is what a sack is.

Playing softball in the summer, Dad was always there. His booming voice could be heard all the way back at home. He let the umpires know when they were not doing their job well enough. He loved the time my team made a miraculous triple play and I watched lazily from the outfield. He coached my brother's baseball team. He was a tough coach to have, but not because he lacked a love for the competition, more so because of that love.

I would sit next to him at my brothers' football games. He always knew better than the refs there too. He cheered loudly and always listened for his boy's name called over the loud speaker to announce who made the tackle. He appreciated the music some of his kids played in the marching band, but his desire, his focus was on that field with his boy butting heads with the opponent.

Later, after the Diamondbacks came to town, Dad and I would eat lunch together on the days I worked with him. One of the past MLB player strikes had burned him and it took the Diamondbacks to bring back around to the pro level of the sport. We discussed ERA's, RBI's, Base on Balls, and all the stats we could think of. We talked about Randy Johnson's attitude and Craig Counsell's batting stance. For his birthday, I gave him tickets, because he still refused to pay into the salaries of those who would strike. And despite his complaints, I think he really enjoyed it.

He used to golf early Saturday mornings with his sons and sons-in-law. None of them were very good but Dad was improving. He loved the time with the guys. One Friday, instead of lunch, he took me to the driving range. I hit balls until my hands were cramping up. He taught me how to hold the club. And when I did it just as he explained, I hit it further and higher. He walked up and down the mostly deserted driving range, picking up perfectly usable tees. It was windy, his salt and pepper (more salt than pepper I noticed) hair flew around on his head. His natural curl loved the freedom to express itself.

In the bad times, sports still connected me to my dad. Even if I was frustrated and angry with him, we could still talk sports. When I married, my husband wasn't a sports fan. I would barter with him to get to watch the games. He has since been converted. At my last job I would talk sports with the owner. It always shocked him, the knowledge and views I had. It kept me in permanent good standing.

I love sports. He would really have enjoyed this first round of the playoffs between the Suns and the Lakers. I miss his game analysis. I miss his opinions. Do you think they have ESPN in heaven?