As a fixture on the basketball "B" team, I never had much appreciation for the life skills I was learning. Sure, the reverse layup was an elusive concept, and setting a pick was a little beyond me, but I like to think I had the fundamentals down. Dribbling. Passing. Boxing out.
If there was anything I was built for on the basketball court it was boxing out.
The simple act of knowing when the ball was shot by the opposing team and simultaneously turning and throwing my posterior into the closest opposing player was both simple and satisfying. It was an uncomplicated communication implicit in the mighty thrust of my backside: "Worthy opponent, we both know there is little to no chance I will get this rebound. But if my rear end has anything to say about it, neither will you."
No question it was a handy skill to have on the court, but when I retired after my sophomore season, I saw little to no use for my skills. Left to atrophy all these years, it's safe to say the give and go are gone. The passing is past. But to my great surprise, I have found an application for the boxing out.
Not long after my older daughter became mobile, I discovered, quite by accident, the continuing utility of boxing out-- many years after the last of my erstwhile opponents were thwarted by my considerable rear. The oven, it turns out, holds a certain amount of fascination for the average toddler. Accordingly, as kid fascinations generally have a proportional relationship to relative danger, a hot and open oven represents a veritable Eden. Therefore, as I opened the oven to turn my Tandoori chicken or to stir my schnitzel (okay, let's be honest, most of the time I was flipping my fish sticks) and both hands were not only occupied, but also housed in mitts intended more for approximate movements than for precise one (is anyone's thumb really that big?), I was left with two tools to prevent my kid from testing the Hansel and Gretel theory:
1) My very best authoritative mom voice
2) My butt
Using a precise combination of both of these devices-- namely, screaming "NO! NO! HOT!HOT!HOT!" while also swinging my backside from left to right while making what I can only call alarmingly precise lateral movements, I was able to not only simultaneously save my offspring from certain catastrophe, but also prevent the heartbreak of burned fish sticks.
So, while my basketball career is long over, some of my best moves live on. Because nobody wants a burned baby. And unevenly cooked fish sticks are just a bummer.
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