All That Jazz

me and my daddy at a Jazz game in 2009

I am the poster child for a sports dimwit.

If I see a ball flying near or towards my head my immediate reaction is to run.

Not catch.

Run.

I couldn't tell you how football works or even how many inning are in a baseball game.

I think that's why it was a shock to my roommates when they found me on the couch watching a Jazz game.

Gigi: "You're watching basketball?"

Me: "Not just basketball. It's Jerry and my boys."

I have to admit initially I didn't love Jerry, the boys, or the game.

But I did love my dad.

My dad is the Jazz fan.

And no fair weather fan at that.

He's always been a Jazz man.

I remember in middle school I would moan and groan when I would hear the too familiar voice of Hot Rod Hundley.

But then I would see my dad getting ready to coach the boys from our green couch.

And then I would sit next to him and the rhythm of the game would lure me in.

By the time I was in high school I was planning my nights around the games.

I would stay at home just to sit on that green couch and watch the game with my dad.

Some nights were victorious, others ended is embarrassing defeat.

Game after game, season after season.

Last season before I moved away I remember a pit in my stomach as each game ended.

Nothing would be as perfect as sitting on that green couch with my dad.

Tonight when I heard the voice of Craig Bolerjack and watched Jerry stalk onto the court in his usual slump I nearly teared up.

It's not just basketball...it's a little piece of home.

xo