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Grandpa’s hands were calloused maps of every game he’d ever dominated, his reputation carved from harsh discipline and an ironclad refusal to accept anything less than perfection. The hoop wasn’t just moving—it swung like a pendulum taunting gravity, its rhythm erratic, while the wind hissed secrets, tugging the ball sideways with invisible fingers. He’d taught me to read the air like a language: a gust from the east meant adjusting three degrees left, a sudden lull demanded more arc, the target’s sway a split-second equation of timing and trust. Failure? That word didn’t live here. My knees bent, eyes tracking the swaying net, fingers calculating velocity, resistance, the exact millisecond to release. The ball left my hands as the chain-link goal jerked left—a breath held, then the clean *snap* of nylon. Silence. Then his grunt of approval, sharp and fleeting, worth every hour of bruised knees and stubborn grit.
