Jonny McCambridge: Will my son be able to beat me on the basketball court? It’s a slam dunk

My boy told me that he had liked playing basketball during PE at school, and he similarly enjoyed trying out badminton with his cousins when some dusty old racquets and a shuttlecock where discovered in his grandparents’ shed.

He has never really taken to football, which is an obsession for many boys his age.

The badminton set was straightforward, with the little net erected in less than five minutes.

It has enjoyed a lot of use, although I did have to shift its location due to the number of shuttlecocks being launched over the fence into the next-door garden (there are only so many times you can reasonably knock on the door and ask ‘Can I have my shuttlecock back?’).

The basketball hoop and pole proved to be more challenging. Soon after I began constructing it, it became clear this was a manual job which ideally required more than one set of hands.

However, I persevered and eventually the hoop was erected, stretching close to the tips of the tallest trees in my garden.

My initial thought was that I had set the basket too high but reasoned that it would be easy to adjust it downwards.

But, from the first time my son tried it out, I knew that it was the proper level of challenge. I was pleasantly surprised that he was scoring with more shots than he missed.

Soon we had developed an early evening habit of playing a game of one on one basketball.

The rules were simple, the first player to score 10 baskets triumphs. What was less straightforward was my consideration over whether I should play my hardest or allow my son to win.

I know opinions can be divided on this parenting quandary. There is the reasonable argument that nothing is gained by letting him win, he gains a false sense of his own ability and doesn’t improve.

The other side of the coin, closer to my heart, is appreciating the boost his confidence receives through coming out on top in a contest. I may be the world’s biggest softie, but I don’t usually have the stomach to want to beat my son in a sporting contest.

As we continued the games, I noticed he was getting better, bouncing the ball more confidently, hitting more shots.

With my bad ankle, sore back, dodgy knees, continual state of exhaustion and substantial stomach, it was clear my skills were deteriorating as quickly as his were improving.

After a short while the lines between what was genuine sporting contest and what was affected had become blurred. I was unsure if I could actually win even if I tried my hardest.

My son was becoming better than me.

What was perhaps more unexpected was the level of competitive edge that developed during our matches. Perhaps it is something peculiar to the nature of basketball, but we quickly developed a habit of trash talking.

When my son scored a significant basket, he would make an ‘L’ sign with his fingers and chant ‘Loser, loser, loser!’ There was the occasional shoulder barge and even some good-natured shoving.

A typical exchange would go like this.

Him: “You’re going down, daddy, you’re going down.”

Me: “No, I will comprehensively defeat you with my superior basketball skills, thus bringing shame and ignominy upon you.”

Him: “Uh, I really don’t think you’ve got the hang of talking smack daddy.”

I was intrigued by this edge which had developed and was content to let it develop to an extent.

I was curious to see how immersed my son became in the game, how strong was his desire to win. I am not usually driven by competitive spirit, but there was a troubling inclination within me that I was fed up with losing, that I wanted to bring him down a peg or two.

We play another match. My son begins, as he always does, by telling me the stretch of his undefeated streak. It is now 18 matches. Inwardly I am thinking that all is about to change.

I am finally going to give it my best.

There is plenty of exertion, some shoving, lots of insults. Soon, I am covered in sweat. He makes some baskets, as do I.

As the game nears its conclusion, I notice that he is missing a few more shots and has become quieter, more tense. He is not winning as easily as he expected. I score a basket from long range which brings the score to 9-9. The next basket wins. There is no talk at all now as he takes the ball.

He tries to dribble, but I dash in and steal the ball. He cannot react quickly enough, and I turn and have a clear run to the basket, to hit the winning shot. As I pull my arms back to release the ball, I hear my son emit a small sound of distress behind me.

I throw the ball. It hits the rim of the basket but bounces away. This time he reacts more quickly as he grabs the rebound and throws up his shot. It disappears into the middle of the basket.

There is a sudden release of energy and relief as he celebrates his victory. He turns his attention towards me again.

"Loser daddy! Loser daddy! Loser daddy!”

I force a smile and give him a hug, telling him that he played a good game. We are best friends once more as we go back inside.

And I know what the obvious question is, did I let him win? Did I miss that final shot on purpose? I’ve replayed it several times, tried to search my heart for the answer. The truth is, I genuinely don’t know.