(A)One Saturday during the summer, I asked my father if he would go down to the schoolyard and play basketball with me. I had just finished the fifth grade, and wanted desperately to make the middle school team the coming fall. (a)I couldn’t believe my ears when he called for my mother and sister to come along, for, in the traditional fashion, my mother was the house accountant, the launderer, and, of course, the cook.

(B)She turned from the basket and began heading the other way. (b)“Um-mah,” I cried at her, my irritation already bubbling over, “the basket’s over here!” After a few steps she turned around, and from where the professional three-point line must be now, she effortlessly flipped the ball up in the air, its flight truer and higher than I’d witnessed from any boy or man. The ball curved cleanly into the basket, stiffly popping the chain-link net. All afternoon, she rained in shot after shot, as my father and I ran after her.

(C)When we got home from the playground, my mother showed me the photograph album of her high school days. I was shocked to learn that she had been the top player for the national high school team that once won the all-Asia championships. (c)For years I kept it in my room, on the same shelf that housed the scrapbooks I made of basketball stars, with magazine clippings of great players such as Bubbles Hawkins, Pistol Pete, and George Gervin.

(D)When we arrived, my sister immediately ran off to the swings, and (d)I recall being annoyed that my mother wasn’t following her. I dribbled awkwardly around the free-throw line, almost losing control of the ball, and made a flat shot that bounced wildly off the basket. The ball fell to my father, who took a few not so graceful dribbles and missed an easy layup. (e)He rebounded his shot and passed the ball to my mother, who had been watching us from the foul line.