Last weekend, we took in a couple of basketball games starring our grandsons. Other people in the stands seemed to think their children were the stars of the games. Harmless allusions. Anyway, the Saturday game was near my hometown, and so various relatives showed up to cheer on the amazing John Michael. (First grandchild on that side of the family. Now requires man-sized pajamas under the Christmas tree.)

My parents were part of the cheering section, despite the 20° weather and my father’s fragile health. They take in lots of the local ballgames, whether a great-grandson is playing or not. That is surprising since my dad’s hearing and eyesight have both failed terribly in the last few years. It is hard for him to carry on a normal conversation in a quiet room.

We know it is difficult for him to be in large groups of people and that he gets lost if we all talk at once. When that happens, he just sits quietly and smiles at the commotion. So, my older brother asked Dad one day about his interest in sports. “Can you follow what is going on in the games pretty well?”

“Oh, not usually,” my dad said. Then he grinned, “But I can usually tell who has the ball.”

And, for him, that is worth braving frigid weather and noisy gymnasiums. Not because he loves the sport so much. But because he loves the stars.

Ours, and everyone else’s.