Lydia had an appointment with the dentist yesterday morning to have her palate extender tightened. When I went to pick her up at school it was recess time and, wending my way through scores of unleashed kids, I saw something that made me wince and do my best to avert my eyes. And it wasn’t just once I saw it, either … I saw it over and over and over again, and it never got any easier to witness.

These kids, they were kicking basketballs. KICKING, with their FEET. Basketballs. Basketballs.

Now I don’t know about the rest of you, but all of the P.E. teachers I ever met growing up had one hard and fast rule in common: you never, nevernevernever, kick a basketball. Not ever. Basketballs are the delicate flowers of balldom, to be respected and handled with care. Handled with care, not footled. Never footled.

Honestly, I had to grit my teeth and scurry away from that schoolyard with the quickness so as not to make myself ridiculous with an errant but well-intentioned sporting-goods-rescue mission. It’s been a hard lesson, but I’ve finally learned that you can’t save them all.