Made shot after made shot. Bucket, bucket, bucket. Everything looks so easy. No one gets tired; I am tired. My son’s favorite team is winning, but it is close. The lead never seems safe, although there’s something heartening about knowing every shot is going in. This says something about what we think of as highlights. What we declare worth remembering. Imagine a life lived this way, nothing but sex and honor rolls, nonstop footage of people calling your name and cheering in various circumstances. No goodbyes or diarrhea, bounced checks, broken hearts, or bad directions. The problem is the game has to be over for someone to compile such a montage. I think about mortality more and more these days, which is an entirely boring thing to say. The game happened last night. It was the last game of the season. Both teams are going to the playoffs, and this game won’t change anything that matters. Still, they play. They make a lot of shots. The Thunder wins. My son is pleased, so I am, too. Being a parent means outsourcing most of your happiness. What we’re watching isn’t the game. It’s not a replay of the game, or a memory of the game. It’s a way to fill the space between the game and death, in the way that I fill the space between my father and my son. The last shot they show is a miss. Someone grabs a rebound and dribbles until the clock runs out. I almost said this ending was surprisingly anticlimactic but of course there’s nothing surprising about it.