As I pondered my latest blog post, I realized that Ninja, the blogosphere name that I had attached to my youngest son, wasn’t quite as relevant now as it once was. Having achieved his second-degree black belt and finding other interests capturing his imagination, he came to the decision, with our support, that a sabbatical from the Studio was a good idea. I thought to myself, “Self, perhaps Ninja is no longer the proper blog handle”. However, I know my youngest well enough to know that seeking his input was imperative. And, no, Self did not reply, in case you were wondering.
I didn’t have to wait long to obtain the go-ahead for change. In fact, as he perused my most recent post (he is a faithful reader, bless his heart), he mentioned the need for a name change. So, we put on our thinking caps--they are quite attractive accessories. First, I suggested “Maverick”, his basketball team nickname. They all came up with nicknames for each other. So fun. There’s also Tank, Shotgun, and 12-Gauge. It’s about shooting hoops, not shooting Bambi.
All of a sudden, his eyes lit up, the perpetually mischievous grin appeared, and he said, with quiet but obvious delight.
Mini-Hooper. Get the pun? Love it.
The offspring formerly known as Ninja has picked up the roundball with the same intensity and drive that characterized his martial arts tenure. And, much like his black-belt days, what he lacks in height in makes up for in bravado. And skills. This four-foot-and-change kiddo has moves. He runs drills, shoots free throws from all over the driveway, and challenges his big brother. Mini-Hooper tells us that once he is drafted to the NBA, upon the signing of his first multi-million dollar contract, he will buy us our own private island. I also get the Jane Austen collection and my Philosopher will be treated to original, first-editions of his beloved, C.S. Lewis. All of which will be housed in this amazing manse whose attributes expand and extend on a daily basis.
Much like the Seinfeld episode in which George takes his “would-have-been-inlaws” out to his non-existent house in the Hamptons. En route, he regales them with tales of floor plan, decor, and the like. Two solariums. And some equine occupants named Snoopy and Prickly Pete. I should add that I have decidedly more confidence in Mini-Hooper's ability to deliver than Mr. Costanza. But, I digress.
My Own Private Island.
Courtesy of Mini-Hooper.