From Gimlet Media, this is The Not. I'm Britt Elyse.

And I'm Eric Edyk.

So today on our show, we've got a story about the intricate relationships we have with our

parents. It's also about basketball. Something I know that is near and dear to your heart,

Brittney.

That's not too many jokes. The very, very beautiful story.

It is.

And telling this story is the editor of The Not, a manual berry. So here's a manual.

My father has big brown hands. His fingers are marred with little scars and calluses. When

he claps, the sound of his enthusiastic palms is deafening and rhythmic. I've watched these

hands pick up squealing grandchildren, clutch TV remotes, act as puppets, cook, clean,

drive, and dribble a basketball. All of it. Influency with the world around him. But

recently, my father's hands have started to change. His once muscled fingers are

bony. They still move through the world, but their fluid grace is replaced by a subtle

trembling. My father's hands have changed because my father is sick.

He might not get better. And that's made me confront the fact that I don't want my

dad to die and for us to not really have known each other. And we don't really know each

other. My dad and I stopped talking years ago, or maybe a more accurate way to say this

is we haven't really talked since I was in high school. But when I was young, I was

always trying to get as close to my dad as possible. In photos, my siblings and I are all

clinging to him. One kid hanging off of each of his long limbs. We're fighting for what

little energy he had left to give after working long days. But the one thing my dad always

...