The young men are playing basketball on the blacktop. The sun is strong and their shirts are off. Their game is athletic but lacks skill. I feel I could take them. Then my four year old son and two year old daughter take off their shirts and wander onto the blacktop. Fantasy of past athletic mediocrity deferred, I follow them, now being a father, now a bit worried they will wander onto the court and get run over. They make friends with a Chinese boy, maybe 17, who is playing by himself. My son, ever charming, smiles and the boy rolls him the ball. The ball is about half the size of my son and he has hard enough time lifting it, not to mention shooting it. I wander over, casual like, but dying to bury a jumper from the top of the key. Show my skill. I reach the court, "accidently" find myself in position to grab the ball. I bounce the ball a few times, it feels good, like a lost friend. I spin once, then the other way, then I fire my step back jumper from the top of the key. If it wasn't for gravity I would have missed the ground. Next to the basketball courts is a running track, an oval. My kids follow me, and we race along the track. My daughter, even though she is 17 months younger than her brother, runs with a grace he will never have. She's light on her feet and floats. My son is a plodder. He would be good in mud. Along the side of the track is a drainage ditch. It mirrors the oval running track, a few feet inside. The drainage ditch is covered, in spots, with a cement filter, allowing water to get through but not a whole lot else. This being China, the cover is in ill repair, broken with jagged edges, with yard long gaps someone could just walk into. My son notices this and says to me, "baba, look it's broken" pointing at a piece of the cover. He's gleeful. He's always gleeful. I tell him, that no, the piece that is there isn't broken. It's the strong piece. The piece that's missing is the one that broke. Broke for none to see. I turn my head as to not ruin his glee.