The Once-in-a-Lifetime Basketball Game

There was a truly once-in-a-lifetime moment at a Rutgers basketball game this fall.

And… It almost didn’t happen.

On paper, it was just another early November game. Not a rivalry. Not a ranked matchup. Nothing that would make SportsCenter. If you looked at the schedule in August, this was not the one you circled. You probably would have skipped it.

But it became the most meaningful game of my life.

For the last 36 years, my father-in-law and I bonded over sports, especially Rutgers athletics. Basketball in the winter. Football in the fall. Soccer and lacrosse when we could. Cold nights. Loud crowds. Games in the snow. Hopeful seasons that usually ended in heartbreak.

Well, often ended in heartbreak.

Years ago, I turned Dad into a Rutgers fan. Or maybe he just loved that it was ours. Either way, it became our thing.

I vividly remember those basketball nights twenty years ago. I would spend the day in New York City in a suit. Meetings stacked on meetings. Instead of heading home, I would race out of the city and drive straight to Piscataway. I would hurry across the parking lot in dress shoes, loosen my tie, walk into the arena and scan the crowd.

He was always already there.

Smiling.

It was just a regular weeknight game. It was fun. It was special. It was basketball on a cold January or February night.

And it felt like the only place in the world I needed to be.

Over the last few years, Parkinson’s disease made life smaller for Dad. Walking became slower. Getting in and out of the car required effort. Crowds became overwhelming. Stairs became strategic.

Eventually, going to games stopped. It was “too difficult” and we did not even try.

And then this fall, something inside me said, “do not wait.” I had a moment of clarity and knew I had to make the extra effort to bring him back to our special place.

I had thought about bringing him back for years. I talked about it. I told myself we would make it happen soon.

Soon is a dangerous word.

It would have been easy to say next year. When he feels stronger. When it is less complicated. When life is not so busy.

But life is always busy.

So I made some calls. A close friend at Rutgers went above and beyond to secure handicap accessible seats and a special handicap parking permit. He personally delivered Rutgers swag to Dad and my mother-in-law during the game. It took coordination. It took intention. It took choosing to make it happen.

A couple of days before the game, Dad sent me an email.

“Thanks so much for getting the special seats. We are really looking forward to it.”

It is the last email I have from him.

That night, helping him to his seat took time. He gripped the railing carefully. We moved slowly down the aisle. When we finally sat, he looked out at the court and just paused.

When the lights dimmed and the crowd rose for the anthem, he sat there smiling.

I do not remember the final score.

I remember the way he looked around the arena, almost as if he was memorizing it. Taking in the full mental picture.

I remember thinking, this is not just a game.

That ordinary November matchup became a once-in-a-lifetime moment.

Not because of who we played.

Not because of what was at stake.

But because we were there.

Together.

Dad passed away last week.

And that November night in the arena is my last truly special memory with him.