‘It’s a place not far from here. Let’s get these coffees down, throw on some gear and we’ll be there in no time.’

When we got home, I quickly put on my LeBrons and some shorts, grabbed my ball and jumped back in the car with Dad.

Before we pulled out of the driveway, Dad said, ‘Do you want to grab your bathers? We could have a swim later.’

‘I don’t know …’

‘I guess we can always come back and pick up Caitlin and our things if we feel like it.’

We drove for a short while before we approached some type of complex. The sign outside read ‘Seaford Community Centre’.

‘Are the courts indoors?’

‘Sure are,’ Dad said as he turned off the ignition.

We paid a fella at the counter for us to use the courts for an hour. And then we walked into two spacious indoor courts with quality surfaces and backboards. There was a woman practising rollerskating on one of the courts, listening to music through a speaker as she did spins and things.

‘Cool,’ I said to Dad as we walked over to the bench and placed our water bottles and things on it.

‘First to twenty, no three-pointers,’ Dad laid out the rules. ‘Do you want to go first?’

‘You go,’ I said.

And then it was on!

The thing about playing basketball with Dad is that from when I was little, he maintained enough pressure to make me work hard, but he always let me win. A few years ago I worked that out, and I said, ‘Dad, if we’re going to play, I need to know that I beat you fairly and squarely. So no mucking around anymore.’ And then for a while, he absolutely beat my murntu – my bum – when I played against him, and now I was just starting to win.

Dad started to do some crossovers, faking in one direction and going in another. I was anticipating his every move and not letting him past until he shot the ball behind his back to the right and then took off, getting close to the hoop. He faked a shot and then when I was falling back to the court from my leap, he made an easy shot over my head.

Then it was my turn to get one past him. He wasn’t making it easy, with one hand in my face, his legs stretched out like a crab moving from side to side, and his reflexes ready to pounce. There wasn’t much else I could do other than to put my body between him and the ball and try to concede some ground inch by inch. I finally broke away from him, back towards the three-point line and then sped around him to make an easy lay-up.

‘Wasn’t expecting that,’ he said with a laugh.

Dad and I went on like this for the whole hour, only stopping briefly for a sip of water or to tighten a shoelace. He ended up beating me two games to one.