When Zimmer called with the invitation, I sensed that it was a moment that would change my life.
"Listen, there's a whole group of third-grade boys in your neighborhood that need you; lots of kids, lots of interest. All they need is you."
"Me? For what?"
"To coach. Basketball. Will you coach the third-grade team?"
"Third grade? They're too small for basketball."
"Not these kids. Lots of interest, lots of kids," he repeated his hype.
"How many games?" I asked, weakening already.
"Eight, and eight practices."
"Hmm. I'll think about it. But I don't think so. It takes too much time."
I hung up. Staring at the phone I envisioned a scene 15 years hence. The NCAA final has just ended. Al McGuire interviews the leading scorer for UCLA, who is paying tribute to his very first coach, the Peewee Wizard Ray Lovett. Tears form as I watch on TV in my den, surrounded by my present team of third-graders and the trophies that are testimony to my genius.