I wish I was a little bit taller, I wish I was a baller...

Photo courtesy of her Aunt Manda, naturally.

My daughter, the basketball player.

No one is more surprised by her prowess on the court, or her dedication to the sport, than her own mother is.

My favorite past time is sitting on the couch holding a remote and seeing how many shows I can watch at once. (Because there might be something better on another channel!) Jason, well, he played baseball as a kid, but he's not much for sports now.

I don't know what it is about the sporting life that appeals to her so. She's always been active. From the first day she was born, we've had a hard time keeping up.

And COMPETITIVE. Lawd help us. I guess playing sports is the perfect marriage of her two most obvious personality traits, and basketball is their favorite child.

She started playing Upward basketball with a church in Senatobia last year, and I was quite surprised with her natural talent for the game. Who'd taught this kid to shoot like that? Certainly not me. I can't hit the broadside of a barn.

She was super excited to play again this year, and practiced every time she got a chance. Waiting for me to pick her up from choir practice in the Baptist Church gym, you can find her, red faced and sweaty, trying to refine her shot. After children's church at our church, she's pulling out the basketball goal in their sanctuary and trying for two more points.

Her choice of apparel hinges upon whether it's comfortable enough to play basketball in.

With just a little extra coaching this season, she was on fire for her last game. Our head usher had seen her practicing after a leadership meeting one Sunday night, and spent a good bit of time playing one-on-one with her while giving her instructions. I have been amazed at the difference those few minutes have made in her game.

She doesn't have a goal at home - yet - but she spends hours on the porch practicing her dribbling and fake-shooting. Sometimes she persuades me to come pass the ball to her and run up and down the "court" in a makeshift game.

Sometimes, she sets up the cheap-o video camera we got her for Christmas and films herself so she can critique her performance.

Those NBA wristbands she's wearing in that picture? She convinced my mom to buy them because "They're just like LeBron James'." When I try to tell her how horribly Derek Rose messed up the Memphis program a few years ago with the cheating scandal that caused the NCAA to void their second-place championship season, all she says is, "I want to see proof. If they can't prove it, it didn't happen."

Whose kid is this, anyway?