I might have been 11 or 12 years old, riding with my family on our way to a ski resort. Probably he just didn't want to get his hands cold, or else I pestered him to let me try changing the tire. I think of the mechanic in the garage using a power tool and a hydraulic jack to replace my tire, not even breaking a sweat. I think of my son, how someday he will marry a woman who can change tires as quickly as she can change clothes, and my daughter who will glide from her clarinet to her lug wrench with casual grace. In an odd way I am grateful for that flat tire, grateful to the idiot who dropped a glass bottle on the road.
Tires come and go.
Family folklore is indestructible. Without fail, the lunchtime crowd arrives, dressed in matching navy shorts and gray T-shirts. The first four players to arrive enter the court. We separate into teams according to some unspoken protocol. After so many years of playing together, we know each other's skill levels.