I just remembered this story, from These Are My Funnies #22 and #23 at Uncanny Valley‘s blog:

A father, mother, and son sit around a modest dinner table. Dishes steam before them. The son, who is maybe eight, spears a pile of meat and raises it, dripping. His face is rapturous. “This pot roast is a slam dunk,” he says.

The father snorts. “A slam dunk,” he says. “A slam dunk.” He turns to the mother. “Do you think he even knows what a slam dunk is? A slam dunk.”

“I’m sure he knows,” the mother says.

“I just mean–”

“Get outside,” the father says. “I don’t want you touching that food until you perform a perfect slam dunk.” The father watches the boy, who starts to move, but slowly. “Now.”

Cut to: a driveway basketball court, the hoop mounted above the garage door. The father sits in a weathered upholstered armchair sinking into the grass. An impossible number of emptied beer cans gleam at his feet. Starting at the end of the driveway, the son runs forward, dribbling a faded basketball, and leaps with it in one hand. He is young and short and does not come close to touching the hoop.

“Slam dunk!” the father yells.

The boy dribbles the ball back to the end of the driveway, then into the street. He kicks at the road like a bull, knocking up pebbles. It’s dark. Lights are on in the houses all around and soon someone will complain about all this dribbling but the boy doesn’t care. He clamps his jaw and runs down the driveway, knocking the ball against the concrete, and leaps for the hoop, and clatters into the garage door. The ball falls from his grasp and bounces into the grass.

“Slam dunk!” the father yells.