Last night I was a scorekeeper for my four year old’s basketball game. They con ask one person from each team to keep score (watch the clock, count fouls, etc. But these kids are four!?) and last night was my turn. Again.

Anyway, we parents that are suckered honored to do score keeping always chat and talk about basketball and our kids and stuff. “That’s my son – number three,” or “that’s my daughter – with the dark hair and red shorts,” along with “where do y’all go to school?” etc. And last night was no different.

The other team had an outstanding player, able to run, pass, shoot, etc. My scorekeeper counterpart basketball mom said, “That’s my son.” I pointed out mine in return. I did not say “Oh, your son is black, is he adopted?” (she, and her husband and other kids, were white). I didn’t even think until well after the game that I shoulda coulda have maybe said “My other son is black, too, and people always ask if he’s adopted.”

It didn’t cross my mind, and it certainly didn’t seem important.

By the way, we lots by two points. But I think everyone had fun.