Before Ron Hunter cried on national TV.
Before he injured his leg.
Before his son R.J. Hunter hit that impossibly long shot that caused his father to tumble off the now-famous blue, rolling office chair, there was a hoop in a backyard surrounded by walnut and sycamore trees.
It was there in the quiet suburbs of Indianapolis behind a two-story brick house that father and son played boisterous, ridiculously competitive games of H-O-R-S-E.
Dad would shoot a short-range jump shot.
Your dad is never going to lose! Swish.
Five-year-old R.J. would go long.
Oh yes, you are! The ball would fall short and R.J. would wipe away tears as he hurried into the house.
And so it went. Seasons passed. Walnut trees turned bright yellow in the fall, dripped with icicles in the winter and returned to a verdant green in summer. With every season, waves of laughter and mild trash talking would fill the outdoor court. R.J. grew taller, stronger.
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