There are moments in parenting when the universe conspires in your favor. When something you love, something that has been a part of the architecture of your own life, suddenly becomes alive in the heart of your child. This year, I experienced such a gift with my nine-year-old daughter and Duke basketball.
I didn't plan it. Children today have their own digital worlds, their own cultural touchstones that often leave parents puzzled at the periphery. I introduced her to the team and the sport casually, with no expectations — a Duke alum father's nostalgic offering, nothing more. What bloomed from that casual introduction became one of the sweetest surprises of my parenting journey.
My daughter transformed into what can only be described as a rabid Duke fan. She created nicknames for Cooper Flagg ("Coop") and Tyrese Proctor ("Protector"). She learned three-point percentages and explained foul trouble with the gravity of a seasoned commentator. She developed opinions — strong ones — about Jon Scheyer's coaching decisions. When Duke played, the rest of the world ceased to exist for her.
What made this particularly poignant was the timing. Duke had a historic season — a 35-3 record and a Final Four appearance. As a Duke alum, I recognized this as extraordinary. But to my daughter, this excellence was simply what basketball is. It was like introducing someone to ice cream by starting them with the finest gelato in Florence.
She was thoroughly spoiled. I didn't have the heart to explain that most seasons don't unfold like this one, that most teams don't have the likes of Flagg performing basketball miracles on a weekly basis.
We made the pilgrimage to New York's Madison Square Garden for a game this season. In the cathedral of basketball, she experienced the peculiar alchemy that happens in that space — the way the crowd noise reverberates, the electric anticipation before tip-off. When her face appeared on the jumbotron, the look of pure delight that washed over her was worth every penny of those astronomical ticket prices.
What struck me most about our shared fandom was its purity. In an age where sports are increasingly entangled with betting odds, controversies and the darker elements of human nature, my daughter's love for Duke basketball existed in a realm of uncomplicated joy. She didn't care about point spreads or NIL deals or transfer portal drama. She cared about Khaman Maluach's slam dunks and whether Kon Knueppel would hit his next three-pointer.
There is something redemptive about experiencing sports through a child's eyes. It strips away the cynicism and transports us back to what drew us to the games in the first place — the simple thrill of watching extraordinary human achievement, the emotional investment in a team's journey, the communal experience of cheering alongside thousands of strangers who, for those few hours, feel like family.
Then came the Final Four loss.
Her disappointment was real, and for a fleeting moment, I questioned the wisdom of introducing her to this exquisite heartache that all true fans eventually know. But watching her process the defeat with such genuine care, I saw the gift hidden within the disappointment: Valleys make mountains tall. The sting of loss makes the sweetness of victory worth savoring.
Duke's journey ended short of a championship, but what they delivered transcends any trophy — they forged a bridge between a father and daughter, a shared vocabulary of moments and heroes, a common sanctuary in an otherwise divided world. While the stats and scores will fade into basketball archives, this connection will endure.
In their graceful defeat, the Blue Devils also taught my daughter what no victory ever could — that devotion means standing firm when the confetti falls for someone else, that some commitments survive disappointment, that caring deeply is its own reward. Through Scheyer's composed sideline presence and his players' dignified exit, she witnessed how to honor both the game and yourself when dreams slip away.
For that lesson — more valuable than any championship banner — I offer my quiet gratitude to Duke basketball, the institution that cultivated not just extraordinary athletes but, unknowingly, a nine-year-old girl's beautiful introduction to loving something larger than herself.
Jimmy Soni, Trinity '07, is an author, most recently of "When the Light Finds Us." He is a former Chronicle columnist for Volumes 100-102.
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