If I could dunk on anyone it would be my dad.

To set the scene, I would want it to be somewhere important like the halftime of a Bobcats vs. Raptors game at the Air Canada Center.  The announcer would say “don’t go anywhere fans, we have an awesome dunk coming up.”  And everyone would stay in their seats because they wouldn’t want to miss it.

I would be wearing a sweet vintage Bob Sura jersey with matching shorts and Air Jordan’s from 1991.  My dad would have to wear a Vancouver Grizzlies Bryant Reeves jersey, khakis and some penny loafers.  The style mismatch would eventually be overshadowed by the talent mismatch.

Flashbulbs would be going off everywhere.Dad would be standing at mid-court listening to boos from all of his former students and people in my neighborhood. “You are going to get dunked on so hard!” they would say.

Then, I would take the ball and raise it over my head, telling everyone to be quiet, some awesome stuff is about to happen.  Before I started dribbling my dad would look at me and say “Why am I here?  I don’t even like sports, I really don’t care if you dunk on me. How does this matter?”

But I wouldn’t be listening, I’d already be dribbling doing sweet spin moves getting the crowd all riled up.

As I get closer and the crowd gets louder, I could hear him say say “This proves nothing, I’ll get out of the way if you want.  I’m not even really sure what I’m supposed to do. Am I suppose to jump?”

But there would be no point in me giving instructions, because he could never hear them over the deafening sound of the crowd.  Everyone would be going nuts, even black guys.  It would be the most awesome thing anyone has ever seen.

After executing a perfect crossover, I would plant my foot just inside the foul line and make my sick jump.  As I’m airborn flying towards the hoop, my dad would pretend he didn’t care, but then at the last minute his competitive drive would over take him and he’d jump to try to block the shot.

But it would be too late.

I would already be so high that my foot would land right on his face and he would fall back, I would slam the ball through the hoop with both hands and then hang on to the rim for a second.

By now the POLICE have had to be called because the crowd is going so crazy.  A white thug would even shoot off a bb gun that looks like a glock into the air because he was so excited by sweet dunk.

I’d look into the crowd and there would be other guys my dad’s age crying.  I could hear them saying “oh no! our generation! we’re finished.”  And on screen it would have a picture of Woodstock but then it would catch on fire in the middle and burn out and be replaced with a picture of me holding a basketball.

Then, my dad would be crying on the ground, and I’d offer him a hand and say “Sorry Richard, this had to be done.”  He would understand and everything would be cool.

I’d try to return to my seat for the second half of the game but the crowd was still so amped up that they needed to bring in the US ARMY to keep back the smoking hot girls who were trying to get at me.

Once things had calmed down I would autograph the ball I used for the dunk and write an inspirational message that reads: “Follow your dreams.”  Then I would give it to the Make-A-Wish Foundation.

Christian Lander lives in Culver City, California and is the author of the New York Times Best Seller “Stuff White People Like”. His dad Richard, was a popular teacher in high school.

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