Smack! We all saw it.

In the middle of a flock of first graders, she had clearly been shoved.

Every instinct told me to jump from my rickety metal folding chair to help.

I didn’t.

I stayed seated next to my wife.

We were in a stale-smelling elementary school gym on a beautiful Saturday afternoon, watching our daughter’s basketball game. Her team, the Chickens, was tied with the Labubus, 6–6, with nine seconds left, and she had been fouled.

Shoved, really, while shooting. Admittedly, not nearly as hard as I reacted.

She was fine. I was not.

She stepped to the free-throw line.

And I suddenly realized something I never expected.

I was missing a Kansas Jayhawks basketball game … and I didn’t care.

That would have stunned the younger version of me. I would never miss a game.

I grew up a Jayhawk fan. My grandparents took me to my first KU game when I was younger than my daughter is now. My granddad had me keep score to practice math, while my grandmother focused on something else entirely: manners—like never rushing the court after a big win.

And trust me, I’ve seen plenty of reasons to break that rule—from Thomas Robinson’s epic block to Mario’s Miracle—but I never budged.

But sitting there in that elementary gym, none of those moments felt quite as important.

Because when you become a parent, your priorities quietly reshuffle.

Now it’s hard to imagine anything better than watching my kids play sports. Not because I’m hoping they become superstar athletes. Like most parents, I just want them to have fun, make friends, and grow. Participating in sports helps kids become more resilient, confident, and determined.

And research confirms something many parents already feel instinctively: kids benefit when their parents simply show up.

Not as coaches.

Not as critics.

Just someone in the stands – present.

That’s a role my wife and I try hard to play.

Though I’ll admit I’ve worn my share of other jerseys at my kids’ games: the Social Parent chatting with everyone nearby, the Social Media Parent videotaping every possession, the Competitive Parent yelling just a little too loudly, and even the Uninvolved Parent when work calls.

But on this afternoon, I was simply the nervous parent, watching his daughter stand at the free-throw line.

First-grade basketball isn’t exactly March Madness. Kids walk with the ball. They double-dribble. Sometimes they swarm it like magnets to steel. Every now and then, someone even does a cartwheel on the way down the court.

That’s part of the magic.

Still, basketball is hard for young kids. They have to be strong enough just to get the ball to the rim.

And there was my daughter, “calm as a cucumber,” as another parent said to my wife.

Meanwhile, my nerves were anything but calm.

To steady them, I pulled out my phone—more to hide behind than to record the moment.

The ref ushered her to a line I thought was well beyond her range. She bent her knees, adjusted her grip, and launched the ball.

To my surprise, it didn’t just reach the rim.

It bounced in.

Her teammates started dancing. Parents erupted, and I instantly became the stereotypical “my child is the best” parent – cheering way too loudly.

The second free throw didn’t fall. It bounced off the rim, but there she was again, grabbing the rebound and putting up another shot before time expired.

That shot missed.

But by then, the clock had run out.

The Chickens had won.

An undefeated season.

Her teammates rushed toward her, lifting her up as best a group of first graders could. Beaming, she looked across the gym at my wife and me.

And that’s when I did something I had never done before.

I rushed the court.

The very thing my grandmother once told me never to do.

I may have even boxed out my wife as I sprinted across the gym to scoop my daughter into a hug.

She looked up at me and said, “Dad, did you see I made the shot?”

I did.

And in that moment, I realized something else: the best stereotype a parent can be is simply the present parent.

And while Allen Fieldhouse may be the best place to watch basketball, for me, the most meaningful basketball I may ever watch will happen in a noisy elementary school gym with rickety metal chairs.

I guess that means something else, too.

I’ll always be a Jayhawk.

But these days, I’m proud to be a Chicken.

Todd Thompson is the Leavenworth County Attorney.