The Throwdown in Chi-town didn't happen because we had an argument that day and were too angry to have fun. How pathetic is that? By the time we remembered we love each other, we simply had run out of time. Ben had to get to Champaign-Urbana, where classes began Wednesday.

This was to have been his big chance to beat me for the first time ever. My fool-proof strategy to remain undefeated? Avoidance. I haven't played him since he was 11.

Back then, basketball was foremost in his heart and mind - and I was goofy enough to think he eventually might earn an athletic scholarship to Illinois or some other hoops factory. He was a tough, intense, good-shooting point guard with a poster of John Stockton on his bedroom wall. He was a leader, a good sport and a popular teammate.

Well, as many athletes (and their parents) discover, much can happen on the way to glory. When he was on his high school's sophomore team, Ben stood only 5-foot-6. As if that hadn't been enough to discourage him, few of his buddies were into the sport. Peer pressure won out over competitive juices, and he was an ex-baller.

Though Ben and I joke that he peaked as an 11-year-old, it's probably true. Few young people are cut out to be Division I athletes - and the sooner adults realize it, the sooner they can stop living vicariously through their kids.

Had I pushed him harder would he have hated me for it back then but appreciated it now? I'll never know. There's no User's Guide to parenting. It's all such a crapshoot. Many "good" parents produce "bad" kids, and vice versa. So I feel blessed to have ended up with such a smart, funny, happy, tolerant, outgoing son.

Naturally, Ben has done things I wish he hadn't. (So has his 19-year-old sister, Katie, despite her Miss Perfect reputation.) You show me parents who honestly believe their teenagers do everything "right," and I'll show you clueless dupes. Just as it's our job to nurture and steer them, it's their job to test our boundaries and our patience. We only can hope we all survive - and, of course, that our kids will have to deal with their own boundary-testing teenagers someday!

I do worry about what Ben will be getting into at Illinois. Will he study and attend classes? Will he be overwhelmed by the school's size? Will he resist the allure of binge drinking, drug abuse and other destructive behaviors? Will he stop playing video games long enough to choose a career path? Will he graduate in four years, or at least before our money's gone? Will he remember to wash his clothes?

A year ago, when writing about Katie's final high school days, I asked the "referee of life" to put some time back on the clock. Those feelings have multiplied now that my little boy has left home.

Could it really be 10 years since Ben's buzzer-beating three-point play won a biddy-ball game, eight years since he scored 21 of his team's 24 points in rec-league play and six years since he earned the Hustle Award the last summer of Ray Meyer's camp? Where did the time go?

I'm far too young and too cool to be an empty-nester. At least that's what all the groovy chickadees tell me. (Kids today call them groovy chickadees, right?)

Ben already has lined up a ride back to Chicago for Labor Day weekend, and I'm glad. While he's home, maybe we'll finally play our World Championship of Ugly Basketball. If so, I'll have no delusions of grandeur.

I long ago chose mediocre golf over bad, potentially injurious hoops. (My Achilles tendons thank me.) Ben is 27 years younger than I am, considerably more athletic and immeasurably more skilled. Having grown to about 6 feet, he's even a half-inch taller. (More, if you count his hair and my absence of same.)

If Ben plays to win - and he'd better, because he knows I will - the '97 Boys Club Junior Mr. Basketball should wipe up the court with his old man.

In the meantime, I pray the fine denizens of Illini Land will look out for my kid. Though Ben won't be leading Illinois to that elusive national title, he will contribute to the university community in his own unique way. That's one of my many hopes for him, anyway.

When faced with difficult choices, I hope he'll apply the values my wife and I have emphasized. I hope he'll be his own man, a leader and not a follower. Mostly, I hope Ben realizes we're proud of him and we'll always be there for him.

No matter his age, address or stature, he's still our little boy. We love him, unconditionally, for now and forever.

Mike Nadel (mikenadel@sbcglobal.net is the Chicago sports columnist for Copley News Service.