Snow fell on upstate New York today, and I took my youngest son outside for a snowball fight. I expected to trounce the little fella, who can talk a fair amount of G-rated trash for a six-year-old. He had it coming. The wet white stuff packed beautifully as I shaped a perfect orb to hurl . . . but my hubris was spoiled by an astonishing case of the Chuck Knoblauchs. While Rowan assailed me with a fusillade of snowballs, my every pitch sailed high, wide, or short. When we trudged back inside, old dad was cold and soggy, and the first-grader glowed with the ruddy pride of a champion.
Scenes from the Knicks playing with their food
