But it wasn't always that way. In fact, for many years, no matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't get the grass to grow in that back corner of the backyard lawn.

I would water, I would fertilize, I would reseed. But it remained a bare, brown spot in the otherwise lush expanse of green grass (well, kinda green, anyway).

Could it be a fungus killing the lawn, I asked myself? Or maybe that dreaded exotic insect, the grassus-eatus-upus?

Nope, I knew what it was. There's nothing anyone can do to protect a yard from kids.

When they decide that the back corner of the backyard lawn is home plate, you may as well resign yourself to the fact that there will be a bare spot in that part of the grass.

When they get a basketball hoop mounted above the garage door, understand that you will not be able to park the car in the driveway for, oh, I'd say 12 to 15 years.

And the garage door? It's just a great big pitchback on springs! It will be freckled with so many brown spots from flying tennis balls that your house will look like it's contracted some rare form of domestic measles.

If there's a sport to be tried, or a game to be played, it's been tried or played at our house—inside or out!

And except for the time they tried to turn the garage into an ice hockey rink by wetting down the floor and opening the freezer door, I pretty much went along with their wishes.

We always figured that our house was our home. We wanted our kids to enjoy themselves and create fond memories in their childhood. We wanted our home to be the gathering place for all of the neighborhood kids (selfishly, so we'd always know where our own kids were and what they were doing).

It was different when I was a kid. My dad's yard was a showplace, and he liked it that way.

Now, I never did nor will I ever play basketball in the NBA. And for that, I blame my dad. You see, when I was a kid, he wouldn't let us put a basketball hoop up above the garage door.

It will spoil the lines of the house, he'd say. It will cheapen the neighborhood, he'd say. The neighbors will complain, he'd say.

Fine. Well, maybe that's the very reason why Michael Jordan became the pride and joy of the NBA and I didn't! Well, one of the reasons, anyway.

My dad resisted, but he eventually he gave in (thanks to pressure from my mom). Our great big side lawn was the neighborhood football field, we chalked in home plate and bases on the street in front of the house for a baseball field, and he finally put up a hoop on the garage.

Our house eventually became the gathering place for the neighborhood kids and my popularity grew each summer (the folks assured me that it had nothing to do with the fact that we had the only swimming pool on the street).

In more recent years, our house became a popular spot for the kids of the neighborhood, and we didn't even have a pool. But the yard certainly had the battle scars associated with two boys growing up.

"I didn't mean to stomp on the petunias ... but if I'd gone around, he would have tagged me out!"

Somehow, it made sense to me.

But, then, I always figured that the yard abuse was an investment. The boys would turn pro one day, and after signing those lucrative baseball and football contracts, they'd get me out of this dumpy house with the ratty yard and into something nice.

Then I figured that maybe they'd get scholarships, paying for their college tuition so that I could pay a gardener.

Neither happened. But at the very least, I figured they would have fun, enjoy their growing years, and know that home was a place where they, and their friends, were always welcome.

And you know what? They had a blast!

The way I see it, a house is only wood, concrete and vertical blinds—but a home is where children grow, create warm memories, and develop physically and emotionally for a lifetime to follow.

Now the shrubs and flowers are all coming in nicely, the lawn furniture is no longer piled up to create a fort against the back fence, and the lawn is growing lush and green like the ones you see in the Ortho ads.

And you know what? I really miss the brown spot.

Want to talk? Call me at 408.354.3110, ext. 31, or drop me a note at dsparrer@svcn.com.