It was just a fluke and I’m way overthinking it, when right now
what I should be thinking about is the game.
I take my car.
Syrah follows with Monica in hers. I’m sure sooner or later I’ll try to cheat the system and allow someone under twenty-five to ride with me
before my provisional license becomes unrestricted in a year. But for now I’ll play by the rules.
The high school isn’t far, and when we pull into the parking lot, I’m gratified to see it’s already filling with spectator vehicles.
A quick scan
doesn’t reveal Dad’s car, but it’s still an hour to game time,
so maybe he’ll show.
The GTO, now sporting a fresh coat of racing green paint, is noticeable, however.
I park close to the locker room, go in to suit up in my shiny blue uniform, nerves tingling.
This will be my first actual game
and as starting center the pressure to perform well is building.
Coach Booker gives a short pep talk
that does little to alleviate the tension bloating the space between the locker rows.
At least it’s not just me who’s nervous.
We’re all pacing
or bouncing up and down on our toes.
It’s a relief
when Coach calls us to go warm up.
At least until we file into the gym,
where the bleachers seem to sag beneath the weight of so many people.
But hey, it’s cool.
No reason to think we’ll blow it.
From Tip-Off to Halftime
It’s a fairly even match, the scoring shifting back and forth between teams.
Syrah misses a couple
of rebounds; I miss a shot or two, and so does Monica.
But on the upside, I sink four two-pointers and one from outside the key that nets us three. Monica scores a half-dozen times,
including the free throw
that puts us ahead
going into the locker
room at the half.
As we start in that direction, I scan the bleachers.
No sign of Dad. Big surprise.
I do catch sight of Hillary, who’s sitting between Peg and Gabe. They’re laughing.
One other person stands out, mostly because she holds
herself painfully straight, which puts her a good six inches taller than the man beside her, and if I’m not mistaken,
she’s staring at me.
When she sees me notice her, she smiles warmly,
as if we know each other, which we definitely don’t.
If she wasn’t so pretty,
I might think she was
some creepy stalker.
Maybe she just likes
watching stellar girls’
basketball play.
In the locker room,
Syrah comes puffing up,
water bottle in hand.
Did you see Gabe, all over Hillary? What’s up with that?
Why do you care? asks Monica. Not like he’s yours.
But maybe he could be.
I mean, as long as you’re finished with him. Addressed to me.
“Listen, if you can snag him, go for it.” Seems doubtful.
“Anyway, I don’t think
he and Hillary are together together. Just sitting together.”
Coach Rallies Us
For the third quarter, figuratively slapping us on the back and promising: You girls got this.
Now get on out there and take ’em down!
We don’t exactly drop them to their knees, but two quarters of hard play put us ahead by four at the end of the game, and I can personally take credit for nineteen points, second only to Monica.
Syrah even scored six, so we’re all happy
when that final buzzer rings. As we slap hands with the other team, the crowd begins to desert the stands and I notice Zelda’s with Gabe now, no Hillary, Peg, or Dad in view.
Thanks, Dad. Glad I mean so much to you.
But as I Shower
It occurs to me that Dad might have come with Zelda.
He could have been in
the bathroom taking a piss.
He could have been outside polluting his lungs.
He could have been at
the snack bar buying popcorn.
Nah. The snack shack
would have been closed.
But the other two options are still valid, so I’ll go in search of my father, hoping, if not believing, he’ll be here somewhere.
A phrase that materializes from the ether: glutton for punishment. And right behind that: none so blind as those who will not see. Wonder if the idioms will prove wrong.
If He’s Here
He’s here, so I’m not in a hurry, and I wait for Monica to slide into her deliciously tight jeans.
I wish I could straight-up go over and kiss her, but this is small-town girls’ basketball in a small-town high school in small-town Sonora, California, so the most I’ll do is lick my lips seductively (like I know anything about seduction
beyond what Monica herself
has managed to teach me) and
invite, “Come with me? I know
it’s stupid but I’m not-quite—
hoping my dad is out there,
pretending to have watched
the game. If he is, you can help me celebrate. If he isn’t, we can go find something to do to make me feel better. Unless you’ve got plans for an after-game party?”
She laughs. Last night taught me I’m not the party type. Except maybe private parties with you.
We Cut Back
Through the gym,
where several people are still milling around, including Monica’s family.
All of them.
Mom. Dad.
Two big brothers.