Mom tries to implement the plays that Mr. Rutledge wrote down, but it's not going so well. She doesn't know a small forward from a guard. Things like a fade away mean absolutely nothing to her. Then she asks the most hapless player on the team to show her how to do certain plays.

"Billy, can you show me how to do a fade away?" she asks.

Aaron snatches the ball that Mom has just placed in Billy's bumbling hands and fakes driving it in, then shoots and falls back.

Mom doesn't check to see if it goes in, she just motions for one of the other guys to toss it back to her and hands it back to Billy.

"Go ahead, Billy." she says pleasantly.

"I just did it," Aaron says.

"But I didn't ask you, now did I? I think I asked Billy to show me."

"He can't do it," Aaron says.

"Go ahead, Billy." Mom smiles and steps aside for Billy to take the spot light.

Billy takes the ball in his hands, dribbles a couple of times and clumsily takes a step. He looks at my mom again, hesitates, then bites his lip. He tosses the ball in the air, he doesn't shoot it, just sort of flings it out of his hands. It doesn't come anywhere near the rim.

"Thank you, Billy."

"He didn't even do it right," Aaron says, his voice high pitched and stressed out. He stares at my mom like she's nuts. Actually, we are all staring at her, even Billy.

"You're welcome, Mrs. Weston," Billy says. His plump cheeks turn pink with embarrassment.

Over the next fifteen minutes Mom takes notes while we show her some very basic moves.

"Okay, boys, I've seen enough. Monday come in with enthusiasm, a good attitude, and an open mind. The hard part starts next week."

I hear Aaron whisper to Mac, "The hard part started when she walked through the door."




Mom has to work a double shift on Saturday, so my regular babysitter, Mrs. Jenkins, checks in on me throughout the day. Mrs. Jenkins lives a few doors down, so I don't have to go stay with her since I'm in middle school now.

"I'm made your favorite for dinner tonight," she says. "Eggplant Parmesan."

"Oh, great, I was afraid you might forget this time," I say, mustering as much enthusiasm as I can. The truth is, I don't really like it all that much. I was just taught to be polite and try whatever is on my plate. And always compliment the chef. But since I said it's good one time, Mrs. Jenkins makes it every time she has to watch out for me.

I like Mrs. Jenkins. She knew my dad since he was a little boy. She will sometimes tell me some of the crazy things he did growing up. Like one time he let the air out of the Assistant Principal's tires. He stole the flag from the Patterson Proper post office. He didn't get in trouble, only because my Granddad bought the post office a nicer one. But as part of Dad's punishment, he had to go raise it and lower it for six months. No matter what the weather was like, there was Jason Weston putting out or taking in the flag.

She says you could look into his eyes and see the wheels turning in that head of his. She would be the first to tell you my dad was a little devil, but he had a heart of gold.

"So, your mom tells me she's coaching at the middle school. What's that like?"

"She's not any good."

"Well, maybe you could help her."

I stare at the huge steaming pile of eggplant on my plate and feign interest in it.

"Jack, you look just like your father used to when he was upset. What's on your mind?"

I know everything I say to Mrs. Jenkins will go straight back to my mom, so I unleash the angry devil inside of me.

"She's embarrassing me. She's making all the parents mad. She gets the worst player on our team to show her plays. She's no good."

"So, she'll get better."

My anger is hotter than the eggplant. "No, she won't."

"Are you hoping she will get better or are you hoping she'll quit?" she asks.

"What made her do this?" I ask.

Without a word, Mrs. Jenkins walks around and hugs me.

"Because she's a good mom. She'd do anything for you. Even if it means making enemies and making a fool of herself in the process." She gives me a squeeze and starts back for the kitchen. "You're a very lucky boy, Jack."

Mrs. Jenkins has no idea how wrong she is.