A Mother’s Son

Isaac Newton said it right, what goes up must come down. But that night in the Burley, Idaho, gym, I wasn’t so sure. I saw the ball spinning high above the rim, and I wondered if it wasn’t lost in an orbit of its own making. When it did come twirling out of the air, it hit the front of the rim and went flying upward once again. But the real trouble didn’t start until Lane Philips, my one and only star, leaped and tipped the ball to one of the Spartans standing underneath the basket. In his haste to make it right, he reached out and slapped at the ball, missing the other player’s hand by a good three or four inches. At least that’s how I saw it, but in those days, I was always a step back from what was really happening. Unfortunately, the ref saw it differently, as did everyone else sitting in the stands. He blew his whistle with a long shrieking trill, and I had no choice but to come flying off the bench and fight for what I thought was best for my team. “You better start making the right calls, Peawood, or we’ll be talking about it in the parking lot after the game.”

“We’re going to get you for that one,” Peawood screamed, blowing his whistle once again.

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