But Jack loved the game, and that meant the world to me. Jack was a sweet kid, deeply geeky in the absolute best way, and needy, as befit a boy who lost his father so tragically and prematurely.

Ali couldn't get here until halftime and I am, if nothing else, supportive.

Win was still frowning. "Let me get this straight: You turned down spending a weekend with the delectable Ms. Collins and her world-class derriere in a boutique hotel in Paris?"

It was always a mistake talking relationships with Win.

"That's right," I said.

"Why?" Win turned toward me. He looked genuinely perplexed. Then his face relaxed. "Oh, wait."

"What?"

"She's put on weight, hasn't she?"

Win.

"I have no idea."

"So?"

"You know, so. I'm involved, remember?"

Win stared at me as if I were defecating on the court.

"What?" I said.

He sat back. "You're such a very big girl."

The game horn sounded, and Jack pulled on his goggles and lumbered toward the scorer's table with that wonderfully goofy half-smile. The Livingston fifth-grade boys were playing their archrivals from Kasselton. I tried not to smirk at the intensity-not so much the kids' as the parents' in the stands. I try not to generalize but the mothers usually broke down into two groups: the Gabbers, who used the occasion to socialize, and the Harried, who lived and died each time their offspring touched the ball.

The fathers were often more troublesome. Some managed to keep their anxiety under wraps, muttering under their breaths, biting nails. Other fathers screamed out loud. They rode refs, coaches, and kids.

One father, sitting two rows in front of us, had what Win and I had nicknamed "Spectator Tourette's," spending the entire game seemingly unable to stop himself from berating everyone around him out loud.

My perspective on this is clearer than most. I had been that rare commodity-the truly gifted athlete. This came as a shock to my entire family since the greatest Bolitar athletic accomplishment before I came around was my uncle Saul winning a shuffleboard tournament on a Princess Cruise in 1974. I graduated from Livingston High School as a Parade All-American. I was a star guard for Duke, where I captained two NCAA championship teams. I had been a first-round draft pick of the Boston Celtics.

And then, kaboom, it was all gone.

Someone yelled, "Substitution."

Jack adjusted his goggles and ran onto the court.

The coach of the opposing team pointed at Jack and shouted, "Yo, Connor! You got the new man. He's big and slow. Drive around him."

Tourette's Dad bemoaned, "It's a close game. Why are they putting him in now?"

Big and slow? Had I heard right?

I stared at the Kasselton head coach. He had highlight-filled, mousse-spiked hair and a dark goatee neatly trimmed so that he resembled an aging boy-band bass. He was tall-I'm six four and this guy had two inches on me, plus, I would guess, twenty to thirty pounds.

" ' He's big and slow'?" I repeated to Win. "Can you believe the coach just yelled that out loud?"

Win shrugged.

I tried to shake it off too. Heat of the game. Let it go.

The score was tied at twenty-four when disaster struck. It was right after a time-out and Jack's team was inbounding the ball under the opposing team's hoop. Kasselton decided to throw a surprise press at them. Jack was free. The ball was passed to him, but for a moment, with the defense on him, Jack got confused. It happens.

Jack looked for help. He turned toward the Kasselton bench, the one closest to him, and Big Spiky-Haired Coach yelled, "Shoot! Shoot!" and pointed to the basket.

The wrong basket.

"Shoot!" the coach yelled again.

And Jack, who naturally liked to please and who trusted adults, did.

The ball went in. To the wrong hoop. Two points for Kasselton.

The Kasselton parents whooped with cheers and even laughter. The Livingston parents threw up their hands and moaned over a fifth grader's mistake. And then the Kasselton coach, the guy with the spiky hair and boy-band goatee, high-fived his assistant coach, pointed at Jack, and shouted, "Hey, kid, do that again!"

Jack may have been the biggest kid on the court, but right now he looked as if he were trying very hard to be as small as possible. The goofy half-smile fled. His lip twitched. His eyes blinked. Every part of the boy cringed and so did my heart.

A father from Kasselton was whooping it up. He laughed, cupped his hands into a flesh megaphone, and shouted, "Pass it to the big kid on the other team! He's our best weapon!"

Win tapped the man on the shoulder. "You will shut up right now."

The father turned to Win, saw the effete wear and the blond hair and the porcelain features. He was about to smirk and snap a comeback, but something-probably something survival basic and reptilian brained-made him think better of it. His eyes met Win's ice blues and then he lowered them and said, "Yeah, sorry, that was out of line."

I barely heard. I couldn't move. I sat in the stands and stared at the smug, spiky-haired coach. I felt the tick in my blood.

The buzzer sounded, signaling halftime. The coach was still laughing and shaking his head in amazement. One of his assistant coaches walked over and shook his hand. So did a few of the parents and spectators.

"I must depart," Win said.

I did not respond.

"Should I stick around? Just in case?"

"No."

Win gave a curt nod and left. I still had my gaze locked on that Kasselton coach. I rose and started down the rickety stands. My footsteps fell like thunder. The coach started for the door. I followed. He headed into the bathroom grinning like the idiot he undoubtedly was. I waited for him by the door.

When he emerged, I said, "Classy."

The words "Coach Bobby" were sewn in script onto his shirt. He stopped and stared at me. "Excuse me?"

"Encouraging a ten-year-old to shoot at the wrong basket," I said. "And that hilarious line about 'Hey, kid, do it again' after you help humiliate him. You're a class act, Coach Bobby."

The coach's eyes narrowed. Up close he was big and broad and had thick forearms and large knuckles and a Neanderthal brow. I knew the type. We all do.

"Part of the game, pal."

"Mocking a ten-year-old is part of the game?"

"Getting in his head. Forcing your opponent to make a mistake."

I said nothing. He sized me up and decided that, yeah, he could take me. Big guys like Coach Bobby are sure they can take pretty much anyone. I just stared at him.

"You got a problem?" he said.

"These are ten-year-old kids."

"Right, sure, kids. What are you-one of those namby-pamby, touchy-feely daddies who thinks everyone should be equal on the court? No one should get their feelings hurt, no one should win or lose… hey, maybe we shouldn't even keep score, right?"

The Kasselton assistant coach came over. He had on a matching shirt that read "Assistant Coach Pat." "Bobby? Second half's about to start."

I took a step closer. "Just knock it off."

Coach Bobby gave me the predictable smirk and reply. "Or what?"

"He's a sensitive boy."

"Boo hoo. If he's that sensitive, maybe he shouldn't play."

"And maybe you shouldn't coach."

Assistant Coach Pat stepped forward then. He looked at me, and that knowing smile I was all too familiar with spread across his face. "Well, well, well."

Coach Bobby said, "What?"

"Do you know who this guy is?"

"Who?"

"Myron Bolitar."

You could see Coach Bobby working the name, as if his forehead had a window and the squirrel running on the little track was picking up speed. When the synapses stopped firing, Coach Bobby's grin practically ripped the boy-band goatee at the corners.

"That big 'superstar'"-he actually made quotation marks with his fingers-"who couldn't hack it in the pros? The world-famous first-round bust?"