She leaned her head on his shoulder. “There’s so much shit out there, Micky. I try to tell myself that what we see isn’t everyday life. But with what’s going on at the schools, even the private schools, it keeps getting harder and harder.”

“Look at what you have, Dorothy,” McCain said soothingly. “Look at Marcus! The kid’s a shoo-in for law school, probably full scholarship.”

“Spencer isn’t Marcus. He isn’t the student that Marcus is, and being good at basketball isn’t enough!”

“It’s enough to get him into college.”

Dorothy sat up straighter. “If he doesn’t apply himself academically, that’s worth nothing.”

“One thing at a time, baby.” The horn blew. Halftime was over. “Can I make a suggestion that we not think about work or kids or marriage and just enjoy ourselves and watch the game?”

“Yeah, that’s why sports are so good for people. We can pretend the stakes are high, but really they’re meaningless.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” McCain answered.

The opposition brought the ball into play and missed the first shot.

Right away, Julius came down with the rebound and drilled it over to the point guard to take down the court. The Seahawks set up their positions playing the zone rather than a one-on-one. As soon as Julius got the ball, he was double-teamed, so he kicked it out to the perimeter. B.G. tried a long shot and missed, and Julius came down with the offensive rebound.

Julius went up for the shot.

He was promptly smashed in the chest by the opposing center’s arm. His body flew backward, and he hit the floor headfirst, a loud thud resonating as his skull made contact with the wood. The crowd emitted a single gasp. Then stunned silence as the coach, trainer, and teammates ran out to the floor and gathered around Van Beest’s motionless body. For the next few moments, time lengthened until the clock seemed to stop.

“Jesus, what was that guy thinking?” McCain muttered under his breath. “It ain’t a bar fight, you know.”

“And they say b-ball isn’t a contact sport,” Dorothy answered back. “Stupid kids.”

“Stupid coaches. I’m sure Ducaine’s coach said, ”I don’t care what you do, dammit, just take him down.“”

“If he said that, he should be fired,” Dorothy shot back. “Arrested.”

“Agreed.” McCain stared at the floor. “I think he’s wiggling his foot. Julius is.”

Dorothy craned her neck upward and looked at the giant screen. “Yeah, they’re talking to him.”

“He conscious, then?”

“Yeah, I believe he conscious. Thank God!”

Two men were bringing out the stretcher, but the Boston Ferris coach shook it off. Slowly, Julius sat up and waved.

The crowd broke into deafening cheers.

Two Pirate trainers helped Julius to his feet. Obviously unsteady, Van Beest looped one arm around one of the trainers and began to walk it off. If Van Beest wasn’t able to attempt his free throws, he would be out of commission for the entire game.

After a minute or so, Van Beest managed to walk up to the free-throw line without help. Shaking his head several times, blinking several times, he was off balance and winded.

He missed the first shot but made the second one.

Even in this compromised state, he could sink one, the ball touching nothing but net. Unreal, thought McCain. That kind of talent had to come from God.

Because the foul was ruled as a flagrant, the Pirates retained possession. Immediately, a time-out was called and substitutions were made. Julius got a rousing round of cheers as he was led to the lockers. Marcus came back on the floor.

The Pirate star was out for more than ten minutes of playing time, giving Ducaine an opportunity to come alive, reducing the lead to a single bucket. But then- straight from Hollywood -Julius came jogging up the ramp in his warm-up suit. With exaggerated flair, he unsnapped the suit and, without even so much as a glance at the coach, sat in front of the scorer’s table waiting for the horn to announce his presence.

A minute later, he was back on the court, determination and focus etched into his face. He made his first attempt-a nineteen-foot shot from the perimeter- showing everyone that his hands and eyes still worked perfectly in sync. On the opposite end of the court, he grabbed a defensive rebound, took it downcourt himself, and slammed down another basket.

Julius was angry.

Julius was turbocharged.

Julius was unstoppable.

In the end, the Pirates set a team record against Ducaine, winning by twenty-four points.

To keep his toes frost-free, McCain bounced on his feet as he waited outside the stadium with Dorothy. She just had to say good-bye to her son. The ushers had kicked them out of the building, and now they stood in the blistering chill of night waiting for the team because the coach had apparently come down with a serious case of postgame logorrhea. They stood among an enclave of well-wishers, friends, and relatives, including the middle-aged fanatics who lived vicariously through the team’s triumphs.

Guys with no life.

McCain experienced a sharp stab of depression, then shook it off, shielding his face with his gloved hands and letting out a puff of warm breath that drifted over his icy nose. “I don’t know how much longer I can stay out here, Dorothy.”

“So go home.”

“Not until you go home.”

She turned to him. “I’m not the one that’s freezing.”

“He don’t even want you around, Dorothy.”

She glared at him. “Sez who?”

“Sez me-a male who can remember far back enough to know that kids don’t want their moms around.”

A back door opened, and the team members began to filter out. The cheering was immediate. Hugs and kisses were passed all around. Marcus came toward his mother, and Dorothy, not one for subtlety, clasped her hands around his neck and hugged him hard enough to crack a few joints. He patronized her with a couple of pats on the back, then broke away.

“Hey, Micky.” Marcus was all smiles. “Thanks for coming.”

“You had some great moves tonight, Marcus.”

“Yeah, it was a good game.”

Dorothy said, “How about we celebrate with some cheesecake at Finale’s?”

Marcus smiled, but it was muted. “Actually, Ma, the guys and I were gonna go out for a few drinks.”

Dorothy’s eyes narrowed. “Where?”

“Where?”

“Yes. Where?”

“Ma, I’m twenty-one.”

“I know your age. I gave birth to you, remember?”

“We’re not having this conversation, Ma-”

“Don’t you cut me off.”

Marcus remained stoic, but his face was tense. “We’re going to hit a couple clubs, that’s all.” He kissed her cheek. “Go home. Don’t wait up for me.” Marcus jogged away, meeting up with his teammates, pounding fists and bumping chests with his friends. Julius walked up to him and grabbed his head, plowing his knuckles into Marcus’s helmet of kinky curls.

Dorothy smacked her lips and tried to hide disappointment. McCain put his arm around her. “Why don’t you and I go to Finale’s?”

She didn’t answer him.

“Dorothy?”

“Yeah, I’m here. I’m thinking that maybe I am a little tired. And I need to deal with Spencer. I should go home.” She turned away. “Thanks anyway.”

McCain said, “Don’t bite my head off, Dorothy, but I’m thinking that… Why don’t you let me have the talk with Spencer? Just a suggestion, okay? And think a moment before you refuse.”

She gave the idea some consideration. “Okay.”

McCain was stunned. “Okay?”

“I’m not in a good state right now, Micky. I’m smart enough to know that.”

“All right.” McCain took out a piece of nicotine gum and popped it in his mouth. “So I’ll meet you at your place.”

“Thanks, Mick. You’re a good friend.”

She leaned over and kissed the top of his head. She was an inch taller than he was and outweighed him by twenty pounds. On a good day, Dorothy could take him down in arm wrestling. She was strong, smart, and fearless, commanding instant authority with everyone from the high-muck-a-mucks to the most hardened of felons. People listened to her… except, of course, her own kids.