“That’s a great idea, Tom,” my mother says.

She gives me a sharp look, which means, Behave yourself. But I’m angry and don’t want to behave.

“Did you ever play basketball?” I ask him. “I mean, in college.”

Mr. Tomski leans back in his chair. “I always had a great love for the game of basketball. More love than talent. I played a little in high school. Mostly I sat on the bench. In college, though, I volunteered to be the team manager. I got to travel around with the players and watch their games. I also did things like wash their uniforms and keep score in practice, that kind of thing.”

“That doesn’t sound like much fun,” I say.

Mr. Tomski takes a sip of coffee. “You know what I always loved about basketball?” he asks me. “It’s like a problem to be solved. And part of that problem is people. You have to work out what kind of people you are dealing with, and what they can give you, and what they can’t give you. It’s a little like teaching that way.”

One of the things that annoys me about Mr. Tomski is the way he gives you his complete attention. I think he thinks that . . . I don’t know, it’s like he wants you to know he’s taking you seriously, but really it just makes you feel like a little kid. But he talks to everybody this way, even my mom.

“The other thing about basketball,” he says to her, “from a coach’s point of view, is that people leave you alone. This is a football town. If you’re the football coach, you get people breathing down your neck, partly just because of the money involved. It costs about five hundred dollars to outfit one kid to play football. Basketball is basically free. You can do what you want.”

At this point it’s a little after ten o’clock. Mr. Tomski puts his hands on the table and slowly pushes himself up. “It’s been a treat,” he says, mostly looking at Granma. “But it’s a school night and I need to get my beauty sleep.” He turns to me. “Good night, Ben. I’ve told your mother, she’s got a lot to be proud of. You’re not one of those kids a teacher has to worry about, though I wouldn’t mind hearing from you a little more in class. I have a feeling you’ve got good things to say.”

“I’ll try, Mr. Tomski.”

He smiles at me. “Tomski’s fine for the classroom, but we can work on that, too.”

Mom gets up. “I’ll walk you out,” she says. She follows him to the door and leaves it open as they stand on the front porch. I start helping Granma clear the dessert plates, but she’s not really doing anything—she’s just standing at the sink. After a minute, she kind of comes to attention. “Leave that, Ben. Why don’t you get ready for bed.” I can tell that she’s listening for the door to close; she’s waiting for Mom to come back in.