The Hornets win easily, and after the game Mabley runs down to the court and gives Pete a hug, even though he’s sweaty. You can see the sweat patches on her clothes, and she laughs about it. Everybody’s in a good mood. Mom comes to pick me up and talks to Mr. Tomski for a few minutes before driving me home.

“I’m proud of you,” she says. I’m sitting in the back seat, and she turns to look behind her, before pulling out of the parking space. “You’re a part of the team. You won, too.”

But that’s not what it feels like. “I’m not, not really. You know what they call me, right?”

“What do they call you?” she asks.

“Ball Boy. You want to know why?”

She glances at me in the mirror, and I look away.

I want to say, because of you. Because you called me your basketball boy and Pete overheard you. Because they think I’m a mommy’s boy, which isn’t even wrong, though they don’t know that. Because I’m twelve years old and we still sleep in the same room. Because I haven’t seen my dad in six months. But I don’t say any of those things, I just say, “All I do is I run around and get the balls. I don’t do anything.”

“That’s not true,” she says. “That’s just not true. You’re a part of the team, too.” But I can tell even she doesn’t really believe it.

Eighteen

SOMETIMES I IMAGINE that I’m playing in one of the games—taking the shots that Pete makes, and making them, too.

Or time is running out on the clock and the Hornets are down by one, when Pete passes me the ball. “Come on, Ben!” he says. “Just shoot it!”

Then I dribble up to the basket and shoot. If the ball goes in, I can hear a thousand kids cheering. If I miss—well, if I miss, I have to shoot again until the kids start cheering in my head.

One day, after lunch, I’m shooting around by myself. A big cloud overhead sags above the treetops. It’s not warm or cold, just one of those days when the sky seems to send back echoes. I can hear the ball twice at every dribble: the bounce and the echo. There’s nothing really on my mind.

“Mind if I join you?”

I turn around, startled. Sam steps out from behind the tree. He’s wearing work boots and big blue overalls, and he walks a little the way my dad used to walk after going jogging—as if his hips hurt.

“Pardon?” This is what Granma has taught me to say.

“Here, let me see that ball.”

He takes a shot, which bounces off the rim and rolls into the grass. I walk over to pick the ball up and throw it to him; he kind of leans back, shoots, and holds his hand out afterward—his shot has a long high arc. For a few minutes, I chase down the ball and keep passing it back to him, and after a while, he says, “All right, kid. I’m all warmed up now. Let’s see what you got.”