I told Bea everything as fast as I could remember it. How it was my older sister, Sal, who was the player. And what a player she was—15.6 ppg., 5.2 reb., 1993 Division III second team all-American. I told Bea about Game Day, the endless succession of Game Days, and the constant pressure in the house. Would the Lady Revolvers win? (We almost always did.) And when we did, the concern instantly became whether we’d win again. What about the occasional loss that occurred every other season? At age eight or nine, I would collapse on the gym floor in tears, until my mother remembered to scoop me up and take me home. But by age ten, I began to wonder if there was more to life. Surely there had to be. Then one day I flipped through a picture book of Matthew Brady’s Civil War photographs and was transported. The Civil War. Finally, here was something worth getting upset over. I went from picture books to real books. I kept on reading. The War of the Roses, the War of 1812, World Wars I and II. So many wars! History brought the welcome perspective I craved. Plagues, revolutions, the long decline of the Roman Empire—these became my passions. For the first time, I felt balanced and free. Yes, I still had to attend the games, but somehow, sitting halfway up the bleachers, I managed to keep reading book after book, looking up occasionally to check the score, and usually only after my mother gave me a sharp elbow to the ribs.

It felt good to tell someone, even Bea Myerly. We were both laughing when the phone rang. I answered it. It was Kate, none too pleased. “Where are you?”

I looked at the small clock on my desk. Uh-oh. I was supposed to have been home an hour earlier.

Kate said nothing. She didn’t need to. The boys were crying in the background.

I said, “I’m sor—” but she’d already hung up the phone.

That night, back at home, I was in even more trouble. Kate had left a not-so-subtle note: Deal with this!

In moments, I was clutching the final disconnection notice from the phone company, standing in our kitchen with the receiver wedged between my right ear and shoulder. This particular final disconnection notice was emphatic. Call immediately, make special arrangements, or else service would be terminated Tuesday. Well, it was Tuesday. And I’d been put on hold. I had a terrible thought—They might even terminate service while I’m holding! Just then a miracle, an operator—I’m sorry, a customer service representative—came on. She sounded pleasant enough, as if she had a sense of humor, so I said, “I’m sorry to hear about your troubles.” She didn’t answer. “Times must be tough,” I continued. Phone company employee: “How do you mean?” “Tell me, will Verizon go broke or be shut down if you don’t receive our $73.42 immediately?” Not amused, she explained my “option.” (I was not aware that one possibility constituted an option.) We would need to pay the next day, in person, by five P.M., and only a money order would be accepted. Click.