The Boy Who Watched

The walk home felt longer than usual, the folded flyer burning a hole in Joe's backpack. Varsity Walk-Ons. All welcome. Jack's dare echoed in his head the whole way: You won't. You've never even made a free throw in gym.

That was the problem. Joe couldn't remember the last time a ball had cooperated with him. His hands were better suited to controllers and dog-eared paperbacks than to anything bouncing. He was barely five-nine in shoes, soft in the middle, and the closest he'd come to athletic glory was beating a video game on the hardest difficulty.

But something about that flyer wouldn't let go.

The screen door slapped shut behind him. The kitchen smelled like garlic and something simmering.

"That you, Joey?" his mom called.

"Yeah." He dropped his bag and pulled out the flyer, smoothing it on the counter before he could lose his nerve. "Mom. I'm gonna try out for the basketball team."
She turned from the stove slowly, wooden spoon still in hand. For a second she just looked at him, like she was waiting for the punchline.

"Basketball," she repeated.

"Varsity. There's walk-on tryouts Friday."

She set the spoon down. "Honey, you know I love you more than anything in this world." A pause. "You've also never once asked to shoot hoops in the driveway."

"I know."

"You read about black holes for fun."

"I know, Mom." He felt his face go hot. "But I want to. Just once, I want to be the guy who tried."

Her expression shifted then—the teasing softening into something he couldn't quite name. She crossed the kitchen and squeezed his shoulder.

"Then you'd better eat your dinner," she said quietly. "Tall or not, nobody plays on an empty stomach."

Joe grinned. It was the closest thing to a yes he'd ever gotten.