THE GAME
by Michelle Watson
See that girl? She looks great out there, in her pink spandex top, matching pink shorts and white Skechers with flashing lights and metallic charms on the laces.
"Mom, I can do it!" she yells. "Just watch me. "
She bounces the ball across the concrete driveway, aims gingerly at the net, and hurls the ball with all the strength and resolve of a kindergartener. The hoop was purchased for her older brother, but for the last two weeks, she's out here shooting basketballs, while I sit on the front steps and cheer her on.
There's only one problem.
She hasn't hit the net yet.
Not once.
Not even when standing two feet from it, her small body lurched forward, her arms outstretched, holding the ball by the tips of her fingers.
"Are you watching?" she asks and shuffles her feet. "This is the one. You'll see!"
She dribbles the ball with steady, eager rhythm, then stops suddenly and throws, hard. The ball makes a graceful arch, eclipses the sun for a second, and falls down, bouncing across the driveway.
Lana comes over and plops down next to me, stretching her legs stiffly in front of her. Her innocuous-looking eyes settle their gaze on mine with candid perplexity. "I give up, Mom. "
"Guess what?" I tell her. "I think you just need someone to pass you the ball. "
"Will you do it, Mom?"
I am still wearing my office clothes: Slim cobalt skirt, curved heels, my hair tidily arranged into a high bun. "Oh, now? No, but maybe tomorrow, honey. "
"Please, Mom!" The evening light edges Lana's face in a white halo, giving her an uncertain, suspended look.
"All right," I tell her. "Let's do it. "
I rescue the ball and dribble it a couple of times before passing to Lana. She catches neatly and passes the ball right back to me.
Okay. One more time.
I dribble, rock forward with my right foot, snap my wrists as I throw a chest pass at Lana. This time she catches, aims, throws high and straight.
We both stand and watch. The ball ricochets off the backboard, teeters on the rim, then falls neatly inside the net.
"Cool!" Says Lana.
We settle down on the steps together, elbow to elbow, skin to skin, and watch the sunset.
And as the orange circle rolls fastidiously into the distant net of pines, Lana says, on a long, tired exhale, "You know, Mom, I think I'll try soccer next. "
Michelle was born and raised in Odessa, Ukraine. She now lives in the suburb of Saint Louis, Missouri with her husband and two sons. Michelle is a member of Monday Night Writers of Saint Louis. She is currently working on a novel about Russian immigrants.
