Now she said nothing.

"So," I said, "to put it right out there, what does this mean for us?"

"Do you want to move to Scottsdale?" she asked.

I hesitated.

She put a hand on my arm. "Look at me."

I did. And then she said something I never saw coming:

"We're not forever, Myron. We both know that."

A group of kids rushed past us. One bumped into me and actually said, "Excuse me." A ref blew a whistle. A horn sounded.

"Mom?"

Jack, bless his little heart, appeared around the corner. We both snapped out of it and smiled toward him. He did not smile back. Usually, no matter how awful he'd played, Jack came bounding out like a born-again puppy, offering up smiles and high fives. Part of the kid's charm. But not today.

"Hey, kiddo," I said, because I wasn't sure what to say. Lots of times I hear people in similar situations say, "Good game," but kids know that it's a lie and that they're being patronized and that just makes it worse.

Jack ran over to me, wrapped his arms around my waist, buried his face in my chest, started to sob. I felt my heart crack anew. I stood there, cupping the back of his head. Ali was watching my face. I didn't like what I saw.

"Tough day," I said. "We all have them. Don't let it get to you, okay? You did your best, that's all you can do." Then I added something the boy would never understand but was absolutely true: "These games aren't really that important."

Ali put her hands on her son's shoulder. He let go of me, turned to her, buried his face again. We stood there like that for a minute, until he calmed down. Then I clapped my hands and forced up a smile.

"Anyone up for ice cream?"

Jack rebounded fast. "Me!"

"Not today," Ali said. "We need to pack and get ready."

Jack frowned.

"Maybe another time."

I expected Jack to give an "awww, Mom," but maybe he heard something in her tone too. He tilted his head and then turned back to me without another word. We knuckled up-that was how we said hello and good-bye, the fist-knuckle salute-and Jack started for the door.