But Jack loved the game, and that meant the world to me. Jack was a sweet kid, deeply geeky in the absolute best way, and needy, as befit a boy who lost his father so tragically and prematurely.

Ali couldn't get here until halftime and I am, if nothing else, supportive.

Win was still frowning. "Let me get this straight: You turned down spending a weekend with the delectable Ms. Collins and her world-class derriere in a boutique hotel in Paris?"

It was always a mistake talking relationships with Win.

"That's right," I said.

"Why?" Win turned toward me. He looked genuinely perplexed. Then his face relaxed. "Oh, wait."

"What?"

"She's put on weight, hasn't she?"

Win.

"I have no idea."

"So?"

"You know, so. I'm involved, remember?"

Win stared at me as if I were defecating on the court.

"What?" I said.

He sat back. "You're such a very big girl."

The game horn sounded, and Jack pulled on his goggles and lumbered toward the scorer's table with that wonderfully goofy half-smile. The Livingston fifth-grade boys were playing their archrivals from Kasselton. I tried not to smirk at the intensity-not so much the kids' as the parents' in the stands. I try not to generalize but the mothers usually broke down into two groups: the Gabbers, who used the occasion to socialize, and the Harried, who lived and died each time their offspring touched the ball.

The fathers were often more troublesome. Some managed to keep their anxiety under wraps, muttering under their breaths, biting nails. Other fathers screamed out loud. They rode refs, coaches, and kids.