hadbeen a handball champion back when he lived in New Jersey.
But he was too busy to play these days; too tired.
Tree headed to the basement to watch.
Thump.
Dad hurled the little handball against the basement wall; stepped back to cup it in his right hand as it bounced toward him. The best thing about this house was the high basement ceiling.
Thwack.
The wall had ball marks on it. The marks had always bothered Tree’s mother, who wanted to paint the wall yellow.
Handball walls are gray.
Any guy knows that.
Thump. Thwack.
There’s a rhythm to handball.
Tree sat at the top of the basement stairs and watched. It seemed to Tree that his dad was always happier when he was moving. Tree was happiest when he was taking things apart.
It’s funny how life gets so complicated, you don’t get to do the thing that makes you happy. You have to concentrate on the things that are expected.
His dad should have been a coach.
Run a sports camp for kids.
Thump.
His dad had helped Curtis and Larry all through school athletics. He’d tried to help Tree, too, especially in football.
“Size-wise, Big Man, you’ve got the potential to be one mean defensive lineman.”
“I don’t know, Dad.”
“Just crouch down and hold your arms out. There’s no finesse required.”
If Tree could have changed one thing about himself, it would have been that he was better at sports and shared that with his father.
He looked at the glass case on the other side of the basement. Curtis’s and Larry’s sports awards were there: most valuable player certificates, athlete of the year trophies, Larry’s medal for most home runs in a season.
Tree had never once won an award.
The little handball spun off the wall. Dad made a low catch. Gently threw the ball on the wall with English. Looked up, saw Tree watching him. Did his famous triple ball bounce off two walls and caught it behind his back.
That move used to drive Tree’s mother bonkers. She’d run to the basement door and shout, “Is everyone all right?”
Funny the things you miss when you don’t have them around anymore.
Dad threw the ball easy to Tree, who missed the catch.
It bounced off the stairs and rolled beneath the washing machine, where handballs go to die.
“Sorry, Dad.”
Now the thunder of older brothers racing down the basement stairs. Older brothers who were good at handball. First-string.
“Come on,” Dad said to Tree.
“I’ll just watch.” He didn’t want to look stupid.
Dad served. Larry caught it low, spun it on the wall. Curtis caught it between his legs, returned the bounce strong.
Thump.
Pow.
Thwack.
Larry went all out for every ball; grunted, groaned.
Curtis had more confidence, but Larry played harder.
Larry could lie on a couch for hours looking half dead, but put a ball in his hand and he’d catch fire.
They were having so much fun.
They wouldn’t, probably, if Tree joined in. He always felt he slowed things down.
He felt like a woolly mammoth in a world of tigers and antelopes.
A giant sloth moving slowly up a tree when all the squirrels and monkeys had gotten there first.
He sat at the top of the stairs like he’d done most of his life.
He acted like he didn’t mind.
But he did.
C HAPTER T EN
“Choose how you’d die,” Sully said. “Shark attack, alien abduction, or”—he shuddered—“
ballroom dancing.
”
It was the first night of ballroom dance class. Sully, Eli, and Tree were standing behind the big bush near the entrance to the Y. From the front, Sully and Eli couldn’t be seen; Tree poked out like a giraffe in a necktie.
“Not dancing,” said Eli, who’d offered his parents half of his $123 life savings if he didn’t have to take this class.
“Maybe an alien,” Tree said.
Sully loosened his tie; his mother had yanked it tight like a noose. “I’d take the shark. But I’d need to have a heart attack first.”
Cars were pulling up to the entrance. Girls in dresses got out excitedly. Boys in
But he was too busy to play these days; too tired.
Tree headed to the basement to watch.
Thump.
Dad hurled the little handball against the basement wall; stepped back to cup it in his right hand as it bounced toward him. The best thing about this house was the high basement ceiling.
Thwack.
The wall had ball marks on it. The marks had always bothered Tree’s mother, who wanted to paint the wall yellow.
Handball walls are gray.
Any guy knows that.
Thump. Thwack.
There’s a rhythm to handball.
Tree sat at the top of the basement stairs and watched. It seemed to Tree that his dad was always happier when he was moving. Tree was happiest when he was taking things apart.
It’s funny how life gets so complicated, you don’t get to do the thing that makes you happy. You have to concentrate on the things that are expected.
His dad should have been a coach.
Run a sports camp for kids.
Thump.
His dad had helped Curtis and Larry all through school athletics. He’d tried to help Tree, too, especially in football.
“Size-wise, Big Man, you’ve got the potential to be one mean defensive lineman.”
“I don’t know, Dad.”
“Just crouch down and hold your arms out. There’s no finesse required.”
If Tree could have changed one thing about himself, it would have been that he was better at sports and shared that with his father.
He looked at the glass case on the other side of the basement. Curtis’s and Larry’s sports awards were there: most valuable player certificates, athlete of the year trophies, Larry’s medal for most home runs in a season.
Tree had never once won an award.
The little handball spun off the wall. Dad made a low catch. Gently threw the ball on the wall with English. Looked up, saw Tree watching him. Did his famous triple ball bounce off two walls and caught it behind his back.
That move used to drive Tree’s mother bonkers. She’d run to the basement door and shout, “Is everyone all right?”
Funny the things you miss when you don’t have them around anymore.
Dad threw the ball easy to Tree, who missed the catch.
It bounced off the stairs and rolled beneath the washing machine, where handballs go to die.
“Sorry, Dad.”
Now the thunder of older brothers racing down the basement stairs. Older brothers who were good at handball. First-string.
“Come on,” Dad said to Tree.
“I’ll just watch.” He didn’t want to look stupid.
Dad served. Larry caught it low, spun it on the wall. Curtis caught it between his legs, returned the bounce strong.
Thump.
Pow.
Thwack.
Larry went all out for every ball; grunted, groaned.
Curtis had more confidence, but Larry played harder.
Larry could lie on a couch for hours looking half dead, but put a ball in his hand and he’d catch fire.
They were having so much fun.
They wouldn’t, probably, if Tree joined in. He always felt he slowed things down.
He felt like a woolly mammoth in a world of tigers and antelopes.
A giant sloth moving slowly up a tree when all the squirrels and monkeys had gotten there first.
He sat at the top of the stairs like he’d done most of his life.
He acted like he didn’t mind.
But he did.
C HAPTER T EN
“Choose how you’d die,” Sully said. “Shark attack, alien abduction, or”—he shuddered—“
ballroom dancing.
”
It was the first night of ballroom dance class. Sully, Eli, and Tree were standing behind the big bush near the entrance to the Y. From the front, Sully and Eli couldn’t be seen; Tree poked out like a giraffe in a necktie.
“Not dancing,” said Eli, who’d offered his parents half of his $123 life savings if he didn’t have to take this class.
“Maybe an alien,” Tree said.
Sully loosened his tie; his mother had yanked it tight like a noose. “I’d take the shark. But I’d need to have a heart attack first.”
Cars were pulling up to the entrance. Girls in dresses got out excitedly. Boys in
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