Travel Team by Mike Lupica Page B

boy?”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œNever mind,” she said, looking a little embarrassed. “I don’t need other people to remind me I’m getting older, I do it to myself. Constantly.”
    â€œYou’re still young,” he said, as a mild form of protest.
    â€œWell, not if I’m coming at you with old TV shows like The Six Million Dollar Man . It was about this hunky guy who was half-hunky guy and half-superhuman robot.”
    Danny said, “How big did they make him?”
    She acted as if she hadn’t heard him.
    â€œIs your knee really hurting you?” she asked. “Should I call Dr. Jim?”
    He had muted the Knicks-Timberwolves preseason game he’d been watching when she’d come into the room. Now he pointed the remote at the set and let the voices of Marv Albert and Walt Frazier rejoin them.
    â€œI think I’ll just rest it a couple more days,” Danny said.
    â€œBy the way,” she said, “when are the tryouts for Y basketball?”
    â€œComing up pretty soon,” he said, trying to be as vague as possible. “Will mentioned something about that the other day, I think.”
    â€œIt would be fun if the two of you ended up on the same team.”
    On television, Frazier was talking about somebody whooping and swooping, then swishing and dishing, but Danny had missed the play.
    â€œ Really fun,” he said. “Fun, fun, fun.”
    â€œIs that sarcasm, Daniel Walker?”
    â€œJust kidding,” he said.
    Always the last line of defense, whether you were kidding or not.
    He muted the set again. “Have you seen Dad?”
    â€œAt the Candy Kitchen the other day when I ran in to grab a sandwich. He was at the same seat at the counter he’s been sitting at since high school. I’m going to petition the town to give it landmark status.”
    â€œBy himself?” Danny said. “Not doing anything?”
    â€œYes,” his mom said in a voice so soft it surprised him, just because of who they were talking about. “That’s exactly what he was doing. Sitting alone. Not talking to anybody. Not doing anything except drinking a cup of coffee.”
    She came off the couch and knelt next to the easy chair. “Is there something you want to talk about that we’re not talking about here? Like this knee of yours, maybe, and how maybe that’s not the thing that’s keeping you off the court?”
    He looked past her to the Knicks game—you had to be careful about eye contact sometimes, eye contact could get you every time—and said, “What would you think if I didn’t, like, play basketball this year?”

    Danny had to give his mom credit. She didn’t start yelling about it on the spot, though that didn’t actually surprise him, she’d never been one of those parents who felt like she had to pump up the volume every time there was a disagreement in the house, or you stepped out of line.
    Even when she got really mad at you about something, she didn’t act as if you’d suddenly gone deaf.
    Even when you were talking about quitting basketball, at least for the time being.
    â€œYou’ve always played, from the time you were big enough,” she said.
    Meaning, old enough.
    â€œMaybe I need a break, is all.”
    â€œAt the age of twelve?”
    What she’d do in moments like this was, she’d start straightening up the room. Moving magazines about an inch, one way or the other, on the coffee table. Fluffing up pillows on the couch that didn’t need fluffing.
    Waiting him out a little bit.
    Danny said, “Mr. Fleming has baseball workouts all winter, at the tennis bubble. Just about every weekend.”
    Danny Walker played second base in baseball, always batted leadoff because of his size. And he was good. Just not as good as he was in basketball. At least as good as he used to think he was in basketball.
    â€œYou could do both,”