Long Shot - Mike Lupica [21]
But even his favorite point guards couldn’t get him out of his bad mood tonight. Pedro kept replaying his whole day, felt like he was using TiVo on everything that had happened to him—not just in the Knights-Cavaliers game, but also with him and Joe at Carinor Park.
I don’t know you, Joe had said.
It made Pedro mad all over again, but not because Joe was wrong.
Pedro didn’t even know himself right now.
“Hey.”
He turned around and saw his mom standing at the bottom of the stairs, a big bowl of popcorn in her hands.
She was smiling.
“Since Dad’s working late,” she said, “I decided to send myself into the game.”
Pedro said, “You always tell me that the only basketball game you’re interested in is one I’m playing.”
“Well,” she said, taking the other end of the couch, placing the bowl on the coffee table, “that is technically true. But tonight your old mom just got the feeling that you could use a little company down here in the boys club.”
His mom didn’t miss much.
“Mom,” Pedro said, “you don’t have to keep me company. I’m okay.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t.”
On the TV screen, the announcers were all excited because Chris Paul had just dribbled down the baseline, gone underneath the basket, then somehow wheeled when he got into the deep corner and threw a pass out to the opposite wing, where David West was standing all alone to make a three-pointer.
“How did he see the other player all the way over there?” Anna Morales said.
“Chris Paul has eyes in the back of his head,” Pedro said.
“You know what my eyes are telling me?” she said.
That was the way it worked with her. Pedro knew this was coming from the time she’d showed up with the popcorn. She was closing in like a slick defender cutting off the court on him.
“What?” he said.
“That my boy isn’t acting like someone whose team won the game today.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Yes,” she said. “It is.”
He turned around so he was facing her. “I just feel like I got worse between last season and now,” he said. “And when I got out there today . . . ” He reached up with his right hand like he was trying to find the right words in the air between them. “When I got out there today I was just . . . lost.”
“Is it because you didn’t get to start?”
Pedro sighed. “Not being in the starting lineup, that was just the start of it. Even when I was in the game I didn’t really feel like I was in it.”
“Your dad said the same thing.”
“He did?”
“He said you weren’t . . . something.” Now she was the one searching for the right word, until she smiled again, in triumph. “Involved! He said you weren’t involved and he said you weren’t getting the other players involved the way you usually do.”
“Papa was right. As usual.”
“But he said he wasn’t worried about you, that you’d figure it out.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“Your dad says that when a door closes in front of you, you find a way to get it open. Or you just kick it down.”
“I feel more like a door got slammed in my face today.”
He knew he had to stop now, because if he tried to tell her more he would have to tell her all of it. And if Joe didn’t get what was going on, how could his mom?
He said, “Tell Dad not to worry, I’ll figure it out.”
He turned himself back so he was facing the television set, hoping that would be a sign to her that they were done talking about this for now.
Only he had said the wrong thing.
“Your dad’s got enough to worry about these days,” she said.
“What does that mean?” Pedro said. “Is something wrong at the restaurant?”
“Nothing he can’t fix,” she said. “You know your dad. He thinks he can fix everything except the weather.”
“That’s because he can.”
“It’s just that the owner of his old restaurant isn’t being so nice these days,” she said. “Your dad thought everybody at Miller’s would be happy for him. But now as he gets closer to his opening, he doesn’t think they’re so happy to have the competition. Too many people come in and ask him when Luis’s place is going to open.”
Pedro hit the mute button on the remote.