Never Blame the Umpire Read Free Page B

words or details of the dream so I’ll be able to remember it longer. I’m not very good at doing it, though. The details of my dreams always fade after a few seconds. I usually end up with a couple of words or sentences that really don’t make much sense when I read them a day or two later. Sometimes I can’t even read my scribbling.
    A dream is a lot like eating orange sherbet; it’s sweet and pleasant and you want the taste to last and last, but it’s gone too soon. Nothing is left except the memory that once upon a time something really tasty had been there.
    I slip into my summer school clothes—loose fitting denim shorts and a white t-shirt, sneakers, and white socks. The temperature is supposed to be in the low nineties. The director of our school toldus we could dress comfortably, as long as we dress tastefully. By “tastefully” she means don’t show too much skin and don’t wear clothing too tight or with dirty words written on it. Even if I wanted to dress that way, which I don’t, Mama and Dad would never permit it, so the school’s dress code really isn’t a problem for me.
    Mama is standing at the kitchen counter. My breakfast is waiting for me—a bowl of cold cereal with a sliced banana, orange juice, and a glass of milk. I pour half the milk into my bowl of cereal. Soggy cereal is really gross, so whenever Mama has breakfast waiting for me, she makes it a point to let me pour the milk into the bowl myself.
    “Hi, Mama. Are you feeling better?”
    She smiles. “I am, honey. Thanks.” Her eyes have hints of red in them. She looks tired.
    “Are you going in to work today? You look like you could use some more sleep.”
    She pours herself a cup of coffee and sits at the table. “I look that bad?” She says it in a teasing way, and I can’t help but smile.
    “You never look bad, you know that. You do look tired, though.”
    “I guess I didn’t sleep well,” she says. She butters some toast, but doesn’t eat it. She just stares at it for a moment. “I’ll be going to work, same as always, as soon as the bus picks you up. Mr. Randolph’s officewould fall apart without me there. You know how it is. Ken’s the only one lucky enough to sleep late, now that you have to get up early for your class.”
    She motions toward the toast. “You want some?”
    I shake my head. “Has Dad left already?”
    “About twenty minutes ago.”
    I glance at my watch. I still have plenty of time before I have to walk to the bus stop. “I think you should make Ken get up, too,” I say. “I bet there are plenty of chores for him to do while we’re all out working so hard.”
    “Oh, are they working you hard?” There’s a twinkle in her eyes. She doesn’t seem to be sick. I’m so glad. I was worried about her. I don’t remember her ever being too sick to say good-night to me. Until last night.
    “In last night’s game I could hardly hold the bat, my hand was so stiff from all the writing that Mr. Gallagher has us do.”
    “Your hand must not have hurt too badly. Your father told me that you got the game-winning hit. I wish I could have seen it. I’m so proud of you. I can imagine how exciting it must have been.”
    “Oh, it was! Remember, you told us about the time you won the conference tennis championship in a tie-breaker that lasted forever. And how exciting that was. 15 – 13, wasn’t it? But I bet I was even more excited about my hit than you were about winningthat championship.”
    Mama smiles. Then she gets this faraway look in her eyes. It’s like she’s looking past me, maybe back to that tennis match. She blinks hard a couple of times, then looks back at me. “I’m glad,” she says.
    “Who knows, maybe I’ll have another chance. It’s a long season. Thirteen more games. I was talking to Ginny last night and she said she might even start coming to some of them.”
    Mama gets up from the table and carries her plate to the dishwasher. “That would be nice. She’s not much of a