Mom’s Eyes

A Short Story To Celebrate Moms

I make my way to the free throw line. This wasn’t supposed to happen. My high school basketball team, the Foxes, was tied with our opponent. There were 2.1 seconds left on the clock.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. I shouldn’t be the one at the free throw line. Coach had drawn up the play in the huddle during the last time out. The play called for Ricky, our all star shooting guard, to get the ball in the corner. But somehow the ball was tipped around and I ended up with it. I threw up a mid-range jumper, knowing the clock was running out, and I was fouled in the process.

I wipe my sweaty palms on my basketball shorts as I step up to the line. I can’t feel anything but nerves as the referee says “relax on the first one guys’’ and passes me the ball. I almost drop it as the ball bounces up to me. I try to start my normal routine at the line, but I can’t even think straight. I panic. Is it two dribbles? Three? I take three. Not sure if that is what I usually do. As I look up from the dribbles and to the basketball hoop, just now do I realize the crowd for our cross-town rivals is going nuts.

I freeze. The noise reaches a deafening roar and I take an unconscious step back.

I am not supposed to be here. This is not me. This is Ricky. I can’t do this. Oh, the pressure! What kind of free throw shooter am I? What, 70% maybe? And that is in practice, in a controlled, not pressured, non-screaming fans environment. Sure, I am good at basketball, and I enjoy it and everything, but this is not what I signed up for. I didn’t want to be the star. I don’t have dreams of hitting the game winner, like Ricky has done for us before. That’s why Coach called the play he did.

I realize everyone is staring at me and, taking a step forward, I shoot. The shot just feels wrong. Form is awful and the shot hits the backboard and bounces off the right side of the rim.

I hear groans and I hear cheers, a lot of cheers. Well, at least that is over with. I knew this wasn’t supposed to be me. But then the referee has the ball again.

Oh, crap! Two shots, genius.

I step back from the line and let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Ricky comes up behind me from his position outside the arc, “Come on, you got this.”

He slaps my hand. And I almost say, “no I don’t.” The crowd goes quiet as it waits for me to step back up to the line.

I steal a quick glance at the bench. Coach is bent down, hands on his knees, the stress clear on his features. My gaze shifts to the right, where my parents are usually seated. Faces in the crowd are full of anticipation and of expectation. They expect me to make this shot. They need to win this game and think I will get this team to regionals with this basket. Have they not been paying attention all season? Have I ever had to make this shot?

Then my eyes see my mother’s face. There I don’t see expectations. I don’t see worry. I don’t see stress. I don’t see doubt.

I see love. I lock eyes with her and my heartbeat doesn’t seem so loud. My body doesn’t seem so tense. I feel less like I want to vomit.

The referee’s voice calls me back to the moment when he calls my number. “Alright five, here we go.” The referee seems to take extra time before saying, “Alright gentlemen, play it on the release.”

I step up to the line. I catch the ball cleanly this time.

The crowd erupts in screaming again. But I don’t hear it.

They wave their arms and jump up and down. But I don’t see it.

I take two dribbles, not three. And the ball spin, don’t forget that.

I settle and bend the knees before moving up in one fluid motion. The ball leaves my hands and everything feels right. The players start boxing out as the shot rotates its way to the basket. The ball hits the top of the front of the rim as some of my fellow Foxes jump for a possible rebound. But the ball comes down inside the rim. The free throw is good.

The other team is out of timeouts. Everything happens so fast. They collect the ball and heave it down court to one of their players, but the buzzer goes off before he can get off a shot.

Our fans go crazy and they rush the court.

Before I know it, my teammates are surrounding me, hugging me, patting me on the back, messing my hair. Not much I can do besides take it. Coach gives me a one-armed hug and then my friends are there. Jumping up around me and saying things I can’t hear in the chaos.

Then, somehow, in the pandemonium around me, my eyes find my mom’s again. My dad has his arms around her in a hug of celebration. But her eyes are on me. Without that face in the crowd, that would have been a missed basket. No question. Come to think of it, my mom has been there for me my entire life. Silly to have this realization now. I mean, I knew it all along. This is not new information. But, in that moment, the full impact she has had on me hits me like a tidal wave. With more force than the mob around me.

She has been there for me through my toughest times and the moments like this. The ones that you can’t help but celebrate. Like that time in 8th grade football when I recovered that fumble in the 4th quarter, or when I was so proud of my science project in 5th grade. But it’s those other times that make the difference. Listening to me when my girlfriend dumped me. Or not throwing me out on my rump for the crap I put her and Dad through in my early years of high school.

I feel a lump in my throat, but I force it down and look away for a second. But my eyes pop back to hers. This time her face has changed a little. A small smile plays at the corner of her lips. I see her mouth the words… Never in doubt.

A smile as big as my face can handle proudly displays itself. You have no idea, I think. It was very much in doubt. Until I saw you. Then again, I correct myself. You’re my mom. So you probably have a very good idea.

After the craziness is over, and then Coach’s speech in the locker room, I gather my things and head out towards the gym entrance where I know my parents will be waiting. I exchange a few “good games” with my teammates as I walk by. Finally, I see them, waiting for me. Whether I made the shot or not, they would have been there.

My dad thumps me on the shoulder before wrapping me up in a big hug. “Great watching you play tonight. We knew you could do it.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I reply.

Then I give my mom a hug. Holding on a little longer than usual.

“Thank you,” I say, after I finally let go.

“For what?”

“Everything.”