Robbie was slumped on the couch watching TV when he felt something bounce off the top of his head—Boink! Boink! He pretended to ignore it. Casually he reached for the remote.

Boink! Boink! There it was again. Robbie sighed. She won’t go away, he thought. She never goes away. I know exactly what she wants, too.

Boink! Boink! He whipped his head around. Sure enough, there was his mom, smiling and holding out a Ping-Pong ball and two paddles as if they were weapons for a duel.

“You want to get schooled again?” she said. “Huh? Because I’ll beat you like a rented mule.”

Despite his lousy mood, Robbie couldn’t help grinning. He had to give her credit: his mom was the best trash-talker in the whole world—better than any kid Robbie knew. Better than most pro athletes, for that matter.

Other kids’ moms were friendly and talkative, sure. But there was no one like Mary Hammond. “Loud and proud,” was how his dad described her. And she was wickedly funny when she trash-talked, too. Whenever Robbie’s friends came over, she’d challenge them to one-on-one basketball in the driveway, or Wii games, or Monopoly—anything you could compete in. Most of the time his friends would be laughing so hard at her nonstop chatter that they could barely concentrate.

“You try being married to a cop and being Little Miss Demure,” his mom once said of her personality. “Doesn’t work. You’d get squashed like a bug.”

His mom was no bug. She’d been a terrific athlete at the University of Maryland, a star second baseman on the softball team, and one of the best diggers the volleyball team had ever had. Robbie had seen old grainy video of her laying out for ground balls and throwing herself around the polished volleyball court, and he wondered how she hadn’t landed in the emergency room after every game.

She brought the same hard-charging mentality to everything she did in life, including her business: Catering by Mary (“Affordable Elegance for All Occasions”). Robbie feared that his mom’s in-your-face attitude may have been what led his twin sister to go to boarding school this year. Though he would never admit it publicly, he missed having Jackie around the house—if only to divert some of his mom’s attention.

“What’s the matter?” she said, tossing Robbie a paddle. “Afraid to play me?” She flapped her arms as if they were wings. “Chicken? Bawwk! Bawwk! Bawwk! Bawwk!”

Robbie shook his head and laughed. “Okay, that does it,” he said, clicking off the TV. “Your beat-down will be extra severe this time.”

“Oooooh, now he’s mad!” his mom said, rumpling his hair playfully. “I’m so sc-a-a-a-red!”

Seconds later they were bounding downstairs to the family room and the dark green Ping-Pong table, gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lighting.

“How was your game last night?” his mom asked as she straightened the net. “Sorry I missed it. Work is nuts. We’ve got three weddings this weekend. Did the Orioles finally win?”

Robbie groaned inwardly. For the past twenty-four hours he’d been doing everything he could to forget the game. Forget the final score: Tigers 6, Orioles 2. Forget the fact he couldn’t hit the ocean—never mind the strike zone—with his pitches. Forget the growing feeling that he was letting down the team, and letting down his dad.

No, he didn’t feel like getting into all that now.

“You wanna play, or you wanna talk?” he said, tossing the ball to his mom. “Your serve. Age before beauty.”

She narrowed her eyes and pretended to be outraged. “Oh, now it’s on!” she said. “You’re going down.”

But instead, Robbie quickly jumped out to a 10–5 lead. He was a strong all-around player with a good backhand—good enough to win his age-group championship at summer camp. But his mom was amazing at hitting the angles. And she had a tricky spin serve that made the ball shoot wildly off your paddle if you didn’t adjust for it.

Plus, Robbie thought, she has that not-so-secret weapon: her mouth.

“You can’t hold this lead!” his mom said as they volleyed furiously. “You’ll crack like a three-minute egg!”

This time Robbie said nothing. His dad was right: the only way to beat his mom when she started trash-talking was to tune her out. “Pretend it’s like static on the car radio,” his dad always said. “Just ignore it.”

But as the game went on, that was easier said than done. When he was leading 19–15, Robbie sailed two returns long and smacked his thigh in frustration.

“Aacckk!” his mom said, bugging out her eyes and wrapping both hands around her throat. “Is someone starting to choke? Someone need the Heimlich maneuver?”

But on the next point, she was the one who attempted a slam and sent it long. Robbie was at match point: 20–17. He looked at his mom. He could see the perspiration on her forehead. She was breathing hard too.

Again, he knew what was coming.

“Time-out!” she said, as if on cue. She put down her paddle and made a big show of elaborately fixing her ponytail.

“That’s so lame, Mom,” Robbie said, shaking his head.

“What?” she said innocently. “I’m not allowed to fix my hair?”

“Why don’t you put some fresh lipstick on, too?” Robbie said. “Anyway, it won’t work. You’re just delaying the inevitable.”

When she was finally ready, Robbie served. The two volleyed back and forth cautiously for a few seconds, each looking for an opening to attack. Finally, his mom slammed what looked to be a sure backhand winner on an impossible angle mid-table.

Except…somehow Robbie got to it.

He lunged to his right and hit an amazing forehand that struck the top of the net. For an instant, the ball seemed to hover in the air. Then it dinked over for the winning point.

“NO-O-O-O!” his mother wailed, collapsing to the floor and laying facedown on the carpet.

Robbie shrugged and tossed his paddle on the table. “My work here is done,” he said. He swiped a hand across his forehead. “Look at that. Didn’t even work up a sweat.”

“Oh, you’re a cruel kid!” his mom said. She got to her feet and pretended to stagger over to the small refrigerator in the corner. She pulled out two water bottles and handed one to Robbie.

“This will haunt me forever,” she said, plopping down on the sofa and running the cool bottle across her forehead. “I might never live it down.”

Robbie sat and put an arm around her shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t tell anyone. Except Dad. And Jackie. And Ashley. And all my friends in school. And everyone on the Orioles.”

His mom smiled wearily and blew a stray hair out of her face. “Speaking of the Orioles,” she said, “tell me about the game.”

Robbie frowned and pulled his arm away. “Didn’t Dad already tell you about it?”

She turned to look at him. “Maybe I want to hear from the player’s perspective.”

“It was okay,” he said with a shrug.

“That’s it? ‘Okay’?” his mom said. “Can we have a few details? Like maybe the score? And how my favorite son pitched?”

Robbie took a gulp of water. “Tigers beat us six–two,” he said quietly. “Your favorite son gave up a lot of walks. Again.”

“Yuck!” his mom said.

Robbie nodded. “I didn’t even want to pitch. Not the way I’ve been going. But Dad says I have the best arm in the whole league.”

“Not to mention lightning-fast reflexes,” she said, gesturing toward the Ping-Pong table. “You just have to hang in there till your confidence comes back.”

“You sound just like Dad.”

“Who do you think coaches him?” his mom asked with a twinkle in her eye. “Seriously, he’s right.” She patted Robbie’s hand. “You’ll be back. You were always a great pitcher.”

“Thanks for the use of the past tense,” Robbie said morosely.

“Oh, you know what I mean,” his mom said. She leaned over and kissed his forehead. For a moment, they sat in silence, sipping their water.

Finally his mom cleared her throat and said softly: “Do you still think about it? You know, what happened with Stevie?”

Robbie closed his eyes and felt a shiver go through him.

Do I still think about it?

Only every time I pick up a baseball.