I was outside on the driveway trying to spin a basketball on my finger when Mom opened the front door.
“Looking good,” she said. “You’re really getting the hang of it.”
“You should see Diego,” I said. “He can keep it going for like a minute.”
“Pretty soon so will you.” She walked up. “You had fun with Red?”
“He’s coming to the Showdown!”
“It’s wonderful, Rip. Suzanne is positively thrilled.”
I swatted the spinning ball four times before it rolled off my fingertip. “Coach Acevedo is going to be pumped.”
Mom held out her hands. I scooped up the ball and flipped it to her. She started spinning it on her finger.
“One day, you’ll be as good as me,” she said, smacking the ball and spinning it faster.
“Go, Mom!”
“I still got it,” she said, smiling.
Mom played varsity basketball in high school, and up until a couple years ago, she played in a co-ed league with some of her educator friends. But she decided to stop after some of the other players started twisting ankles and tweaking muscles, trying to do things they used to do when they were younger. Mom didn’t want to be next.
She handed me back the ball and picked a piece of lint out of my hair. “Honey, I hate to do this to you now,” she said.
“Do what?” I got the ball going again.
“It’s a Sunday Night Bomb.”
What’s a Sunday Night Bomb?
A Sunday Night Bomb is when you wait until eight o’clock Sunday night to tell Mom you need to bring something to the school party tomorrow, and you went with her to Trader Joe’s twice over the weekend but didn’t say anything either time.
A Sunday Night Bomb is when you wait until eight o’clock Sunday night to tell Mom you need a poster board for your science project and that the printer is out of ink, and you were at Staples with her that afternoon.
A Sunday Night Bomb is when you wait until eight o’clock Sunday night to tell Mom you need permission slips, waivers, and medical forms filled out for basketball, and those permission slips, waivers, and medical forms have been sitting in your gym bag for a week.
I’m the king of Sunday Night Bombs.
“Are you going to tell me?” I asked.
“Honey, your father’s back in town.”
This time it wasn’t the ball that wobbled.
“He’d like to see you.”