In My Head

Nine Months Before The Move ~ Changing ~ Kaden

There's something therapeutic about shooting twenty-footers in the rain. The ball against my numb hands, knowing that I've got complete control even if I can't feel a thing. That sound when my shot swishes through the wet hoop. Fohp! I could do this all night. I shoot three more swishes and miss once. I mime the shot motion in the air twice before grabbing a ball at my feet. Five more shots, nothing but net.

I grab my basketball and move my way around the faded three-point line that Dad helped me paint on the driveway last summer. I move toward the right wing, and that's when I notice Dad's been standing on the edge of the driveway, watching me.

"Looking sharp, Kaden."

I nod, shoot again.

"How many you got left?" he asks.

"Fifteen more three-pointers, and I'm done."

"The game is on."

"I'm just gonna finish up quick." I shoot again. "Five minutes."

Dad disappears. I dribble, wipe the freezing rain off my forehead, and shoot. Fohp! I dribble and shoot again and again. Fohp! Fohp! I'm shivering, but I don't stop. Fohp! Fohp!

I dribble and shoot-the ball ricochets off the rim. I stand in the rain watching my ball splash in the puddles on my driveway, my rhythm gone. I call that good enough, grab my ball, and jog for the door. I pull off my wind breaker jacket and untie my shoes, then sit on the couch close to Dad's chair and glance at the TV as it blares a Niké commercial. "Who's winning?" I ask as I wipe the rain off my face.

"The Kings, but we'll come back."

"Where's Logan?"

"Studying in his room," Dad says. I can tell it irks him that Logan won't watch the game with us.

"What's that?" I point at the bottle in Dad's hand.

"Sam Adam's Winter Lager." He holds it out for me to see.

The bottle looks way different than a normal beer. "Weird."

"It's good; here, try it." He offers the bottle to me. This almost throws me for a loop, but I play it cool and take a big swig. It tastes just like any other beer, but with a hint of something smooth and a bit spicy.

"Huh." I hand it back and eye the unopened bottle on the coffee table. "You have any more of those?"

"Not for you," Dad says with a frown.

"Oh come on! You can't let me try it and then not let me have one." I sit forward and give him a playful grin. "Come on, Dad!"

Dad acts like he's going to ignore me, and I stay quiet while he pretends not to think about it. Finally, he says, "I let you drink, then you only drink at home, and only when I'm here, you got that? . . . And your mother doesn't find out about this."

Seriously? I hold back my smile. "Yes, sir."

The game comes back on. ". . . In the fridge," he says, focusing on the TV.

"Thanks, Dad." I jump up and go find a beer behind the milk in the refrigerator. I head back to the living room and open my beer with the bottle opener on the coffee table.

We watch the game, commenting every now and then on the skills of the players and the shifting flow of the game, but mostly, we just watch in silence while we drink our beers. Dad sends me to the kitchen to get him another beer, and the phone rings. I grab two beers and go back to the living room to hand one to Dad. The commercial comes up, and Dad finally grabs the cordless from the end table. He points at me with the phone. "That's your last one, you got that?"