Overtime

This week’s new flash fiction is a Mother’s Day story. For all the moms, especially mine.

Overtime

Dad liked baseball. But mom loved hoops. The Knicks. Her Knicks. She was an art student in NYC during their glory days in the early ‘70’s. Caught the fever for the city game. Then watched an ensuing 50 years of futility.

My brother and I played basketball. It wasn’t rebellion against dad. We couldn’t hit a curveball.

Mom attended every game. They both did. She would crow and cheer and cajole and live and die with every basket. And laugh. Dad would bring his trusty Sony video cam to the games. Supposedly to film us. His boys. But he would end up using all his tape on her. His love.

All these years later, there stood our beloved Knicks on the brink of a championship. Finally. Dad had passed peacefully years ago. He would not have cared much about it all. Besides that it made her happy. That was what made him go.

The night of game 7 of the Finals, the decider, we planned to watch together as a family. Win or lose.

My brother brought mom over. Got her settled in next to him. I had the home court advantage. Commandeered the spacious couch with my wife.

And my own son. Who, of course, played baseball.

Mom was laughing and commenting throughout. With all the spunk and joy of a 35-year-old woman.

When the final buzzer sounded and our Knickerbockers had secured their elusive return to glory, we all sat quietly. My brother and I too old to try to hide the tears. My wife and son handed out congratulatory hugs and headed to bed.

Mom continued to whoop it up. I wiped my eyes and looked over in her direction.

In the excitement over the big win, I had neglected to turn her off.

We couldn’t have her miss this. She had faltered and then faded earlier in the season. By which time it was clear the team had something special going. But she proved unable to hang on, to see it through. We buried her during the first round of the playoffs.

The laptop was my brother’s idea. A typically good one. He had downloaded dad’s old videotapes of our games onto a thumb drive he transferred to his computer. Which sat where he set it up, perched on a barstool next to us, opened to face the TV. It played on a loop throughout the Knicks’ clinching victory. Mom had been beside us, in fine voice, for every play of the game. The volume set to low so she was more accompaniment than distraction. The important thing was we were together for our long-awaited triumph.

I pushed myself up out of the sofa. Happy but suddenly very tired.

Picked up and closed the MacBook. Gave it a light kiss, the cold aluminum smooth against my face.

Whispered, “Goodnight, mom.”