And I Missed It All. Dammit.

Yesterday, Thing Two was upset when he walked out to the parking lot after basketball practice.  Apparently some of the older boys on the team were giving him grief about his playing.  I am his mother and I love him more than anyone on earth, but I will freely admit that God love the child, basketball is not his best sport.  I'm pretty sure that he made the team only because he is nearly six feet tall in seventh grade, (I believe) the tallest kid in our tiny podunk little middle school.  To be honest, I also suspect that part of the issue is that he's still a little different, and middle schoolers in general just suck at being kind to those who aren't straight down the middle of the behavioral bell curve.  The first word in his official diagnosis is "social," after all.  He's made tremendous progress, but is he going to fit in with the "cool" athletic eighth graders at this point, especially if they pass him the ball and he misses a straightforward shot?  Nah, not so much.

So, I fire off an email to the coach right after practice to get some independent adult insight into the situation, which he has yet to answer.  (He has been responsive in the past, though.  I will give him that.)  Strike 1.  Then, of course, Murphy's Law being what it is, the kid has a basketball game today, away at the rival school.  Himself is (Murphy's Law, part 2), WAY out of town tonight, so I have to cover the night's kid detail all on my lonesome.  The plan was to get Petunia off the bus, head over to the rival school, watch the basketball game from 4-5, grab Thing Two, run home, feed all three kids, and then get Petunia to soccer training by 6:30 while leaving Thing Two at home with Thing One.  You know what they say about plans...but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Game starts.  It's UGLY.  The other team is kicking the collective butts of our A team starters, which means that basically no subbing is going on since by definition they are the best we've got.  We were down 25 or so in the third quarter and only two players had rotated into the game other than the starting five, neither of whom were Thing Two even though he often plays in A games.  (He's considered a "swing" player, meaning that he subs into A team games and starts in the very few B team games on the schedule.)  I'm having a couple of thoughts at this point: 1), maybe he really is playing badly, if the coach isn't playing him at all anymore, and 2), why the hell am I here on a busy afternoon if my kid isn't going to leave the bench?  Quickly followed by 3): Wow, the coach is visibly frustrated and snapping at the kids.  (Strike 2.)  I'm sitting two rows behind him, I hear and see it all.  I text Himself and say that all in all I'm glad Thing Two isn't playing because if they are going to get yelled at for a poor performance, at least he can't be a target if he's not in the game.  

Game ends.  We've lost, still by 25 or so.  Thing Two went into the game exactly once and played only the final two minutes and 21 seconds.  Mercifully, he didn't do too badly.  Whistle blows, kids line up for the ritual postgame handshakes, I go to grab Thing Two to leave.  Then I notice a few other parents just coming into the gym and realize, "Oh SHIT.  There must be a B game today too."  No way I can stay for it, either: I have to get Petunia home, fed and to soccer.  So, to recap, I have sat through a miserable stressful ugly hourlong game, of which my son played only the final 141 seconds, and now have no choice but to leave immediately before a game in which he will likely play a great deal, as a B team starter.  (In retrospect, probably part of the reason he didn't play much in the A game.)  After scrambling him a post-B game ride home,  I left, feeling much like I had abandoned him to the wolves.  After all, with an A team that good their B team would probably be pretty good too, and I'd already seen the coach's mood for myself.  Wasn't at all sure how he'd handle two rough losses in a row.  But I had to leave, so I left.

Run home, feed Thing One and Petunia, leave dinner for Thing Two, head to soccer.  Thing One had strict instructions that he was to text me immediately upon Thing Two's return home to let me know how the B game went.  Then I waited...and waited...and waited.  Finally, the text came in.  Those of you familiar with the texting habits of teenaged boys will not be surprised by its contents.  I quote it below, in its entirety.  

"W"

 (i.e., they won.)

Oh, another text.

"33-23"

Two texts, comprising a total of six symbols.  That's all I got.

So, I call home, gobsmacked that they actually won the B game but really wanting to hear how Thing Two did.  The answer floored me.  Six boards.  Nine points.  That is, he scored more than a quarter of the team's total points by himself.  And, as dawned on me belatedly, there are only two ways to score an odd number of points in a basketball game: you have to sink either a three pointer or a free throw.   Given that his position is right under the basket (and that he usually can't hit a bull in the butt with a basketball from more than fifteen feet, anyway), the three point thing was unlikely.  The kid made a FREE THROW.  His first one of the season.  Six boards. Four baskets.  And a mofoing free throw.  And I didn't see any of it because I was driving to soccer.  Bloody hell.

At least it happened.  And there was not a strike three of which I'm aware.  I'll take it.