Mom congratulated me on the game when I got home, but seemed to notice something was up—mothers had a way of doing that. "The last game might have been partially for your father," she said, "but I could tell this one was for you. Congratulations." She looked a little surprised that I didn't pick up the conversation. "So, I guess you're going to be the man, next year. Maybe you can get that scholarship you dreamed about."
"Yeah, next year." Those plans seemed like a lifetime ago.
"What's up?"
I burst into tears. Guys didn't do that, especially football players, but I bawled like a little girl. Mom took me in her arms—didn't say a word—just let me get it all out. No doubt about it, Mom was special. She even seemed to know when it was enough, and eased me back.
"That bad, huh?" she said brushing back my hair.
I flopped down on a chair at the table.
"Want me to put on some coffee?"
"I'd rather have a soda if you don't mind," I sniffled.