Mason’s mother asked him on Saturday morning. Mason stared at the person who was asking him such a preposterous question. The person looked like his mother and sounded like his mother and had the familiar anxious smile of his mother. But she was uttering words that no one who knew Mason—such as his own mother—could possibly say. For reply, he stalked over to the pantry cupboard and pulled out his box of plain Cheerios. From the fridge he took the gallon jug of milk. Then he poured some Cheerios into a bowl and poured some milk onto the Cheerios. “Some protein?” she persisted. “Wouldn’t that be a good idea, before your first game?” Mason started spooning Cheerios into his mouth. His father staggered into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, hair not yet combed. He was carrying the coaching book, with one finger inserted into the chapter he had been reading—presumably the chapter on how to coach your team’s first game. Mason hoped the chapter offered some discussion of what to do when your team had only six players, none of whom were any good at basketball, and one of whom was the worst player in the history of the game.
