Thirty kids were asked to come back for the final night of seventh-grade basketball tryouts. Of those who had made it past the first cut, I was one of the shortest. But I could dribble, and I was hell on defense. Besides that, no one needed to make the team more than me. My friends were loyal, but there were only two. And after being dumped by my phone-call girlfriend midway through the homecoming dance, I had sworn off women. I said it was to focus on basketball.
After Coach read his picks, he asked for those whose names he’d called, the ones who made it, to stay in the room. As for the rest of us, better luck next year. When I stepped into the hallway, I started to sob. Sobbing is different than crying. Crying means tears. Sobbing is tears and choking gasps mixed in with a bunch of snot. That’s what I was doing. Sobbing like my dog had just died. All I wanted to do was slump down and pull my knees into my chest; to implode, to disappear. But there was only one way out. Past the coaches, the other kids, and a few random cheerleaders. Through the exit doors where my Mom waited in the minivan to hear the good news.
The next day, I didn’t go to school. After gritting my teeth through a couple of hours of daytime television, Mom took me to the mall. I had no desire to go drool over the latest basketball shoes or thumb through the racks of NBA jerseys like usual. So, like the other children in the mall that day, toddlers mostly, I followed a few steps behind my mom and took whatever she offered to keep me happy.
“Are you hungry? You want a coke? A milkshake? A candy-bar?”
We were walking across the food court, when a line of people caught Mom’s eye. To Mom, lines meant bargains, discounts, and sometimes, free stuff. I nearly had to chase her to keep up when she went alongside the line to see the reason everyone was waiting. There, in a cowboy hat and sunglasses was the country singer, Toby Keith, signing autographs. This was before Toby was the big star he is today. But his video for the song “I should’ve been a cowboy” was in regular rotation on County Music Television, so to us, he was famous.
The line was short and moving fast, so we grabbed one of the free 8×10 photographs of Toby and found our place at the end. Mom tapped me with the edge of the picture and smiled, “isn’t this exciting?” she said. I didn’t answer her out loud, but yes, it was exciting. And for the first time that day I wasn’t feeling like a total failure. In fact, I felt lucky to be there.
We waited about ten minutes and when we were next in line Toby pushed back his chair. A small bald-headed man stepped forward and announced, “okay folks, no more autographs today.”
Years before, when I was probably five or six, my family was sitting at the table eating supper. As was usual, we were halfway done with the meal and Mom was still at the stove. But she wasn’t there for us. She was taking her time dressing up a baked potato for herself. And had she gotten the chance to eat it, it may have been the greatest baked potato known to man.
Steam curled when she slit the crispy brown skin down the middle. The soft white insides smashed easily with the side of her fork. She went a little heavy on the salt, light on the pepper and knifed out a glob of Country Crock to stir in with a healthy dollop of Daisy sour cream. Pleased with her work, she took a step towards the kitchen table. And just like that, the potato rolled off her plate and landed on the floor, buttered side down. Slowly, Mom reached down for the potato and gripped it like a hand grenade. No one said a word when it splattered against the living room wall.
Maybe if she’d had a potato in her hand the day Toby Keith turned his back on us, she would have thrown it at his head. But since she didn’t, she shouted his name, “TOBY!” It wasn’t the scream of a crazed fan. It was the shout of a mother, warning him to stop before he did something stupid. I assume Toby Keith was a good son. Because even though he was already twenty feet away, when he heard her call his name, he walked back and signed my picture.
In the eighth grade, I made the team. But I couldn’t tell you what I did the next day. No matter how hard I try, I can’t remember. At the time, it was all I ever I wanted. And now, I can’t even remember if Mom baked me a cake to say congratulations.
I guess as the years go by and my head fills with memories, something inside decides what’s worth keeping and what can be forgotten. Between the two, the best baked potato ever eaten doesn’t stand a chance to one that ends up splattered on the wall.
