The Shoes She Served In

I put the receipt in my vest pocket without thinking about it. Then I sat there and shook, now that she could not see me.

The first match was against a team from up by Huron. They were tall.

They were tall in a way that made the mothers on our side of the gym look at each other.

At 8:30 the referee blew the whistle. June walked back to the end line with the ball in her hands.

She stood there for a second, and I saw her look down at her feet.

Then she bounced the ball twice, the way she always does, the way she did against that garage door a thousand times. She tossed it up and served.

It went over clean, deep, right into the back corner between two of those tall girls. They both looked at each other. It hit the floor.

I do not think I breathed from the time it left her hand until it hit the floor.

When it did, I said, “Oh,” out loud, just “Oh,” and the woman next to me patted my knee without knowing why.

June served four more after that before they lost the rally. Her team won the first set by six. They won the second set by three.

They won their second match too, against a team from down by Yankton. June set well. She got a little better every rotation, the way she does once the nerves burn off.

Around ten I ran out to the shop, did my schoolteacher’s cut and toner, and told her the whole thing while she was under the dryer.

She shook her head the whole time. She left me a twenty-dollar tip and would not let me give it back.

“That’s for the shoes,” she said. “Don’t argue with an old woman.”

I was back in the gym by eleven-thirty for the start of the bracket. I had not heard from Brett. I had not heard from Alexa either, but I had not expected to.

At noon I was sitting in the third row with a hot dog I was not eating when I heard boots on the bleachers behind me, heavy, the way a man walks when he has been on his feet since four in the morning.

It was Brett. He still had on his work boots and his canvas coat with the quarry dust in the seams.

He had his cap in his hand. He looked like he had not stopped since he got my message.

He did not sit next to me. He sat two rows up with the other dads, the ones who had come in for the afternoon, the farmers and the guy from the co-op and an older fellow named Mose who comes to every game for his granddaughter.

He leaned down and said, “Shel. I got your message at the pit around nine-thirty. I couldn’t get off till my last load was dumped. Is she okay?”

“She’s okay,” I said. “She served first. They’re two and oh.”

He let out a breath and sat back. I could tell he had about a hundred questions.