The Problem with Sports - M.E. Clayton Page 0,5

up?”

“You have no excuses anymore,” he barked into the phone. “Call your mother.”

“I just talked to her yesterday, Gid,” I barked back, swearing Mom pitted us against each other for entertainment purposes only.

“Then why did she just call me asking how you’re doing?” he snarled, preferring to call me a liar instead of Mom.

“Because she’s batshit crazy, Gid,” I pointed out.

He hung up on me.

Goddamn it, Mom.

Chapter 3

Andrea~

I wasn’t sure how much longer I was going to be able to listen to this.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I loved our dinner chats and Grant really was the best dinner date ever. But the kids never stopped talking about sports.

And, believe me, I’ve tried everything.

Every evening, during dinner, I asked him about school. I asked him about his friends. I asked him about his weekend plans with his father. I asked him about any new shows or movies that have caught his interest. I asked him about everything but sports.

However, the conversation always came back to trades, and injuries, and penalties, and corrupt umpires and referees, and even the up and coming college players.

I mean, I was all for having passion for something, but did it have to be every sport under the sun?

But I also wondered if it was because I always listened to him intently. Since Grant couldn’t play sports, the only way he could enjoy them were through watching the games and knowing the players. Steven wasn’t big on talking sports with Grant, and while I understood why, I hated it. Though Steven’s come a long way since Grant was first diagnosed, Steven still had a tendency to make it all about himself at times.

“I don’t see how he can continue to play, Mom,” Grant said, and I thanked God he had enough manners in him to wait until he swallowed his food before dropping that sentence. “It’s obvious the injury is more serious than they’re letting on.”

I took a drink of my water as I resigned myself to the topic of conversation. This was our last dinner together this week, as I always dropped Grant off with Steven around five every Thursday. Though they weren’t full days, the trade off allowed us both to have four days a week with Grant. There was no child support exchanged and I had chosen not to accept any alimony. Grant’s treatments and preventative care was expensive, and it didn’t benefit him if his father didn’t have enough money to care for him properly should something happen. Steven was a real estate agent, and he did well for himself, but he wasn’t rich. Plus, I did okay for myself. There had been no need to fight over money. Grant’s health had been the priority for me back then and it still was.

“And who is this, honey?”

“Jansen Hillman,” he answered. “He’s the third baseman for the Detroit Irons, Mom.” Of course, he is. “He got injured last year when Franco Marsalis slid into third and basically cleated the man out of a career.”

I ate a couple of more bites of the enchilada casserole I had cooked up. “Well, it’s a shame when someone gets injured.”

Grant snorted. “It’s a shame when they force these players to continue to honor their contract when they know it hurts them to play.”

My heart warmed.

Grant loved his sports, and he was definitely a fanboy, but he wasn’t so blinded by the fame and money that he stopped seeing athletes as human beings. He acted like he knew the players personally, and he cared about their health and well-being just as much as he cared about their stats.

“And that was the bad call last night,” he continued. “I mean, how blind was that ump?”

I took another drink of my water. “You know, school’s starting in a few weeks,” I said, desperately trying to change the subject. “It’s the third grade. Are you excited?”

Grant looked up at me, and it was times like these that my palm itched to slap the shit out of Steven. Grant was his exact replica with his dark blonde hair and green eyes. Looking at my son, I couldn’t see any resemblance to me, whatsoever.

Even though I was blonde, too, I had more of a platinum color and my eyes were brown, instead of the classic blue usually associated with blondes. And where I was only five-foot-four, Steven was six-foot-one, and I was pretty sure Grant was going to inherit his height, too. The kid was growing like a weed.

Looking at my son, I