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“That would be lovely, thanks."
He retrieves a stool from the corner of the kitchen, and steps on it, carefully, as I set out the ingredients I got at the store, earlier today. "Here, let's get started on the dough." I start explaining the process, chattering on and on, when he starts lining up the measuring cups. He then grabs the bag of sugar and holds it, as if waiting for instructions.
“Oh, you want to measure the sugar? We’ll need a cup and a half.”
Mikey meticulously measures the sugar and dumps it in the bowl with the butter I’ve already put in there.
“Nice! You’re a pro!”
Next, he grabs the flour, waiting for a measurement.
“Oh! Here, I’ll write a list for you.” I write down each ingredient, with their measurements, smiling as I note Mikey’s attention to the page.
He studies it closely for a minute, then gets to work measuring out the rest of the wet ingredients, then the dry, as I cream the butter and sugar.
I let Mikey finish mixing and then balling the dough onto the cookie sheet. I can’t believe how natural he is at it. He’s like a little pro. And I can’t help but notice the little hint of a smile as he works.
10
LUKE
“Alright,”I say, standing at the make-shift goalpost in the front lawn. It's really just two stones I placed to indicate both ends of it. I turn to Mia’s son, blonde and blue-eyed like her, and gesture. “Try to get past me with the puck.”
The ‘puck’ is an old baseball from the garage, and I have him holding one of my old hockey sticks. The boy ruffles his eyes confused. “You want us to play on grass?”
“Yup. Not like there’s any ice around for us to play on.” The rink is a short car ride away, but I don't want to leave Mikey alone.
“Yeah but…” Chase scratches his head and then shrugs. “I mean, I guess we can try this.”
I lean forward on my knees and give him a 'come on' gesture. He instantly straightens and I can see his blue eyes shrewdly trying to calculate the best route to get the ball into the goal. Well, the first thing he’s going to have to do is get me out of the goalpost. Probably, he's going to try and go wide, favoring his left side, in an attempt to lure me. And then he’s going to fake me out with a tackle and the minute I try to go for it, he’s going to spin around and shoot straight for the net.
I see it coming a mile away. And as predicted, he starts by taking the ball to the wide left.
I play along, trailing him, attempting to take the ball. And then when he gets close, he does a feigned spike. I pretend to fall for it, but as he pivots to shoot, I swipe the ball from him sliding it through his legs and into his goalpost.
“Point for me,” I tell him.
He laughs. “Lucky shot.”
“Let’s go again then. And this time, make sure to twist at your waist when shooting, the way I showed you. And steady yourself. It'll add a lot more power to your shot. Make you harder to stop.”
He nods again and heads back to his position. This time, as he charges at me he tries a different tactic. The minute I move from my spot, he doesn’t waste time, rearing back and shooting the ball straight for the net. It’s a powerful strike and were I anyone else, I might have had trouble countering it.
Unfortunately for him though, I catch the shot just as it's about to skid past me.
Chase sighs his disappointment, but I spot the grin in his eyes.
“Better,” I say and he smiles for real this time. “Let’s try it again.”
His next shot is even better, as he combines what I told him. As he works and tries to outsmart me, he comes close to scoring several times. Yet, I manage to stop every one of his shots. I don’t believe in letting kids win just because they’re kids. At least not kids in whom I see real potential and whom I know can handle it, mentally.
Each time, Chase expresses brief disappointment but then he gets right back on the horse. He's always ready to go, never ready to quit. I like that. The kid has spirit, intelligence, and skill. He’ll be a great player one day if he ever decides to go pro.
I tell him as much and he beams at me like I just hung the moon. “Really?”
"I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true.” I laugh as his fists shoot into the air. “Now come on. It’s getting dark so let’s go back in. I think your mom's cooking something good. You go up and shower and I’ll set the table.”
“Alright coach,” he calls out and he runs inside. He pauses and turns. “Just so you know, if we were on ice instead of grass, I would have smoked your ass.”
