Life & Times of Major Fiction - Excerpt

Every family has its games. Ours were in the service of an ostensibly competitive hierarchy. We had to defeat our mother-the game was basketball in those days-before we got to play our father. Not that we got to play him after that either, but if we were ever to play him, the obstacle of our mother had first to be set aside.

Our mother was usually too busy to play, and sometimes too busy to discuss her busyness, though one suspected that she practiced on the sly. If her form was wanting, or subtly underdeveloped, she had an uncanny knack for putting the ball through the hoop from the oddest angles. She played, whenever she could be enticed into a game, in an apron and slippers, and at times, when coming directly from the kitchen, in rubber gloves.

She gave advice while we played, suggestions for improvement, a woman with a pedagogic bent.

The game I most remember is not one of mine but a game my younger brother played against Mother. Phil had challenged me first, but for some reason-perhaps because I thought he might be able to take me-I declined the contest. Haaving limited natural ability, Phil practiced at every opportunity, studied self-improvement. One could wake up at two A.M., look out the window, and see him taking shots in the dark. His tenacity awed me.

Our mother was not awed. "This will have to be quick," she said, making hte first basket before Phil could ready himself on defense. "There's something in the oven that needs basting."

"Did that count?" Phil asked, withholding strenuous complaint, not wanting to provoke her into resigning from the game, one of the lessons by example she occasionally offered.

"I'll do that over," Mother said. "You weren't ready."

Phil insisted that it was all right, that even had he been fully prepared he couldn't have stopped her shot.