I lift the first Atlas stone, the lightest, place it easily on the platform. I can’t hear the arena crowd: I can only see their hands clap, their mouths move.
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The echoing cacophony of the seventh inning pounded through the tunnel. He stood with his daughter mere feet from the field, separated only by the dugout and short concrete steps. He’d maneuvered his back to the tunnel wall, eliminating some of his rising anxiety in the confined space.
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Nichols brought the ball up the court with controlled urgency. With twenty-three seconds left and his Roadrunners down one, it was go-time, but not panic-time. In moments like this—in the clutch—the game slowed down for Nichols.
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She didn’t care about basketball, but she loved it when Mr. Dyson pulled the TV cart into the classroom and put the game on.
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