“I’m making a sign,” he announced.
“What will it say?”
“Something that’ll get me on TV.”
He spent half an hour coloring his favorite player’s number in blue and gold. When he finished, he held it up for inspection.
“Good?”
“Perfect.”
He slipped a black marker into my purse in case he wanted to make any last-minute changes.
I watched him pack the sign carefully and felt a familiar ache in my chest. I wished he could feel that confident at school, too.
Still, that evening was a start.
At the arena, Lucas could barely sit still. He pointed out players during warmups, explained the team’s defensive strategy, and used his allowance to buy a pretzel that he insisted on sharing with me.
During the first quarter, he shouted at a missed shot, then laughed at his own reaction.
Nobody mocked him.
Nobody told him he was making too much of something.
