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whole team turn around.
    "My father worked in the Wilson Tower," she hissed, her face streaked with tears. Her husband quickly pulled her away and moved her to their car.
    "We'll catch up with you at the restaurant," I told my coach and team. I always tried to cover up the awkward silence that ensued after these encounters. I walked over to Dad. I knew everyone was watching. The sound of the slap still rang in my ears.
    "Throw me the keys, Dad," I said, like nothing had just happened. "My turn to drive."
    I could never have predicted what would happen next. I was too busy trying to save my father's dignity.
    The Trojans sauntered past us toward their bus. The Gary Coleman point guard pointed at me and announced to his buddy, in the three seconds it took for him to pass us, something that changed everything.
    "Oh, that's the gay guy."
    He didn't say it with venom. He didn't need to. He said it loud enough so we could hear it, like it was just so obvious. You don't make an accusation that the sky is blue; it's simply a matter of fact. The coach's smile dropped, my teammates looked uncomfortably in other directions and tried to pretend they didn't hear what they all had obviously heard.
    My father stared forward, a fixed expression on his face. I think he was afraid to look at me. Afraid of what his look would do to me. I heard the keys jingle against the change in his pocket again.
    "See you guys later." My voice wavered on the word "later." The slight rattle in my voice betrayed me. It was a sign of shaken confidence, proof that what that little punk said was true.
    I saw Dad's eyes widen just a fraction when he heard my voice catch. He glanced at me but quickly turned away. He didn't want me to see his reaction, but I did, and I'll never forget it. In that brief glimpse, I could see what he was thinking behind that fixed stare. There would be no grandkids, there would be no more Creed family bloodline, nothing else to look forward to. From that point on I'd become the last, most devastating disappointment in what he thought his life had added up to—one overwhelming failure.
    I looked over to him, a little boy just wanting his dad to look back on him with approval. I wanted him to make some joke about what a loser that other kid was, about how I'd really kicked ass tonight, about how he'd never seen a high score like that. I wanted him to muss my hair and take me home and pop some popcorn so we could stay up late and watch Saturday Night Live. I wanted him to tell me everything would be okay.
    "We should get going," Dad said, and shook hands with the coach. He couldn't bring himself to look at me. I felt a tiny spasm in my pinky finger as a tremor slowly rippled up my hand.
    I howled and spun, and the last thing I remember was wetting myself before my head hit the pavement.

CHAPTER  TWO
    WHEN I WOKE UP in the emergency room, the doctor, a heavyset man with more hair growing out of his ears than on his head, was giving Dad a routine list of things for me to avoid. Dad kept reminding him we'd been through this before, but the doctor was determined to finish reading the checklist.
    "And last but not least, strobe lights are a big no-no."
    Great, there go the disco lessons. I didn't need another list of special foods to avoid, or another series of MRIs, or an adjusted dosage on my medication. What I really needed was to avoid losing control of my bowels in front of my schoolmates.
    "Oh, and I almost forgot," the doctor said. "I'll need your son's driver's license."
    There are two things I really hate in this world. One is when adults refer to me in third person while I'm in the room. Second is having my license taken away for six months according to the state law regarding seizures. Rarely do I get them both at the same time.
    Dad knew this was a severe blow to my independence, but I think he was secretly relieved, too. Playing dutiful parent overshadowed what that bratty little shit had said about me after the game. Dad put