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The second half started and Ibsen started losing, bit by bit, and Dad started getting fidgety about his cows, and so the next time Jerry Knudsen looked back I waved to him and gestured that we were leaving. We wandered around the campus for a few more minutes, checking out the other buildings, pretty old brick ones and modern concrete ones that looked awfully cold, the main building with an
IBSEN COLLEGE
sign and some lumpy snow-covered shrubs. Then we hit the road.

Now I could really see what Jerry Knudsen meant about turning their program around—it'd be pretty much a 180 with me there. I'd get plenty of playing time, that's for sure. And the classes wouldn't be too hard, either. I'm sure you're wondering how I could tell that just from looking at the buildings, but I could. Which is something to think about as well, particularly considering that the whole point of college is to get educated in something beyond three-pointers. It'd be nice to do that without getting ulcers in the process.

"Whatcha thinking?" Dad asked.

I shrugged. "Ibsen is small. But that's not a bad thing."

"You're bigger than that place, sport."

"The coach said he could get me money."

"Of course he'd say that. They'd win their conference with you playing, sure as shooting."

"And winning's bad?"

He looked out his window. "I'd sure like to see you playing in a real arena."

Which meant that now I was going to disappoint him too.

We got back way before milking, not that I was sweating that one, and right away Mom called. She wanted to hear all about Ibsen, and sounded so pleased that Dad had gone with me—he'd get lots of points for that—and was her usual positive self, saying how nice it was that there might be financial aid for me.

Then Win got on and asked what the players had been like.

"They were okay," I said.

"Huh. I checked them out online—you know what their record is?"

"I'd get lots of playing time—" I started, but then Dad took the phone right out of my hand.

"Hey there, son ... Well, yeah, of course I told her. You know what she's like." What did that mean,
what I was like?
"Uh-huh ... Oh, I told her ... You betcha." Dad handed me the phone.

I picked it up like it was covered in cow poop. "What?"

"Are you going to make those calls now?"

"They offered me money. Remember you said I'd get offered something? Well, Ibsen did. The coach said he could get me a pretty good package. Those were like his exact words."

"You're wimping out, kiddo. First of all, until you have something in writing, don't believe anything a coach promises. And you can't look at just one college—"

I snorted. I couldn't help it. Is it clear that I didn't want to make those calls? That I'd rather clean the barn bare-handed? And knowing Win was right didn't make it any easier.

"Jeez, D.J., what is wrong with you?"

I really wanted to say
What's wrong with YOU?
But even I had the brains to know how mean that would be. Plus thanks to Mom I now knew that my college recruiting had somehow become part of Win's recovery, which is just the sort of thing that Win can do, take something that's someone else's business and completely make it his. So I couldn't just hang up on him, no matter how much I wanted to, because that would be interfering with his
therapy.
"I don't want to call those people," I said finally.

"Well, duh. But no one else can do it for you. You want Dad doing it? What are you, ten?"

I gritted my teeth, trying to be nice for Mom's sake. Trying. "No, I don't want Dad—"

"You want me to call first? Let them know you'll be contacting them?"

Silence.

Win sighed. "You want me to call?"

"You're so much better at it..." Now trying to be super nice because it was an extremely good suggestion.

"D.J., I can't even dial."

I didn't have the guts to say that dialing a phone—or however SCI patients do it, with big push buttons I'm guessing—that that would be really good therapy. Although even Win's saying that aloud is impressive, to actually admit he had a weakness, which he's never been so good at before...

Then the old bossy Win kicked in again. "This is your responsibility, kid. Start with U of M. The coach already knows you. You need to call her
now.
You need to call her tonight—"

Finally I couldn't take any more, no matter how therapeutic it might be for Win to boss me around. "Can I talk to Mom again?"

"Mom?"

"You know, our mother? Can I talk to her?"

So Win sighed, and there was this noise as they switched from his headset to a real phone, all the while Win grumbling. Nothing I could make out, but he definitely wasn't pleased.

Only Mom was double-teaming me with him. "So honey, you going to make those calls?"

"It's Saturday night, Mom—"

"Well, I'm sure you can leave a message, you know. I'm sure they're all set up for that. You really need to get on this."

I got off the phone finally, and then Dad of all people handed me the big grocery bag of recruiting letters. Now I was getting
triple
-teamed. I sat there staring at the envelopes, too scared to even touch them. Which is stupid, I know, because how dangerous can an envelope be? It's not like there are snakes or something inside. Or rats, yuck. But you'd have thought there were cobras tucked into those letters, the way I was looking at them.

Curtis caught on pretty quick what I was up to because he started tiptoeing around like someone had died—he gets the dry heaves around a phone normally, let alone a high-stakes situation like this. And Dad patted me on the shoulder with a "Good luck, sport." Finally I took the phone and envelopes and went into the little office off the kitchen, Smut curled up beside me with her tail thumping at how exciting this all was, and all my letters that might be my ticket to college. And I didn't throw up. But I got pretty close once or twice.

All the coaches, all the letters, said I could call whenever, which was crazy because what if I called at two a.m.? Although I guess it'd be pretty stupid of a prospect to demonstrate she can't even tell time. Maybe it was too late already ... Although it wasn't late at all. It wasn't even supper time yet.

If I didn't get this done, Win would eat me alive. And then Mom would come over to my dead, eaten body and say how disappointed she was that I wasn't helping Win's therapy. And then Coach K and everyone else in school would say how unsurprised they were that it had taken me so little time to screw up, that of course I'd fail at phone calls considering I couldn't even manage point guard ... It was like every person I knew was squeezed into that little office with me, whispering what a loser I was.

Smut licked my hand and gave me one of those worried looks she's so good at, like no matter what anyone said she still loved me. Which was a boost. And it got me to pick up the phone and dial, hoping like crazy it'd go to voice mail, although what would I say
then?
I hadn't even thought about that, which is so stupid because that's one thing that's actually easy and doable. I should have at least written something down...

Here's what I can remember of the U of M call:

A WOMAN:
Hello?

ME:
Um, hello. This is D.J., um, Schwenk. I met you like a month ago—

HER:
Oh, yes, D.J.! (How could she remember me like that? She has hundreds of girls to keep track of.) It's great to hear from you.

ME:
Oh...

HER:
So how are you doing?

ME:
Um, okay ... Is this a good time? You know, to call?

HER:
Sure it is. You sound a little nervous.

ME:
Well, yeah. A little...

HER:
Well, you shouldn't be. This is just a chance for the two of us to get to know each other a bit. No pressure at all.

ME:
Oh. We had our first game yesterday—

HER:
You know, we can talk basketball later. Right now I'm a lot more interested in you. You know, I didn't have a chance to ask earlier—do you have any pets?

ME:
Yeah. A dog. (Smut immediately tries to climb into my lap.)

HER:
What's his name—or her name? Is it a boy or a girl?

ME:
Her name is Smut ... It's goofy, I know.

HER:
(Laughing.) It's a great name. I bet there's a great story behind it.

ME:
Not really...

By this time I was sweating so bad, the phone was practically sliding out of my hand. I don't know why I was sweating, because as you can see the coach couldn't have been nicer. But just knowing I had to talk was a killer.

Eventually, though, my heart stopped pounding quite so much, and I figured out how to hold the phone with a tissue to soak up the sweat, and I actually, you know, communicated. She asked how Win was doing, and was super nice to ask if I even wanted to talk about him and his accident and stuff. You'd think I wouldn't considering how many hours I'd talked about it already, but sometimes there's still stuff to say. So instead of saying he was okay, I described what recovery means when you've got a C5-C6 incomplete stable spinal cord injury. Although I left out the part about how he's a total pain in the butt. And she said she'd love to have me visit again soon, and that the U of M was having a great season so far and she'd like to see me play and maybe if she was in Wisconsin sometime she would.

I didn't get bitten by snakes, not once. But when I got off the phone I was shaking, I was so spent. It was just talking, I know, but it was the hardest talking I'd ever done. Plus she hadn't even wanted to talk sports, which is the one topic I'm halfway decent at! My voice was all scratchy too. All I wanted to do...

All I wanted to do was to talk to Brian Nelson. There. I'll admit it. After all that torture, I wanted to talk to the only person I've ever been able to really
talk
to. Like over the summer when we were painting the barn. Or this fall when I was stuck in Seattle with Win, and Win was refusing to talk to the doctors or anyone else or to me. During that time Brian and I talked every day, for hours sometimes. And sure, we'd gab about Brian's football season and movies and funny things that had happened, but he also helped me understand what was going on with Win, to get inside Win's head better than anyone else in the world could, and whenever I complained he'd just agree that it sounded really hard without ever once saying I was wimping out, or criticizing Win either, which would have been just as tough to hear. I've never in my life known anyone as good at talking as Brian, talking in a understanding, heart-to-heart way without all that baggage and pretending that most people clog up their conversations with.

Right now I missed Brian more than I had in weeks. Missed him as much as I had right after we'd broken up. Well,
right
after we broke up I was too angry to do much missing, too mad that this guy who was so fantastic at talking turned out to be such a jerk in public, especially when that public included his friends. But after I got over being angry at him, I was just sad. Especially when I was really low, when I really needed someone to lean on. Right now, if the two of us were talking, Brian would agree that calling coaches was really hard, and he'd get me to laugh, and boost me up enough to continue with the other coaches on my list.

I couldn't call Brian, though, for a bunch of reasons that should be very extremely obvious.

There were other people in my life, however. There was even a guy in my life, thank you very much, a guy who's always totally upbeat, and who
kissed
me. Which, duh, would make him the absolute best person to talk to now, because a boyfriend is someone who's good for more than just making out, right? A boyfriend is someone who's there for you.

Beaner was home—although I called his cell, so I guess that doesn't matter too much, does it?—and right away, before I even had time to explain about calling coaches and how I wasn't having the most fun in the history of the world, he asked what I wanted my ring tone to be.

I don't think much about ring tones except when they're annoying. "Anything that's not annoying."

He laughed. "How about 'A Little Less Conversation'?"

"Oh. Um, how can you talk without conversation?"

You're hilarious! No, Elvis, you spaz! The King! You know, his song?"

"Oh. You mean that's the title of a song?"

"Come on, you know it, you've got to. Here, I'll play it for you..."

It was a cool song, I admit, even though I'd never pick it out for me. Besides, I wasn't interested in ring tones—I wanted to talk. But I didn't have the energy, the talking skills, to explain that to Beaner. Especially at that moment. So I just thanked him for the ring tone idea and promised he could set up my phone too, if he wanted, and said goodbye.

And then really fast I called three other coaches, leaving messages for them because thank
God
they weren't available, or maybe they were but they didn't want to hear from
SCHWENK, WARREN,
which is our caller ID left over from Grandpa Warren because we've never changed the phone bill. And then on the next day—on
Sunday,
if you can believe it—Coach K called me to say that I needed to call those people back, because apparently even if you leave a message for a coach they can't call you, they can only call your coach or principal or stuff. Which they'd just done to Coach K to make sure he'd prod me to call them again. So I did, going back into our little office with the phone and Smut and my box of tissues, and each one of them said how much they wanted me to visit their schools, and we talked about basically the same stuff I had with the U of M lady, and by the end of the third conversation my pulse was pretty close to normal because I was getting so used to it all.

So I guess you could say that the weekend ended a lot better than it began, although that wasn't so hard, because when you're at the bottom all directions point up.