Never Blame the Umpire by Gene Fehler Page A

away like I have some other things I’ve tried to write.
    I know, though, that I’m not going to show it to Mama.

Twenty
friday night tradition
    So much has changed this summer. At least our Friday nights have stayed the same. Mostly. Except on those nights when we go to a football game or a play or visit friends or something, we keep to our Friday night tradition: the four of us in the TV/game room, playing games or watching DVDs and eating popcorn and other snacks, our normal Friday night.
    Normal is a strange word. I don’t even know what normal is anymore.
    That first Friday, right after I found out about Mama’s cancer, I couldn’t be with Mama and Dad. I just couldn’t. But that was the only time I haven’t been part of our tradition.
    Mama and Dad must be picking out funny movies to watch on purpose. I’m glad. It helps me forget for a little while about the bad thing that’s taking over our lives.
    Last Friday something different happened. Just a few minutes before the end of the movie, Ken got up and started to leave the room. He didn’t say anything.
    Dad picked up the remote. He said, “I’ll pause it until you come back.” We all just figured he was going to the bathroom or something.
    “That’s okay,” Ken said. “Keep it running. I have to go to my room. I’m not going to watch the rest.”
    “But it’s almost over,” Mama said.
    Ken didn’t answer. He just left. The three of us watched the rest of the movie without him.
    The movie had a really cool ending. I wished Ken had stayed to see it. He would have liked it. I know he would have. I think Mama and Dad felt bad, too, that he didn’t see it.
    Tonight, same time as always, Mama gets out the popcorn popper. I’m not talking about those air poppers that throw out dry, tasteless popcorn, or even microwave popcorn which is sometimes tasteless but sometimes even pretty good if you buy the kind with gobs of butter melted into it. I’m talking about the old dented popcorn pan Mama always uses, with popcorn popped in just the right amount of vegetableoil and doused with just the right amount of melted butter with just the right amount of the special seasoned salt Mama sprinkles on it.
    That’s the kind of popcorn I get to look forward to almost every Friday night. That’s the only night we have it. “We don’t want to every get tired of it,” Mama says every time I beg for it on any other night. “If we pop it more often we’ll get tired of it. It won’t be special anymore.”
    I always start pouting when she says that, but deep down I know she’s right. That popcorn—not just the taste but the tradition—is one thing that makes our Friday night family time so special.
    “It’s almost time for the movie,” Dad calls out while he gets the DVD ready. “Tell Ken.”
    “Ken. Hurry up!” I yell from the hallway. I wait a few seconds for him to come out of his room. He doesn’t even answer.
    “Ken!” I shout again.
    Nothing.
    I finally give up and go to the door of his room. His door is shut, so I knock. I’ve learned not to go in his room without knocking. Even last year I could go in without knocking, but now he gets really mad, like his privacy is the most precious thing in the whole world. Heaven forbid I should open his door and see him in his underwear or something. Like I’ve never seen his underwear before.
    And I know he’s not going to be in his room smoking or taking drugs or looking at naked girls on the Internet. Ken’s my little brother. I know him. You can’t be as close as we have for all that time to not know the things he does and doesn’t do.
    I knock louder.
    “Come on in,” he calls out. “It’s not locked.”
    He’s lying on his bed with his earphones on. I’m surprised he heard me at all, as loud as his music is playing. I can even hear it through his earphones, and I’m way across the room.
    He takes them off.
    “You’ll be as deaf as a stone before you’re in high school,” I