and wrote Duane Ostrem in neat capital letters.
“Tell him to watch his step on the center circle,” Howard said. “The maintenance crew used too much wax after the basketball scrimmage.”
“He knows,” I said.
I left the scorer table without looking back at Travis. I walked along the black rubber floor runner that lined the outer edge of the volleyball court.
The metal double doors near the athletic equipment room creaked open. Cold autumn wind blew into the warm gym, smelling of cut silage and damp earth.
My father stepped through the opening. He wore his dark tan Sunday jacket, crisp brown trousers, and his dark blue seed corn cap with the gold emblem on the crown.
He carried his hickory walking cane in his right hand. His black dress shoes were polished so bright they reflected the overhead gym lamps.
I stepped up to him and took his
