It had been loud before. Now it was something else entirely.
Mason was jumping up and down on the bleacher seat next to me, yelling at the top of his lungs.
“That’s my dad! That’s my dad!”
Mr. Halvorson had run out of things on his index card.
He stood there at the scorer’s table with the microphone in his hand, looking at the three of them standing at center court.
And I watched him make a decision.
He walked the microphone out onto the floor.
And he handed it to Travis.
Because it’s a small town, and everybody in that gym knew him, nobody thought it was strange.
And nobody sat down.
Travis looked at that microphone like it was a live wire.
He’s not a talker. He sells seed to farmers who don’t like salesmen. And he does it by saying as little as possible and always showing up.
