I smiled, but inside I longed for his words to be true.

State champions. The Super Bowl of high school sports. I could barely think the words.

Bud moved up the field, where he stood at the gate, waiting for the team to pour out onto the field. I waved to friends as the stands filled. In a town of 1,300, a Friday night football game is the hot ticket. A coolness nipped the air, spiced with the bouquet of decaying leaves and someone grilling their last steaks of the season.

The band, a motley crew that took up four rows of seats, assembled. I hummed along as they warmed up with the school fight song.

Town grocer Gil Anderson manned the booth behind me and announced the team. I leaped to my feet in a display of disbelief and joy as the Trouts surged out of the school and onto the playing field.

Each player's hand connected with one of Bud's fins on the way to the field.

I spotted Kevin right off, big number 33. He looked enormous with his pads. As he stretched, I noted how lean and strong he'd become over the past six weeks of training. I held my breath as he took the sidelines, wishing for a start for him. To my shock, he took the field after the kickoff, just behind the offensive line.

I've never been one to hold back when it comes to football. I cheered my lungs out, pretty sure the team needed my sideline coaching. And when Kevin got the ball and ran it in for a touchdown, I pounded Gretchen Gilstrap on the shoulders in front of me. "That's my son!"

She gave me a good-natured thumbs-up.

We won the game by two touchdowns and a field goal. As Kevin pulled off his helmet and looked for me in the stands, his blond hair sweaty and plastered to his face, I heard Bud's words again: "Maybe this will be the year they go to state."

What is it they always say? Be careful what you wish for?

***

"Amazing run on Friday!"

"I didn't know your son could play football!"

"Kevin has his father's moves—I remember when Mike took them all the way to state!"

I love my church. I stood in the foyer, receiving accolades for birthing such a stupendous athlete, smiling now and again at Kevin, who was closing up shop at the sound board that he ran every Sunday. Mike had already gone to get the car—his favorite "giddyap and out of church" maneuver. I still had more compliments to gather.

After all, Kevin had been a ten-pound baby. I get some credit.

I worked my way to the fellowship hall to pick up my empty pan. With eighty members, sixty attendees on a good Sunday, we took turns hosting the midmorning coffee break. I had whipped up a batch of my grandmother's almond coffee cake.

Pastor Backlund stood by the door, and when I finally reached him, he grinned widely. "Great game, Marianne."

"Thanks. I'll tell Kevin you said so."

"Must be strange to have your youngest be a senior this year."

I was trying not to think about that, but yes, although I was thrilled to see Kevin move off the sofa and onto the playing field, I was dreading the inevitable quiet that would invade our home next year. I smiled tightly.

"I hope that will leave you more time to get involved at church?" His eyebrow quirked up, as if I'd been somehow delinquent over the past twenty-five years. I was mentally doing the math, summing up just how many years in a row I'd taught Sunday school, when he added, "Would you consider taking on the role of hospitality chairperson?"

"Hey, Mom!" Kevin appeared beside me. "Can I head over to Coach's for lunch? A bunch of guys are getting together to talk about the game."

I glanced at him, back to the pastor. "Sure."

"Perfect," Kevin said, disappearing out the door.

"Wonderful," Pastor Backlund said, reaching for his next parishioner.

Mike, now spotting me, leaned on his horn.

I'd have to call the pastor later and politely decline his offer to let me take command of the weekly coffee break, the quarterly potluck, and most importantly, the annual Christmas Tea. The hospitality position came staffed with women decades older than I, who could teach even Martha Stewart a few things about stretching a budget and creating centerpieces. I'd rather lead a camping trip for two hundred toddlers through a mosquito-infested jungle.

"Be back by supper!" I hollered to Kevin as he slid into his friend's sedan. He didn't even look back.

I climbed into our SUV next to Mike. His thoughts had already moved on, probably to the training he would attend next weekend. Or maybe just to lunch. We rode home in silence. I noticed how the brilliant greens of the poplar trees had turned brown, the maples to red, the oaks to orange. The wind had already stripped some of the trees naked.

I could admit that my leaves had started to turn. But I wasn't ready to shed them yet.

I pressed my lips together and silently begged the winter winds to tarry.

From The Great Christmas Bowl. Copyright © 2009 by Susan May Warren.  Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188.