The Gift

The Gift

Copyright 2014 Matt Cairone

All Rights Reserved

        The wind blew cold and damp with the bite of the onshore wind. 

Mario had been up since dawn, but he knew better than to get out of bed up until light came through the venetian blinds. He never started Christmas morning on the wrong foot. 

Once he was sure it was safe, Mario bounced out of bed and ran down the hall to his parents’ bedroom. He peeked in. They were awake. 

“Merry Christmas,” his mother said. 

“Merry Christmas. Is Mary Beth up yet?” 

Mary Beth, being eight years older than Mario, was apt to sleep to an undesirable hour on Christmas morning.

“Go and check,” his dad said, which Mario took to be license to wake her. 

He ran into her room and turned on the light. He stomped around like a wooden soldier on steroids. 

“Get out of here,” she screamed, holding the “out” for an extra-long count.

She pulled the covers over her head.

“Come on,” he said. In his best vaudeville impersonation he sang, “Presents!” He took a bow and tipped an imaginary top hat.

“Give me a minute you little turd,” she said.

“You’re the turd,” he yelled.

“All right you two,” his mother said, pulling the covers off of his sister with a smile. “Let’s get our slippers on and go see what’s under the tree.”

Mario shot into his room, emerged with slippers on, and ran to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He waited for everyone to brush. At last, it was time.

Mario went right for it, right to the square package with round bulges. He knew what it was. The same shape had been under the tree for every Christmas he could remember. It was the one thing he knew he could count on. The square package with the round bulges, once a year, without fail, on Christmas morning.

This was his new basketball. It was his favorite present. Nothing else mattered.

Last year’s ball was on its last legs, as usual. It was balding and slippery. The grip was worn down and the dimples were played off. Mario opened the present, pulled apart the cardboard, and he read the magic words: “Spalding - Official Size.” He picked the ball up to smell the new rubber and to feel the suction-like grip of the new dimples. He put his fingers in each deep seam and made a full circle around the ball. He spun the ball on his right index finger until his mom was compelled to tell him to stop before he broke a light. She had to coax him to put it down and open his other presents, which he did in haste to return his affections to the new ball.

Mario hated snow on Christmas. He put the ball on the floor next to the rocking chair. After breakfast, he said, “Can I go out for a little while?”

“Where are you going?” his mother asked.

Mario’s father, a man of few words, said, “You know where he’s going.”

Mario ran to the schoolyard, the ball under one arm and the snow shovel in the other hand. The frigid wind blew and the snow swirled around him. He cleared a patch under the basket.