Validation for Overthinking Moms
We will overthink it into existence
If you aren’t fully versed in Steph Curry facts and stats, are you even a mom to a basketball-obsessed 11-year-old boy?
You’ve probably heard of this guy, but if not I could recite his entire Wikipedia page. The TLDR: he’s one of the best basketball players of all time (according to my son.) He’s also married to Ayesha Curry which I think is even more hype-worthy, but maybe “golden daggers” and deep threes just don’t impress me.
My kid loves this man so much he told me if our house were to catch fire and Steph was in it, he would save basketball’s greatest 3 point shooter first, our dog second, and me a very close third. We’ll assume Bart was out getting groceries.
Steph seems like a good guy. As far as I know he hasn’t ever punched a fan, cheated on his stunning wife, gotten a DUI, or started a podcast with a Real Housewife. Plus I love a theme so let’s go, Warriors!
The only Golden State thing my son didn’t have was the experience of attending a Warriors game in person. This makes a lot of sense because:
we do not live in or near San Francisco
NBA tickets cost more than eggs
it would be preposterous to pay for three airline tickets, a hotel, several meals, Ubers, and not-even-good tickets to an NBA game so a CHILD could watch his favorite millionaire athlete throw a ball to other millionaire athletes.
So of course I got him tickets to a game!
The Best Laid Plans Are Born of a Mother’s Irrationality
One of my best friends lives in San Francisco and it’s a quick flight from Seattle. Honestly it’s weird I hadn’t thought of this before.
I coordinated with my friend to pick the date— March 7— and got to work creating a literal Golden Ticket for our son to unwrap Christmas morning.
“I get to see my role model?” the child asked with tears streaming down his face. “The person I love most in the world?”
His father, grandfather, uncles, and mother all nodded in confirmation.
GAME TIME!
As soon as our plane touched down in San Francisco we heard the news: Steph Curry was out with an ankle injury.
I was wrecked! BEYOND consoling! This was about me, after all. But after a few tense minutes my son calmed me down and concluded the trip was not ruined. He would still see his favorite team who happened to be playing against another phenom— Victor Wembanyama! BONUS! And surely Steph would still be there, just on the bench instead of the court.
Except:
The Warriors did not play well and lost. Badly.
Steph was not there. Like at all. No where to be seen.
Victor was also not there because he too was out with an ANKLE INJURY!
What choice did I have as an irrational, overthinking mom?
Flash forward to Christmas 2024:
“I’m going back?!” my son shouted. “For real?”
“We’re going back?” Bart shouted. “For real?”
Dribble, Dribble Toil and Trouble
This is probably a good time to mention I’m a witch.
Not the kind I hear Bart mumble about under his breath when I critique his dishwasher loading skills. The kind that can manifest good shit out of thin air. I’ve been working some remedial version of The Secret for decades and when I’m good, I’m very, very good.
“I can’t believe we met Steph Curry,” I said to Bart one morning. He about choked on his toothpaste.
“We did what now?” he asked.
“We met Steph,” I said. “He signed the child’s jersey. He was really nice.”
“Umm, where was I when this happened?”
“With me. Court side.”
“Riggggggghhhhhtttt…”
Silly Bart. He knows how manifesting works. He’s been married to a witch for thirteen years now! You talk about the thing you are manifesting as if it already happened before it happens! Positive vibes only!
All we needed was for Steph to stick with the plan and protect those ankles!
The weeks leading up to the do-over I was a mess. I’m telling you, I was more obsessed with that man’s well-being than my own child’s.
“I’m making myself sick,” I told my friend. “I can’t read the news anymore.”
“I know,” she commiserated. “It’s nuts. We live in a dystopian nightmare.”
“Oh, no, not that. I’m so afraid Steph Curry will get hurt or sick or raptured by angels or traded!”
She was confused. “He won’t get…traded. My god, this is what keeps you up at night?”
Well, not just that. If only it were that peaceful.
What my son would wear on this fateful day was currently getting top billing in the shit-I-spiral-about-when-I-should-be-sleeping nightly presentation. What does one wear when face-to-face with their idol? Of course he had dozens of Warriors options. He could wear multiple layers and peel them away like an onion every time Steph drained a three and still be fully clothed by the end of the game. But it wasn’t enough to just be a Warriors fan. My child MUST stand out!
That’s when it came to me. He would wear Warriors everything except for his shorts. Those would be Curry Brand.
GET WITH THE PROGRAM, EVERYONE!
Here’s how it would go down:
We arrive early to watch warm-ups. We’ll head to our section and make our way down as close to the court as we can. A very kind-hearted person will take a liking to us and see what a huge fan the child is and give him special, secret access to Steph who will take the time to sign the child’s jersey and tell him what a cool, thoughtful, powerful witch mom he has.
Easy as a candle magic spell!
I laid out the child’s wardrobe like he was a king going to his coronation.
“What about these shorts?” he asked, pulling out— GET THIS— basic, black NBA shorts from the suitcase. NBA??? We ain’t trying to get commentators gig here!
“YOU WILL WEAR THE CURRY BRAND SHORTS! IT IS YOUR DESTINY! THESE SHORTS WILL PROPEL YOU TO YOUR GREATEST AND HIGHEST CALLING!”
“Just let him wear whatever shorts he wants,” Bart said.
Why were these two bitches acting like I haven’t spent weeks prepping every inch of this trip? This plan was multi-faceted! It’s the goddamn butterfly effect up in here! Every fiber of the universe that connects the boundaries between voids and galactic clusters were dependent on those damn shorts! Beep beep, fuckers! The wheels of destiny were in motion so get out of the damn way!
But Shelly, you are probably thinking. Surely the universe is not as rigid as a middle-aged lady mom hellbent on righting a terrible fate that befell her spoiled child by stupidly believing she can control not just her son’s destiny, but that of one of the world’s greatest athletes and an arena full of strangers?
SILENCE, naysayer! He’s not that spoiled!
“I have curated the perfect outfit for the perfect weekend to attend the perfect game and have the perfect experience. He will wear the Curry shorts! The Curry shorts are VERY important to the plan! Do not mess with the shorts and DO NOT MESS WITH MEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
He wore the shorts.
“Look at all these kids,” I told my son as we waited to get into the arena. “Don’t let them get in your way!”
“Huh?” the child answered.
Bart jumped in. “She means look around at all these fans! These are your people!”
“No,” I said, directing the child’s attention back to me. “They are his competition! Notice what they lack?”
“A weirdo mom who is being really dramatic?” Bart suggested.
“And scary?” the child added.
“NO! None are wearing Curry Brand! They are Warriors fans! You…” I grabbed his cheeks for effect, and also because I was being very dramatic and scary, “are a Curry fan.”
The doors opened and we made our way to our section. Good seats in the 100 level which cost half as much as the not-great-tickets I purchased the year before. They also happened to be next to where the team entered and exited the court.
Propelled by the power of the universe (and the two White Claws I pounded in the hotel room) I marched past our row and 3 ushers until a very nice usher stopped me at row 4. Apparently rows 1-4 were the really nice seats and those people didn’t like poor people’s cushioned seats on their cushioned seats.
We’ll head to our section and make our way down as close to the court as we can.
“Hi!” Pamela, the nice usher said. “Can I help you?”
“Yes!” I said. “I want to watch the warm-ups.”
“Great!” she said. “Stand here!”
Okay, it wasn’t court side, but it was an amazing view! I motioned for my rules-following, universe-defying family to join me here immediately. The plan was in motion!
Pamela and I started chatting. I told her about our failed attempt last year and how we had to mortgage our house for a do-over, but how cool was this for my son to be so close to his role model!
She smiled at my googly-eyed son watching the rookies warm up.
“You like Steph?” Pamela asked, taking in his magnificent outfit.
“I love him,” he said. “More than anything.”
She pointed and said, “See that railing over there? Stand there before it gets too crowded. Steph sometimes signs autographs after warm-ups. But you have to be aggressive. Everyone wants to meet him.”
…a very kind-hearted person will take a liking to us and see what a huge fan the child is and give him special, secret access to Steph…
“Ok!” and he was off.
Friends, my son is not aggressive like his mother. I worried this sweet kid would get pushed aside or become too starstruck or have his ribs broken when throngs of eBay shop owners and their Sharpies surged toward the railing. And yet, in spite of my always-on-anxiety-to-eleven baseline, I remained oddly calm, chatting it up with Pamela and marveling at how tall basketball players are in real life.
The rookies left the court and the energy in the arena immediately changed. Much scuttling and frenzied voices and cheers confirmed what we knew was going down: Mr. Steph Curry and his two healthy ankles had arrived!
I still didn’t have eyes on my kid and it was driving me crazy, but I— like every contestant on The Bachelor— trusted the process.
Steph concluded his warm-up and made his way back to the locker room which caused everyone within fifteen feet of the railing to go berserk. It was unnatural for a mother to be so close yet so blind to what was happening to her child in the (according to him) most important moment of his life.
And then it was over.
The cheers stopped.
The frenzy died down.
The people along the railing were dispersing. One layer of fans parted, then two, then three, until all that remained was an 11-year-old kid clutching a Curry jersey. When our eyes locked, his smile told me everything.
It happened!
“…who will take the time to sign the child’s jersey…”
Thank you, universe!
I hugged Pamela who was so caught off-guard she may have tried to mace me, but we were already running back to our seats!
“I am officially afraid of you,” Bart whispered.
“It’s about time,” I whispered back.
Mom-ifest It
“Oh!” the child said, “I forgot to tell you! Steph was so busy signing things he couldn’t really talk anyone, but when he got to me he said—”
WAIT FOR IT!
“…nice shorts!”
“…and tell him what a cool, thoughtful, powerful witch mom he has.”
^^ close enough!
So yes, I’m kind of a witch, but I only use my power for good.
You may think the universe is made up of mysterious matter and dark energy, but now you know better. It’s the never-ending pinging and zinging of unfettered, nonstop, nonsensical thoughts and wishes and yearnings from a billion overthinking mothers. When a mom tells you she has thought of everything, believe her. And wear the damn shorts.
XO,
Shelly
Amazing writing. I LOLed the whole time while my husband goes “what are you reading” and I go “you wouldn’t get it.”
I love this. This kid has no idea how lucky he is to have you on his team. ❤️