by Carl Deuker
“New England it is. I’ll make fifty copies of this DVD and your transcript, and write a letter of recommendation for you. You’ll need to sign up for the SAT. I’ll contact the NCAA Clearinghouse and help you get that paperwork done. You can address the manila envelopes in my office during lunch. That I’m not doing for you.”
I addressed half the envelopes during lunch and the other half after practice the following day. Then, for the next four games, I played the best basketball I’d ever played in my life.
7
I KNEW THAT AT SOME POINT I’d have to tell my mom and dad about Coach Russell’s DVD and the letters he’d sent out for me, but I kept putting it off. I waited partly because I’d look like a fool if no coach called, but mainly because my dad was so worried about losing his job. I’d hear him complain to my mom about the guy from Cal Berkeley. “I swear to God, Mary, he looks at me as if I were a piece of broken furniture. If he could, he’d put me out with the trash.”
February was rolling by. Before every practice I’d give Coach Russell a look, but he’d only shake his head. When we were alone, he’d tell me to be patient, but the better I played, the more I ached to hear from some school. There was nothing—no interest. The game on the DVD was good; the letter from Coach Russell was good. My lousy grades were the problem; I knew it, and so did Coach Russell. Why had I been such a lazy dog?
Then, on the Friday before Presidents’ Day weekend, the door opened during my English class, and I was handed a note telling me to report immediately to the library. Coach Russell was waiting for me by the circulation desk. “Monitor College,” he said, his voice excited. “Ever heard of it?”
I shook my head.
“Neither have I. It’s in New Hampshire, which is right next to Vermont. Their coach wants to talk to you. Skype.”
“When?”
His face broke into a broad smile. “Right now. Mrs. Johnson, the librarian, is setting up a computer.” Coach Russell put his big hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eye. “Just be yourself, Jonas.”
Monitor’s coach was Greg Richter, a young black guy with a close-cropped beard and intense eyes. His basketball questions were easy to answer, but I felt like a fish flopping around in the bottom of a boat once he switched to academics. How were my reading skills? My math skills? Why had I only taken one lab science class? Could I improve my grades? Drops of sweat formed on my forehead; my ears rang. Finally I leveled with him. “I’ve never tried hard, Mr. Richter. But starting right now, I will. I promise.”
Silence.
From three thousand miles away, he looked at me as if he were trying to look into my heart. Finally he spoke. “Thanks very much for your time, Jonas. I’d also like to talk to your parents. How about if I call them on Sunday morning? Say ten o’clock your time?”
I gave him my home number, remembered to thank him, and then the computer screen went blue. I turned to Coach Russell, who had been watching from off to the side.
“You did fine,” he said.
“You think I’ve got a chance, even with my grades?”
“He wouldn’t have called if your grades were a deal-breaker. Believe me, college coaches are way too busy to waste time.”
When I returned home that night, my mom was in the kitchen getting my dinner ready. I couldn’t stall any longer, so as she put together a plate of food for me, I told her about Coach Richter and Monitor College.
I kept my voice low, and I said that most likely nothing would come of it, but as I was speaking, she stopped mashing the potatoes and stared at me, her eyes wide. When I finished, she hugged me and then stepped back, taking my hands in hers. “That’s wonderful, Jonas. Have you told your father?”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid to.”
She tilted her head, puzzled. “Why?”
I shrugged. “You know. The way Dad talks about the college guys from the corporate office. The way the guy from Cal Berkeley is treating him. He hates them. You know he does.”
My mom frowned. “Jonas, this is you. Nothing could make your dad happier than good things happening to you. Tell him right now.”
So I did, and he jumped up and pounded me on the back. “You want to hear something strange,” he said. “As I was watching your last game, I thought: He could play college ball. I actually considered calling Coach Russell and asking him to get a recruiter out to look at you.” My mom came out then, and she hugged me again. Seeing both of them smile made me glad I’d told them. They hadn’t smiled like this in a long time.
Eventually, my dad went back to his newspaper and my mom returned to the kitchen. I walked down the hallway to my room, opened my laptop, and logged on to Monitor College’s website.
The campus was perched high on a hilltop. All the buildings had ivy crawling up their walls. There were photos of students studying in the library, playing Frisbee on the lawn, and drinking coffee in an espresso shop. I could almost imagine myself walking on those tree-lined paths, my backpack crammed with books.
8
THE SUNDAY PHONE CALL FROM Coach Richter came at the exact minute he said it would. From the kitchen, I heard my dad say that I was dedicated to basketball, honest, and not a hardhead. Next Mr. Richter talked to my mom. The roles changed then; she asked the questions. She must have liked his answers because her head kept nodding up and down.
Finally my dad called me to the telephone. So much was whirling around inside me that I had trouble following Coach Richter’s sentences. Still, I did hear the last thing loud and clear. “You’ll be getting a detailed letter from me, so keep an eye on the mail.”
I hung up, talked to my parents for a while, and then returned to my room. I took out my history book and tried to study, but I couldn’t concentrate.
When I’d been younger, working at the sand and gravel had seemed exciting. Driving a mixer, sending cement tumbling down a long chute, filling some big hole—what could be better to a ten-year-old? I wasn’t ten anymore, though. Coach Russell had opened my eyes. Work like that would be great for a year or two. But for a lifetime? I thought about my father, about what the work had done to his body, and about how they were treating him now. What would he do if they fired him? He knew cement mixers, but that was all he knew. I didn’t know if I’d like college, but that didn’t really matter. Richter was giving me a chance to change my life. I couldn’t pass up an opportunity like that.
We had a district playoff game, a win-or-go-home game, on Wednesday night against St. Francis in their gym down in Mountain View. The Lancers had lost only twice all year, so we were slated to be the team going home.
The advantage of being an underdog is that nobody expects anything from you. I figured if I played my game—which was scoring a little and passing a lot—we could hang close through three quarters. If you hang close, anything can happen in the fourth quarter. It would be terrific to tell Coach Richter that I’d led my team to a huge upset.
What I didn’t anticipate was the intensity of the Lancers’ defense. From the opening tip, St. Francis double-teamed me as soon as I crossed midcourt. I’d pass out of the trap, setting up a four-on-three for the other guys. We should have scored in bunches, but my teammates couldn’t hit anything. Once guys miss a few open shots, they start thinking, and then they miss everything.
With my teammates struggling, I tried to take over the game. I dribbled too much; I forced up wild shots. Coach Russell called a time-out to settle us, then another one. From ten rows up, I heard my dad yell at me to calm down, but I couldn’t. When the horn sounded, ending the first half, we were down, 32–13.
We played better in the second half, but we never cut the lead to fewer than twelve. The final score was 64–46, ending our season with a thud.
On the drive home, my dad told me that my future was bright. I nodded, but an hour later I lay awake reliving all the dumb plays I’d made. If Coach Richter had seen that game, he’d have never called.
9
A WEEK AFTER THE ST. FRANCIS loss, I shot ar
ound for a while after school with Mark, and then I walked home. As usual, I checked the mailbox before stepping inside. This time, instead of coming up empty, I pulled out a thick envelope with Monitor College’s address in the upper left-hand corner.
Both my parents were at work, so I had the house to myself. I carried the envelope to the kitchen table and carefully opened it. Inside was a letter and a color brochure. I put off reading Richter’s letter and first flipped through the brochure. The photographs were similar to the ones I’d seen on their website: ivy creeping up the side of old brick buildings, golden trees lining gravel pathways, pure white snow blanketing a winter landscape. I closed the brochure, took a deep breath, and then read the letter from Coach Richter.
The first paragraph was about basketball. He wrote that his offense required a smart point guard to run a fast-break offense, and that he liked what he saw of me on the DVD, both on offense and defense. He thought I could be his guy.
That was the good part. The not-so-good part took up the rest of the letter.
I’m going to be straight with you, Jonas. Your academic record worries me. My basketball players are student-athletes, with the emphasis on student. There is another high school point guard with whom I’m in contact. Right now, you hold the edge on the basketball court, and I have told him so. I have also told him that he has the edge in the classroom. Before I can offer you a scholarship, I will need to see clear evidence that you will be able to meet the high academic standards of Monitor College.
To be specific: you will need to complete your current junior-year classes with a minimum 3.0 grade point average. Listed below are the classes Monitor College requires you to complete—again with a minimum 3.0 grade point average—during your senior year.
•Chemistry
•Algebra II/Trigonometry
•Language Arts
•Social Studies
•Spanish
You will also need to score at least five hundred on each section of the SAT. I do not need to tell you that this is a much more difficult course of study than you have undertaken in the past. To succeed, you will need to put forth the kind of effort in the classroom that you have put forth on the basketball court. It is up to you.
Sincerely,
Gregory Richter
Men’s Head Basketball Coach
Monitor College
10
IT HAD BEEN ONE THING to talk about becoming a better student, but seeing in black-and-white Richter’s list of requirements was overwhelming. In the previous weeks, I’d actually raised my hand in class a few times. The kids around me were surprised; the teachers nodded with pleasure.
But raising your hand in class a few times isn’t the same as studying hard for tough classes for an entire year. Could I do that? And if I did somehow get into Monitor College, was I smart enough to succeed? What would be the point of going all the way to New England only to flunk out?
My mind went in circles for a while, until I thought of Lisa Yee. Lisa lived right down the block, and she was one of the smartest kids at Redwood High. When we were little, we’d played together at Stambaugh Park, and we were still good friends. Lisa knew all about colleges, and she also knew what I could and couldn’t do. Most importantly, she’d be straight with me.
My dad wasn’t home for dinner, which was typical. When we finished eating, I asked my mom if I could borrow her car, and she said yes. I took out my cell and phoned Lisa. “How about we go to Starbucks?” I asked.
“Sorry, Jonas. I’ve got homework.”
“Come on, Lisa. You can bring your laptop. I need to talk to you.”
“Why can’t we just talk now, on the phone?”
“Because I have to show you something. Please, Lisa. It won’t take long.”
Twenty minutes later we were drinking hot chocolate at a corner table inside the Starbucks by the Redwood City train station. “So?” Lisa said, pushing her long hair back over her shoulders. “What’s the big mystery?”
I unfolded Coach Richter’s letter and handed it to her.
As she read, the impatience in her eyes was replaced by excitement. When she was halfway through, she reached over, took hold of my arm, and squeezed. “Jonas, this is fantastic.”
“Have you heard of Monitor College?” I asked when she’d finished reading.
“No, but that doesn’t mean anything,” she said as she opened her laptop. “There are a thousand schools in the East I’ve never heard of.”
I looked over her shoulder and watched as she typed Monitor College into the Google search box. Within seconds, she was jumping from webpage to webpage. At each stop, she found something new to like about Monitor. After about five minutes, she closed her laptop and looked at me. “It’s a perfect fit for you.”
“And you think I can do what Richter wants me to do?”
A quizzical look came over her face. “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”
I nodded. “I’ve never been much of a student.”
“Jonas, trust me. You’ll have no trouble with the SAT, and you can get Bs if you study.”
I shook my head. “In some classes, yeah. But I got a D in biology last year, and I barely got a C− in geometry first semester this year. How am I going to get Bs in chemistry and Algebra II?”
Lisa’s brows knit. “Okay, those will be difficult, but I’ll help you. I’ve taken both of those classes already, so I know what you’ll need to study.” She reached over and squeezed my arm again. “You can do it, Jonas. I know you can.”
I was feeling pumped up by Lisa’s confidence in me when I opened my front door, but that feeling vanished the instant I saw my parents. They were sitting at the kitchen table, papers spread out in front of them, their faces grim. They barely looked at me as I came in.
I’d planned on showing them Richter’s letter; instead, I went to my room and read it over a few more times. I’d put it away when my mom tapped on my door, opened it, and then stepped inside. She didn’t usually do that—once I closed my door at night, they both left me alone.
“What happened?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.
Her eyes were sad. “Two weeks.”
Neither of us said anything for a while. Then my mom smiled. “The good news is that he’s going to start a new chapter in his life. He never liked that dispatch job, anyway. We’re going through a rough patch, but in the long run everything will work out.”
11
ONCE MY DAD LOST HIS job, coming home from school was awkward. He had no place to go and nothing to do, so he was always hanging around the house. Little by little he changed too—and not for the better. First, he stopped shaving. He’s got a heavy beard, and within a week it looked wild, like the beard of a mass murderer in a horror film. Next, he stopped paying attention to his clothes. He’d wear the same old Mount Shasta sweatshirt and the same old ripped blue jeans day after day. But the worst thing was the drinking—every afternoon he’d polish off a six-pack of beer, and sometimes he drank more.
My mom was working extra hours at the hairdresser, so most afternoons and evenings, it was just my dad and me at home. We’d microwave frozen dinners and eat them with plastic knives and forks so we wouldn’t have to wash up. When my mom came home, her blue eyes seemed paler and so did her skin. She hardly ate, so every day she looked thinner.
Those weeks were miserable, but one good thing did happen: I taught myself how to study. I can play basketball for hours, but after ten minutes of looking at a book, I had to fight the urge to play a video game or turn on ESPN. Slowly, though, I trained myself to concentrate.
Lisa was right about my grades, at least for history and English. By reading everything twice, checking answers, and asking questions in class, I was earning Bs. Teachers I thought I hated, like Mr. Whitten, turned out to be okay once I started acting differently.
The tough class was geometry. I’d blown off math for so long that I had all kinds of holes in my knowledge. I wasn’t entirely sure what the slope
of a line was and had only the haziest idea how to find it. While all my other grades were going up, my C− in geometry was drifting toward a D.
In mid-March I got myself switched to Mr. Nutting’s math class. Nutting was known as a hard-ass, but he also had the reputation of helping anyone who asked. I spent lunch periods in his room working through the problem sets, slowly filling in the holes in my knowledge. Nutting was honest. “You might not be a math whiz, Jonas, but you’re smart enough. Just stay with it.”
With Nutting’s help, my geometry grade slowly rose. I wouldn’t say using the point-slope formula ever came as easily to me as shooting a free throw, but it wasn’t like climbing Mount Everest, either. When I went online to check my grades after quarter finals, I had a B− in geometry and a B or better in everything else.
12
I TOOK THE SAT AT SCHOOL one afternoon. Lisa had been right—it wasn’t that hard. When I got home that day, I spotted a Lexus with a Hertz rental car license frame in our driveway. When I opened the front door, I saw a strange man sitting across the kitchen table from my dad. They were deep in conversation. I looked, and then looked again. It was my uncle Frank.
If you look at photos of Uncle Frank and my dad from when they were in high school, you can see immediately that they’re brothers, and it’s hard to tell who is older. That makes sense because they were born only eighteen months apart. But sitting across from one another at the kitchen table that day, they didn’t look like brothers—and they didn’t look the same age.
My dad had started working at the sand and gravel company right out of high school, but Uncle Frank went to the University of Washington, where he earned a business degree. Uncle Frank now owns about twenty fancy hamburger places up in Seattle. The Blue Jay restaurants have made him rich—millionaire rich.
