This book is dedicated to every parent that takes the time to read with their children. Love you, Mom.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Acknowledgement
About the Author
Copyright
I took a deep breath. You can do this, I told myself. You’ve done it before. I dribbled the ball twice with my right hand and then crossed it over to my left. I looked over at my defender. Correction: I looked up at my defender. He was a year or two older than me, and they called him Oakley. It was a good name for him because he was as tall as a tree.
I was isolated one-on-one at the top of the key. We were in crunch time at a weekend basketball tournament. This was the second day, the championship round. I crossed over again, to the right and back to the left. I scanned the court. My friend Jammer was still double-teamed. He’d been scoring all game. But now that the score was tied up late, the other team was doing everything they could to deny him the ball.
That left it up to me. I waited for some traffic to clear in the lane and then made my move. I gave Oakley a quick shoulder fake and then took off to my left. He bit a little on the fake, giving me just enough space to edge by him. He was right behind me, and their center had good position in front of me. There was just a little daylight between the two and it was closing fast. I lofted up a floater. I was sure it would go right over the guy in front of me.
Buh-WONNK!
It never got the chance. Oakley reached out and swatted the thing out of the air. I didn’t think he was that close. I turned around and he wasn’t: He just had those long arms.
The ball went right to the other team’s point guard. Just like that, I had to scramble to get back on defense. I needed good position and active hands to stop Oakley on the other end. I caught a glimpse of the clock. The other team could hold for the final shot — and the win.
We caught a lucky break. Their point guard was fast. He decided to press the advantage and rocket down the court. He was trying to take it all the way in on the break. The lucky break: Our PG, a kid named Jackson, had wheels, too! He stayed with his guy the whole way and bothered him just enough that the shot clanged off the rim.
Jackson got the rebound and led us back up the court as the seconds wound down. We managed to get the ball to Jammer this time. But they doubled him right away, and he had to give it up. Jammer saw me break free and zipped the ball to me. I was in almost the same position as before. And so was Oakley. As a wise man once said, it was déjà vu all over again.
I decided to give the ball up, too. I didn’t want a repeat of last time, especially not on game point. I looked for Jackson, but he was lost in all the bodies and limbs near the hoop. As I waited for him to get clear, I saw a familiar face on the other side of the fence.
He was standing there, watching the action — an older guy but in great shape. It was Omar “Overtime” Tanner. He was a local hoops legend and the man who’d invited me to my first big tournament. I was glad to see him, but right now I had to concentrate on this tourney.
But the D was tight. No one was open. Everyone was shouting: “Over here!” and “Switch!” and “Watch the screen!” And then I heard a big voice, deeper than the rest: “Amar’e!” It was Overtime. I kept my dribble low and risked a quick look over.
He raised his big hand up and swirled his index finger around in a quick circle. Yeah, I thought. That just might work…. I crossed over, gave Oakley a quick shoulder fake, and then took off to my left. They were the same moves as last time, and Oakley didn’t bite. He was on me tight. I think I even heard him laugh. I know he thought this drive would end with another swat.
Their center stepped in front of me again. I knew that this time he’d be ready for the floater. I busted out the spin move I’d been working on instead. The toughest part was right at the beginning. I needed to keep my handle and try not to take any extra steps. I didn’t lose the ball, and the whistle didn’t sound, so I figured my footwork was good.
I spun out into the open court and kept going. Oakley barreled right through the space where I used to be and got tangled up with the center. Another dribble, and I laid it up. The ball went in, the horn went off, and the win was ours.
Jammer was named MVP, but he was telling everyone that I was the real star. I waved him off. I hadn’t scored half as many points as him. I’d just gotten some good advice at the right time. I got some high fives as I headed off the court.
“Nice move,” I heard. It was that same unmistakable voice.
“Thanks, Overtime!” I said. We shook hands. “How’d you know it would work?”
“Aw, just a hunch,” he said. “I’ve been doing this for a looooonnnnggg time.”
“Well, it’s a good thing,” I said. “Because my defender had some looooonnnnggg arms!”
We both laughed.
“You might be seeing him again,” said OT.
“Really?” I said. “Are you scouting for another tournament?”
“Might be,” he said. He gave me a wink.
I thanked him again, and then he disappeared into the crowd. I had no idea how a man that big could do that. After all these years, I guess he still had some moves.
“Good game, son,” I heard.
“Dad!” I said. “I didn’t know you were here. I thought you were working today.”
“I knocked off early,” he said, giving me a hug. “Your brother here talked me into it. Said I was liable to miss a good game. I told him I couldn’t have that.”
My older brother, Junior, was standing next to him, grinning. “Great move on that last play, STAT,” he said. STAT was like a family nickname. It stood for Standing Tall and Talented.
“Thanks,” I said, but I could tell he had something else to say. “But?”
“You know you traveled, right?”
“Oh, man.” I said. I reached out to punch his arm. He got down into a goofy boxing stance that had all three of us cracking up. I kind of knew he was right. Everyone knew you could get away with a few extra steps at these streetball tournaments. I tried to deny it, anyway.
“I didn’t hear any whistle,” I said.
Junior shrugged. “Street rules.”
“Heads up, STAT,” said my dad. “Looks like someone wants to talk to you.”
I turned around and saw a man with a microphone in his hand. I recognized him from the local news. Behind him, another guy had a camera on his shoulder. I reached up and straightened my goggles. Then the sports guy started asking me questions.
“Take your time, Amar’e,” said Dad. What he meant was: Think before you speak.
“I hear you were the youngest kid in this tournament,” said the man, pushing the microphone toward me. “How old are you?”
I was glad it was a question I’d heard before. Some of my friends would probably see this, so I didn’t want to say anything stupid.
“I’m eleven,” I said. So far, so good. But it didn’t seem like enough, so I added, “But in a few months I’ll be almost twelve.”
Behind me, I heard Dad groan.
Sunday had been awesome, but Monday wasn’t going to have any of that. Mondays and awesome just don’t mix, you know? So by the time I got to history, with Ms. Bourne teaching, I was ready for something good. History is my favorite subject and we were doing a pr
etty cool unit on the ancient Aztecs. Ms. Bourne was listing off all the things they invented: everything from a superadvanced calendar to popcorn. Even hot chocolate.
But before she could finish her list, the loudspeaker came on. It crackled for a second and then the school secretary’s voice said, “Amar’e Stoudemire, please report to the principal’s office.”
I just about fell out of my chair. What did I do? I wondered.
All Ms. Bourne said was: “Get your things, Amar’e. You are excused.”
The rest of the class was like, “Ooooooooh,” until she told them to be quiet.
Mike was sitting a row in front of me. As I stood up, he gave me a look, like: What’s up? I just shrugged. I had no idea. I mouthed, “I didn’t do anything!”
That’s what everyone says, but I really meant it. Whatever it was, every set of eyes in the room followed me as I made my way to the front.
As I closed the door behind me, I heard Ms. Bourne go right back to talking about those inventions. “The first canoe … ,” she said, but it felt like I was the one who was up the creek.
The halls were empty as I walked to the principal’s office. My footsteps echoed in the quiet hallways. Spooky. When I got there, I went up to the desk. “I’m Amar’e. The, uh, principal wanted to see me?”
The school secretary looked up. “Yes, have a seat,” she said.
Her voice wasn’t friendly or unfriendly. It was just businesslike. I went over and took a seat as she picked up the phone and whispered something into it. Then I just sat there for a few minutes wondering what I’d done.
“Come with me,” the secretary said.
I got up and followed her. I’d never been called to the principal’s office before, so I wasn’t even sure which door to go into. She opened one for me and nodded.
I swallowed hard and ducked inside.
“Have a seat,” I heard.
The voice was familiar, but I knew right away it wasn’t the principal’s.
It was Coach B, our gym teacher. My eyes had adjusted to the dim light now. I could see him standing there and pointing to a chair. For a second, I wondered what the gym teacher was doing in the principal’s office. I had gym next period. Would Principal Dumas be there telling me to play volleyball?
“Yes, please,” said another voice. “Have a seat.”
It was Principal Dumas. I turned and saw her sitting behind a big desk. Everyone seemed really concerned that I have a seat, so I pulled out the chair and sat down. Coach B sat back down in the chair next to mine.
“Uh, hello?” I said. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes,” said the principal. “Actually, it was Jim’s idea.”
Jim? I guess that was Coach B. I’d never heard his first name. I turned to hear what he had to say.
“Yes, well, I was watching TV last night,” said Coach B.
“Okay,” I said. “I did some of that, too.” I still had no idea why I was here.
“Specifically, I was watching the local news,” he said.
“Ohhhh,” I said. He’d seen them interview me after the tournament.
“Yes, it sounds like you had a very successful weekend,” said Coach B.
“I did all right,” I said with a little shrug. I knew Jammer was the real star.
“And they said you were the youngest player there,” said Coach B. “Was that for your team or for both?”
“For both,” I said. “For all the teams at the tournament, I heard. It was mostly seventh and eighth graders.”
“It’s funny you should mention that,” said Coach B.
“It is?” I said. It didn’t seem that funny to me.
“It’s the reason we called you in here,” said Principal Dumas.
“Wait, was I not supposed to be there?” I asked. “Is there a school rule or something?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” said the principal, giving me a big you’re not in trouble smile.
“It’s just that, as you probably know,” Coach B began, “we have a team here.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. Our school had a basketball team for the seventh and eighth graders called the Bears. He was in charge of it. That’s where the Coach in Coach B came from. “I was thinking about going out for the team next year, when I’m old enough.”
“What if I said you didn’t have to wait?”
“Ohhhh,” I said again. It was starting to make sense. “You want me to play for the Bears?”
“I was talking to Tina about it, and there’s a way to make it happen,” he said.
I looked over at Principal Dumas. She did kind of look like a Tina.
“So I could play this year?” I said, turning back to Coach B.
“Yes, if you take a few extra steps,” he said.
Take a few extra steps? “That’s traveling,” I said.
Coach B shot me a look.
“Yes, because you’re still in sixth grade, you’d need permission from a parent or guardian,” he said.
I nodded. I knew I could talk to Dad about it.
“And then we’d have to arrange a tryout, since you missed the real ones.”
I nodded again. I’d been through those before for some of the tournaments.
“So what do you think?” said Coach B.
The Bears were good. They’d come within a game of winning their league last year. I thought about those morning announcements. The Bears were always the first thing the day after a game: “Another mighty effort by the Bears!” I remembered the seventh and eighth graders walking around in their jerseys on game days. Everyone thought they were so cool, and they got to take road trips to play other schools.
But then I thought about being the only sixth grader on the team. I wouldn’t know anyone, and my friends wouldn’t be there.
“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe. I mean, I guess….”
I couldn’t think of exactly what to say.
“Could really improve your game,” said Coach B. “Teach you how to play team basketball.”
I looked at him closely. What did he think I did at tournaments, a bunch of one-on-one?
“Take your time,” said Principal Dumas. “Think about it.”
She slid a piece of paper across her desk. I reached out and picked it up. At the top, in big block letters, it said PARENTAL PERMISSION FORM.
“Yeah, take that home, get it signed, and we’ll get the tryout going!” said Coach B.
I folded the paper in half.
“Thanks,” I said. The first bell went off, and I pushed my chair back. “I have to get to gym.”
Coach B let out a little chuckle. “So do I.”
My dad still wasn’t home from work by the time I got back from school. The good part about that: I had some time to think. Why would the Coach of a team with seventh and eighth graders want a sixth grader? The Bears were good without me.
The bad part: I’d have to wait to talk to my dad. You couldn’t just jump up and start talking at him the minute he walked in the door. Dad ran a lawn-care company and it was hard work — I knew because I helped out on the weekends. When he got home, he usually needed to cool his engines in the easy chair for a while. As soon as the truck pulled into the driveway, I could tell today would be no different. He turned the truck off and just sat behind the wheel for a minute, like he was catching his breath.
I went out and helped him unload his equipment and didn’t even mention the permission slip.
“How’s the job going?” I asked.
“Pretty good,” said Dad. “It’s a new place. Lot of work, but I think we got the jump on it.”
“Your homework done?” he said.
“Yep,” I said, and it was, too. I’d been on that as soon as I got home. It was always the first question he asked. And we were still reading about the Aztecs in history, so it was pretty interesting.
Anyway, we finished unloading the truck and then went in and washed up. Dad hit his easy chair and I hit the couch. Once Junior got home, we had an intense vi
deo game throwdown. Dad just sat in his chair and watched it like it was TV — it was that good a game!
Finally, after dinner, I had a chance to talk to Dad. “Something crazy happened in school today,” I said, putting the last few dishes in the sink.
Dad looked over at me. “Crazy good or crazy bad?” he said.
“Crazy good, I think. Or, I guess I don’t really know yet, but definitely interesting. But it started off with me getting called down to the principal’s office!”
Now I had his attention! I gave him a quick recap of what had happened. Then I pulled the permission slip out of my back pocket. It was kind of crumpled up from being in my pocket all day. I spread it out on the table and tried to flatten it back out with my hands.
“So you want me to sign that for you?” he said.
I shrugged. “I guess?”
He’d just pushed his chair back under the kitchen table, but now he pulled it out again and sat down. “Step into my office,” he said.
I pulled my chair back out and sat down, too.
“It’s a pretty good team, right?” he said.
“Yeah, they win a lot. It seems pretty cool.”
Dad nodded. “But?” he said.
“But, I don’t know, I guess I’m just not sure. I’d be younger than everyone else and I wouldn’t know any of them. It’d be a lot easier if Mike and Deuce were there, too. But that won’t happen till next year.”
“So you think maybe you should wait?”
“Yeah,” I said. That was exactly it. “But I don’t want to chicken out, either. I mean, I’m not afraid or anything. I just …”
“No one’s saying you are, STAT.”
“I think they might, if I don’t do it.”
“Well, don’t worry about them,” said Dad. “You were the youngest player at the tournament this weekend, and look how that turned out. Your school team probably wants some new energy.”
“Yeah, but it’s different in school. Outside, on the playground, you can play or you can’t. In school, it’s sixth is sixth, seventh is seventh, and eighth is eighth.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Dad. “I know how boys get — but a basketball court is a basketball court. That’s always been true.”
Schooled Page 1
