Schooled

by Amar'e Stoudemire

  Then he turned to Kurt and Bibo. “What do you think we should end with?”

  Bibo just shrugged, as usual. But Kurt looked over at me and smiled.

  “How about free throws?” he said.

  All day Friday, my classmates were letting me know they were going to be at the game. It wasn’t just my friends, either. Kids I hardly knew were like: “Good luck tonight! I’ll be there!”

  Now that there was a sixth grader on the team, my classmates wanted to check it out. The problem: I wasn’t sure what there would be to check out.

  Part of that was Kurt, but not all of it. There were all the guys who wouldn’t pass me the ball, the ones who smirked when I messed up and called me a “hotshot” when I did something well. Plus, I was new to the team and might not get much playing time. I knew I had to pay my dues on the bench. Of course, I didn’t mention any of that to my classmates. Mostly I just said thanks and hoped for the best. Maybe things would be different in an actual game.

  And it was kind of cool, walking around in my shiny new game jersey. I was the only person who had one in my whole grade. Between math and English, I passed a group of older players in the hallway. They nodded at me, and I nodded back. Those guys had all been ice-cold to me in practice, but at least they could recognize their own jersey.

  By the time the final bell of the day rang, I was ready to go.

  “You cool?” asked Deuce.

  “Yeah,” I said. An image of me at the line, jump-shooting that free throw, flashed through my mind. “I guess.”

  “You’re gonna rock it,” said Mike.

  Deuce had a better read on me, though. “It’s just like that first tourney,” he said. “Remember how you took care of business?”

  I smiled. “Thanks,” I said, and then hustled down to the locker room. I didn’t even have to ask if they were staying to watch. I knew they’d be there.

  I thought the locker room would be really loud, but it was the opposite. Everyone was quiet and focused. Kids were pulling on their game shorts and lacing up their high-tops like they were going to war. Not that you’d wear shorts and sneakers to war, but you know what I mean.

  Coach came in and gave us a quick pep talk. The first shout of the day came at the end, when we all shouted at once: “Go, Bears!”

  We hustled into the gym, which had been transformed. It didn’t look like the plain place where we sweated out gym class anymore. The bleachers were pulled out, and there were signs and decorations hanging from the walls. Everything was in the same green and white as our uniforms.

  Reading the signs, it wasn’t hard to figure out who we were playing. They said things like: BEAT THE EAGLES, EAGLES ARE FOR THE BIRDS, and GO BACK TO YOUR NEST!

  I looked over at the other bench. They had some pretty big birds over there! I wasn’t worried. I’d played against bigger players at the tournaments. And I was pumped up now, ready to go.

  “Let’s go, STAT!” I heard. I recognized my big brother’s voice right away, and I looked up to see where he was sitting. Right next to Mike and Deuce. He pointed at me and I pointed back at him. It was cool of him to take some time off from his job for this.

  The teams took the court and the first whistle blew. It wasn’t Coach providing the lung power this time: It was a real ref with a black-and-white-striped shirt. I watched Mark Bibo rise up and snag the opening tip. We didn’t score on the first possession, though. Or the second. The Eagles were playing some tight D.

  “They’re in zone!” called Coach B. He was waving his arms around so much, giving instructions and reacting to the action, that he kind of looked like an eagle himself.

  I just leaned farther and farther forward on the bench, itching to get in on the action. But almost the whole first half went by, and I was still sitting there. I looked over at the coach half a dozen times. I’d do whatever was best for the team, but there were people here to see me play, and I knew I could help out on the court.

  Pretty soon there were only two minutes left in the half, and the score was 20–20, like perfect eyesight. Kelvin got fouled hard underneath and got two free throws. He missed both. Coach was so mad, he subbed him out. I leaned forward again, and this time Coach called my name.

  I heard some cheers from the sixth graders in the bleachers. “About time!” yelled Mike.

  I spent the next two minutes working hard on defense. The other team fed my guy the ball right away. I think they were testing me out, but I contested the shot and got the rebound. I spent my time on offense getting exactly zero touches. I worked my way through traffic and held my hands up for a ball that never came my way.

  We took a two-point lead into the locker room, 24–22. But when the second half started up, I was back on the bench. And this time I stayed there. The game stayed tight and the bench got pretty short, with the starters getting almost all the minutes.

  I sat on the bench and cheered on my teammates. But I couldn’t bring myself to turn around to the crowd. I felt like I was letting down the people who came to see me.

  When the air horn went off at the end of the game, we’d scratched out a 42–40 win. I was happy we won, but I didn’t feel like I’d had much to do with it. Bibo was the high scorer with 14, and Kurt had scored 8. Me, I had one board, and maybe some splinters from the bench.

  I figured I could make one more contribution. I jumped up off the bench and went over to congratulate my teammates. I high-fived Gerry, and when I turned around, Bibo was right there. I reached out and we bumped fists.

  “Great game, man,” I said.

  He gave me a little nod, which I’m pretty sure was Bibo’s version of “Thanks a lot.”

  Kurt was right behind him, talking to Deek and Joe. He wasn’t my favorite guy, but he’d had a good game, too. I extended my fist. He looked at it like it was covered in something nasty and left me hanging. As he walked by, I heard him lean in and say something to Deek. It was one word, and just loud enough for me to hear it: “Benchwarmer.”

  Saturday morning. No, wait, let me try that again: Saturday morning! I was definitely ready for the weekend, and this one was going to be good. There was the big cookout at the lake, and I was meeting my friends there. I tossed off the sheets and looked out the window. A nice, sunny day.

  Dad was getting ready for work, and Junior was in the kitchen waiting for his waffles to pop up. Sometimes I’d sneak in there and try to grab them from him, but not today. I was skipping breakfast so that I’d be good and hungry for the cookout.

  “You headed down to the lake already?” said Dad, pulling on a green work shirt as he walked into the kitchen. “Don’t think it starts yet.”

  “Nope,” I said. “Got one stop to make first. Going to put in an hour or two down at the library.”

  He nodded. Staying on top of my homework had been my half of the deal when he signed that permission slip. But also, to play on the Bears, Coach B made you keep your grades up. Otherwise you’d get cut. “There you go, STAT,” Dad said.

  “Teacher’s pet,” said Junior.

  “Dad’s not a teacher,” I said.

  “But I’ll teach you!” Dad said, and they both got down into their joke boxing stances.

  It was a long walk down to the local library, but it was a short bike ride. I loaded my books and stuff into my backpack and pedaled off into the bright Florida morning.

  The place was pretty sleepy when I got there. There was the usual assortment of old-timers camped out by the papers and a few other people on the computers.

  “Mornin’,” I said to the librarian.

  I headed for one of the tables at the back, and was surprised to see another kid there already. I was even more surprised by who it was: Deek. He had those same books from the locker room spread out on the table in front of him.

  He had a look on his face like maybe someone was under the table smashing his foot with a hammer. You could tell he didn’t hit the books much, and I sort of wondered what he was doing here on a Saturday morning.

 
I didn’t ask because, well, he’d been a jerk to me all week and I didn’t want to talk to him. He looked up when I walked by, but he didn’t say anything, either. I pulled a chair out at another table and took out my first book.

  I started with math, like usual. I didn’t start with it because it was my favorite subject. I started with it because it wasn’t: Get it out of the way, you know? I’d stayed on top of my homework during the week, but I’d kind of rushed it. There were a few things that I wasn’t sure of, and I wanted to make sure I had them down before we moved on. That’s the thing about math: That stuff doesn’t go away. It’s just added to the stuff you’re expected to know. It’s like building blocks, and if you miss one, it’ll catch up with you.

  I finished that up pretty quickly. I put my math book back and took out the book we were reading for English. That was my second-favorite subject. I was saving history for last.

  I read a few pages and then headed over to look up a few words I wasn’t sure of in the big dictionary. On the way back, I looked over at Deek again. He still had all his books open in front of him. His eyes stayed on one for a while, and then flicked to another. That was no way to study. You needed to concentrate on one thing, and then move on to the next. My mom and dad had both taught me that.

  “Hey, Deek,” I whispered.

  He didn’t turn around.

  I tried it a little louder: “Hey, Deek!”

  Still no response, and I know he heard me. We were the only two back here. I shook my head and went back to my book. A few minutes later, he gathered up all his stuff: half a dozen books and a couple sheets of paper, no more than half full of pencil scratches.

  Ten minutes after that, my stomach started growling. I gathered up my stuff, too. What was I supposed to do? You can’t shush your stomach just because you’re in the library. I knew what would shut it up, though. I pushed through the doors, jumped on my bike, and headed for the lake.

  I took all the shortcuts and got there in no time. I locked up my bike, dropped a quarter in a rent-a-locker for my books, and went to find my friends. I knew exactly where to look.

  A lot of the organizations in town had set up tables: everything from the churches to the Boy Scouts to some of the businesses. That’s where the food was, so I knew that’s where Mike and Deuce would be. I found them by the Rotary Club table.

  “Mrrgurfl,” said Mike, which is Mike-ese for “I sure am enjoying this burger.”

  Deuce was a little more eloquent. “There you are,” he said. “You ready for some food?”

  My stomach growled loud enough for him to hear it.

  “I guess that’s a yes,” he said.

  I looked over the grill: burgers and hot dogs.

  “I think I’m going to hold out for some of that chicken I saw on the way in,” I said.

  “Chrrrkurn?” said Mike, looking around to find it.

  An hour later, we were all stuffed — even Mike. There were tons of kids we knew hanging out: Dougie and our other friends Marcus and Tavoris, and Deuce’s cousin Timmy and his friends.

  “Hey, Timmy,” I said. “You bring your football?”

  “You know it,” he said.

  We got a game together and got busy burning off some of that food. The wide receivers were a little wider after all those burgers and dogs. And I seriously reconsidered that extra helping of mac and cheese when I was trying to cover Dougie on a fly route. It was a good game, though. There were touchdowns, passes, and some long runs for both sides. The defense stiffened up toward the end, but I went up high to haul in a pass from Timmy in the end zone.

  “That was a nice grab,” Mike said as we sat around on one of the picnic benches afterward.

  “Nice to have someone actually pass to me,” I said.

  “Yeah, what was that all about?” said Deuce. “What were you in the game for yesterday, like a minute?”

  “It’s not about the playing time,” I said, “I just wish they’d look for me when I’m open.”

  “Yeah, you were wide open a few times,” said Mike. “That was lame.”

  “I felt bad for the people who came to see me.”

  “Yeah, well, they’d probably heard about the permission slip and the special invitation and all that,” said Mike. It was pretty obvious he was talking about himself. “So they thought you’d be in there.”

  “Yeah,” I said, wondering just how many people he’d told that part to.

  “I just think it’s crazy that they’re not letting you do your thing,” said Deuce. “That game was too close to have you sitting on the bench.”

  I didn’t really want to talk about it. I wasn’t big on complaining, but these were my best friends, and I wanted to be honest about it. “It’s just frustrating,” I said. “I feel like they’re not even giving me a shot. It’s like Coach brought me in this year, but the team just wants me to wait till next year, anyway.”

  Deuce looked over at me and shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe you should.”

  “Yeah,” said Mike. “We’ll all be there next year. It’ll be a whole new ball game!”

  It was quiet for a while. We were all thinking the same thing. It would definitely be better next year, and I could hang out and have fun with them until then. I looked at both of them. I’d had more fun in this one day than I’d had in a week’s worth of practice.

  I thought about it and shook my head. “I’m no quitter,” I said. “I’ll be a good teammate even if they’re not. That’s just me.”

  “It’s not quitting if you’re going back next year,” said Deuce. “It’s timing, like stepping back before you start your drive.”

  I let out a little laugh. He could make anything sound reasonable. “Man, D. You should go into politics.”

  “Or coaching,” said Mike.

  “Naw,” I said. “All his best players would be taking the year off.”

  They let it drop after that. Mike stood up, ready for round two. “Hey, guys,” he said. “Anyone else hungry?”

  I left the cookout with a lot to digest, and I don’t mean the food. I thought about what Deuce said for the rest of the weekend: timing. I knew part of that was just those two wanting me to hang out with them. But there was something to it, too.

  I spent Sunday helping Dad out with a job. Weekends were busy for his lawn-care company, and I was an ace with the push mower. But I guess I was still pretty distracted, because I pushed that mower right through the corner of a flower bed. It was a petunia massacre.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” shouted Dad as he dropped his clippers and came running.

  It was all over by the time he got there. I’d hit the kill switch on the mower, and the last chewed-up purple petals floated limply to the ground.

  “Sorry, Pops,” I said. “Just thinking about some things.”

  I trudged to practice after the final bell on Monday. Basketball had always been fun before, but it felt like a battle lately. Deuce’s words were still ringing in my ears, but I tied my sneakers with grim determination.

  Turned out, Coach B wasn’t in any better of a mood than I was. He was “not satisfied” with our “low-energy” performance at the game on Friday. He said we were “lucky to win” and seriously questioned if we were “getting enough sleep.” I wanted to raise my hand and tell him I was getting plenty of rest, since the team wouldn’t let me do anything, thanks.

  On the plus side, we ran full court for the whole second half of practice. I even managed to get my hands on the ball a few times. The other kids on Team Odd passed it to Gerry, and sometimes Gerry passed it to me.

  He hit me with a bounce pass early on. I honestly think it surprised my defender. It was like it hadn’t even occurred to him that someone might involve me in the offense. That gave me all the space I needed to drive down the lane. Kelvin was lurking underneath the rim. He was as good at blocking shots as he was bad at free throws, so I had to shake him.

  I launched into the same spin move I’d scored with at the tournament, but t
hings went differently this time.

  TWEEEEEET!

  “That’s a travel, Amar’e,” called Coach B. “Even ball.”

  Huh? I gave Coach a look, like; Since when is that a travel? It was the exact same move I’d done at the tourney, I was sure of it. But Coach wasn’t even looking anymore. I did my best to shake it off and get my head back in the game.

  I also got my hands on the ball by crashing the boards at both ends for rebounds. A few minutes later, I hauled in an offensive rebound. There was some traffic down low, but I was pretty sure I could go right back up with it. I took a few dribbles, shifted the ball over, and took a few more.

  TWEEEEET!

  “That’s a carry,” barked Coach B. “You palmed it. Even ball.”

  Did I seriously just get whistled for palming? I’d never seen that called in the tourneys I’d been to — and I’d been to plenty. I just shook my head. The other players freezing me out was one thing, but Coach? All I could do was head back on D.

  The next time I got the ball, I tossed it straight to Bibo and let him operate. Sure enough, he shook Kurt with some fancy dribbling and then drained a fadeaway. Coach never whistled him for anything.

  Once practice was over, I was, too. I’d had just about enough of this team. But there was someone else I needed to talk to about this, someone else I’d made a commitment to.

  I helped clear the plates away after dinner and then said, “Hey, Dad. Got a minute?”

  Dad always had time for me when it was serious. “Sure, STAT,” he said. “What’s up?”

  “It’s the basketball team,” I said.

  Dad nodded. “Yeah, Junior told me it wasn’t exactly your game.”

  “I don’t think the next one on Wednesday will be any better.”

  “Why’s that, now? Seems like they were pretty eager to sign you up.”

  “Yeah, exactly, but since then it’s like they’ve been piling on top of me. The other kids almost never pass me the ball, one captain’s a jerk, and the other one never talks, and —”