Basketball (or Something Like It)

by Nora Raleigh Baskin

  Anabel looked out the window again. The snow was melting in little patches all over, with bits of soaking wet, smushed-down, yellowy grass poking through. There was something really lonely about that.

  Anabel’s mother was in Florida that week. She had called the house just that morning before school.

  “It’s warm and sunny down here,” Anabel’s mother sang out from the speaker phone. Everyone was rushing around trying to get ready for work and the school bus. Anabel was determined not to miss it again.

  “So stay there,” her dad said. He said it sort of under his breath, like maybe he forgot she was on speaker, or maybe he didn’t realize how loud he had said it, or maybe he meant it.

  Anabel and Michael stopped what they were doing and looked at each other, but they didn’t say anything. It was an awful morning. Their dad picked up the receiver and Anabel and Michael knew their parents were fighting. She ran out to the bus without saying good-bye, and somehow now she was sitting here, all alone in detention.

  “Are you coming or what?” It was Jeremy. He had popped his head back into the classroom.

  “What?” Anabel turned from the window.

  “Come on,” Jeremy said. His hand was holding onto the door frame and half his body was still out in the hall, like a giant vacuum was pulling him.

  “Where?”

  God, wasn’t that dumb?

  Jeremy let go of the door frame, but he stood there waiting. “Just come on already.”

  Anabel looked out the window one more second at the withering, pathetic, yellow grass. And she decided to go.

  COURTSIDE

  “I’m not playing two-on-two with a girl,” Hank was saying.

  Nathan was sitting on the ball. From time to time he’d look toward the door to see if anyone was coming.

  “So we’ll play H-O-R-S-E or Around the World,” Jeremy offered. “Nathan can work on his shot. You know, bend his knees.”

  “Around the World. Fine with me,” Anabel said. She stood on the left side of the basket and held out her hands for the ball. Nathan stood up and passed it to her.

  “I’m second,” Hank got ready to take Anabel’s place when she missed. But she didn’t. And she didn’t miss the next shot or the next or the one after that. The boys were silent.

  “Where did you learn to shoot like that,” Jeremy said finally.

  “I spent my whole life in a gym,” Anabel answered. “I’ve been playing basketball with my brother in the driveway since I could walk. What do you think?”

  “So why don’t you play?” Hank asked her.

  “I just hate basketball.” Anabel stepped over to the next position and shot again.

  “I wish I could hate basketball like that,” Nathan said, watching Anabel’s shot slip through the net without a sound.

  Anabel made the foul shot, but missed on her fifth shot from the far right-hand corner outside the three-point line. She passed the ball to Hank. “Your turn.”

  Hank made his first two shots and missed the third. Jeremy did the same and passed the ball to Nathan.

  “I don’t want to play.” Nathan looked around at Anabel and Hank. He looked at Jeremy and then down at the ground.

  “C’mon, Nathan. Play,” Hank said.

  Nathan didn’t move.

  Anabel suddenly wanted to play really badly. “Yeah, Nathan. It’s my turn next. Shoot.”

  And then something changed. The mood. They could just feel it. Nathan held the ball as if it gave him courage.

  “I’ve got to tell my dad the truth,” he said finally.

  “What truth?” Anabel asked. And he told them.

  Mrs. Cooperman never came looking for them. The basketball rolled to the other end of the gym and stayed there quietly, the whole period, just listening. First they just started talking about Nathan and how much better he’d feel when he came clean about the whole thing. It was actually a pretty funny story, but none of them laughed. Then they started talking about Mr. Bischoff and how mean he was. And how mean he really was to Jeremy and what had happened in practice. And how unfair it was. It was all so unfair.

  And then Jeremy told them a little bit about how he came to live with his grandmother. About his father. About Lannie.

  “But I’m not staying,” Jeremy said. “I’m leaving right after our next game. I’m taking my grandmother’s car. At halftime.”

  They were all sitting on the floor by the blue foam wrapped around the basketball pole. It was obvious from the way he spoke, from the way he sounded, that Jeremy had been planning this for a while. He was certain.

  “I’m going Saturday,” Jeremy told them.

  Anabel, Hank, and Nathan were quiet.

  “You can’t tell anyone,” Jeremy said suddenly. “You have to promise.” He stuck out his hand. It seemed so strange. Not real and yet too real. No one could move.

  Hank was the first to agree. He slowly reached out his hand.

  “No wait,” Jeremy said jumping up. “We need a special handshake.”

  That was enough to break up the tension.

  “Yeah, a special handshake.” Nathan got to his feet. Anabel and Hank stood and huddled in.

  They started various moves on each other, ranging from a respectable shake with a pull and a finger waggle with a head tap to a fist bang, shake into a finger draw, ending with a chest bang. What they ended up with was an elaborate handshake, with a bang, a wiggle, a thumb-touching thing, and a firm grip ending.

  No one was allowed to talk about what Jeremy was planning.

  Promise.

  Jeremy agreed he would come back and visit.

  Promise.

  Nathan was going to tell his dad the truth before the next game.

  Promise.

  Anabel said she would try out for the girls’ basketball team next year.

  Promise.

  “So what are you promising?” Jeremy asked Hank. It took a few seconds to complete each handshake, three times for all four of them. The bell had already rung. It was time to go.

  “I don’t know yet,” Hank said. “But something. I promise.”

  Nathan

  The night before the game—the game his father said he was going to come to—Nathan created this elaborate fantasy in his mind. It had to do with his uncle. Even though Nathan had never meet his uncle, he had a picture of what he’d look like. Kind of scruffy, but tall and muscular. Of course, you couldn’t tell because his clothes would be baggy and not very nice. Short hair. Tall, naturally. Very tall. And handsome, in that broken, hard-luck sort of way.

  He’d show up at the game because he heard that his nephew was playing basketball, and he’d drive four hours to tell him to give it up. Basketball ruins your life. So naturally, but regretfully, Nathan would have to step down from the team and not play. He’d have to listen to the advice of his uncle. His uncle was a professional, after all. And he knew what he was talking about.

  Or better, the other team would show up. They’d come running into the gym all in a row, and jogging behind them would be their coach. And wait. Oh, no. Ohmigod, what a coincidence. Nathan’s father would stagger down off the bleachers. He would be without words (wouldn’t that be nice) because the coach of the other team was his brother.

  It was incredible. Amazing. After all these years.

  Of course, they would all be so overcome with emotion no one could play. The game would be called off. Okay, so maybe that wouldn’t happen.

  It would never happen.

  Besides, Nathan had already made a promise. He shook on it. He would tell his dad everything.

  Right now.

  Or maybe tomorrow.

  Jeremy

  Jeremy packed what he thought he would want to have with him for the rest of his life and went to bed. He had packed his clothes. His toothbrush. His sneakers. His CD player and his CDs. His Old Spice scented deodorant/antiperspirant. He needed that.

  No books. All of his money and a little of his grandmother’s. He thought she would want
him to have it.

  He knew she would.

  Actually, he hadn’t given much thought to what his grandmother would think of his running away. He didn’t want to think about that. It was hard enough trying to convince himself he was doing the right thing. Looking for the place where he belonged. It was the logical move. And now that he had told everyone, he had to do it.

  When he was trying to shut the zipper and the clasp of his duffel bag, the one he had showed up here with, it wouldn’t shut. Something hard was sticking out sideways, and the zipper teeth wouldn’t come together. Jeremy opened his bag back up and took out the frame, his father’s high-school graduation diploma. There was something that made him want it. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he wanted it.

  It was something that had more to do with the frame than the diploma itself. It had something to do with being young and having someone frame your diploma. He wanted it. He took out all the clothing and shoved the frame to the very bottom. When all the clothes were stuffed on top, the whole thing closed and zipped up.

  He was ready. He’d go to sleep that night. The game was Saturday. Tomorrow. He’d leave at halftime. This was going to be his last night in North Bridge. All he had to do was fall asleep and it would be tomorrow. Then his grandmother’s voice came up the stairs.

  “Jeremy, don’t forget to brush your teeth.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Jeremy shouted back down.

  He slipped his feet out of his covers.

  It was so stupid. He didn’t have to brush his teeth. He didn’t have to do anything. He flipped on the light. There was an electric razor on the side of the sink. Brand new. It was opened and plugged in, but the wrapper and the instructions were right next to it.

  There was no one else in the house. This was for him. Jeremy looked closer in the mirror. Was he supposed to shave?

  He looked even closer.

  There was a line of fine dark hair just over his lip that did give him that never-clean face. And it had gotten darker and longer just recently. Like it had happened so slowly that one day it was just there. A little mustache.

  Was his grandmother telling him he should shave?

  Kids in school had teased him about it. Some of the older kids. Some of the girls. It didn’t make him uncomfortable, exactly, but sort of. Like in gym, Jeremy didn’t like to change. Most of the other boys barely had hair on their legs. A little fuzz, but not like his. Jeremy wore sweatpants whenever he could.

  He picked up the razor. It was kind of cool. There was a little red light, an energy indicator. Cool.

  It must have been an expensive razor. Jeremy turned it on, and when it began to buzz he flipped it off again. He stood there looking into the mirror and tried to remember the last time he saw his father shaving.

  This was really an expensive razor. It was self cleaning.

  Was he supposed to shave under his nose? Or all around? Under his chin? He was trying to remember. Jeremy stretched his top lip over his teeth and turned the razor on again.

  It stung a little. Not when he was shaving but after he was done. Like chapped lips but not on his lips, but just for a little while. And look, the dark hair was gone.

  He did look better.

  Jeremy looked at himself in the mirror for a long time. It was funny, you could stare at one little part of your face for so long it starts to look like it doesn’t belong. Like your nose. You could look at just your nose until it doesn’t look familiar to you at all. Not one bit. But you know it’s your nose. The same nose you had yesterday and the day before. Maybe you aren’t supposed to look at your face like that.

  Maybe you have to look at the whole thing.

  Who am I?

  Where do I belong?

  Jeremy knew why he had to go.

  He just wasn’t sure he really wanted to anymore.

  FULL-COURT PRESS

  North Bridge was expected to lose tomorrow’s game. Hollis was a very similar town. The two schools were only a few miles apart. The towns bordered each other. If you were an outsider, you’d just think it was a spillover of the same white, affluent, spoiled kids from one town into the other and back again. If you were an outsider.

  Hollis was bigger. They had a movie theater and a Starbucks and a Super Stop & Shop. They had a swimming pool in their high school and Astroturf on their football field. And every year they kicked North Bridge’s butt in almost every sport—skiing, tennis, golf, baseball, football, lacrosse, and swimming. But basketball was always a toss-up.

  Neither town seemed to have a clear advantage. Neither town seemed to grow any seven-foot-six Yao Ming types.

  If North Bridge had ridiculously fancy sixth-grade travel team uniforms, Hollis was sure to have fancier. If the North Bridge eighth-grade travel team all went to Allan Houston’s sleepaway camp in Westchester, New York, together, Hollis’s team went to Chicago, to the Michael Jordan sleepaway basketball camp. And if the following year, North Bridge hired an exprofessional basketball coach from Hartford, Hollis got one from New York City. And paid his expenses.

  It was a typical, suburban, elitist sports rivalry.

  Let the better team buy the win.

  Anabel

  Anabel found herself making up all these crazy scenarios while she was getting ready for bed. Michael had been sent to bed half an hour ago. He didn’t play well unless he had nine hours minimum.

  While she was brushing her teeth, Anabel thought about what would happen if somehow—and she couldn’t figure out exactly how this would happen—but what if somehow, tomorrow, there were only four kids left who could play?

  The referee blows his whistle and calls North Bridge out onto the court. The coach is looking frantic.

  “We’ll have to play with four,” he says to the boys in the huddle.

  Jeremy looks up at the scoreboard. Of course, North Bridge is losing by two points, and there are only five minutes left in the game. No, three. Make that three minutes.

  (Jeremy is playing, of course, because Mr. Bischoff gets the flu and the other dad who takes over isn’t crazy enough to bench the best player for the most important game of the season.)

  “We can’t play with four players.” That’s Michael talking. “We’ll get killed.”

  The other boys all nod their hanging heads.

  “We have to. We don’t have a choice,” the coach tells them.

  The referee is getting impatient.

  “Wait,” Jeremy Binder says suddenly. “I have an idea.”

  The coach looks like he is listening. The other team is already on the court.

  “What about Anabel?” Jeremy says.

  “Anabel?” Michael says. “You mean my sister?”

  “Who?” the coach asks.

  “Trust me,” Jeremy says. He looks over to Michael, who realizes this might not be such a bad idea.

  “But she’s not on the roster,” the coach says. “We’ll get a technical if we put out a player who’s not on the list.”

  They look around at one another. Then suddenly Jeremy … No, it’s Michael. Suddenly Michael says, “She can take my place. Nobody will know. It only says Morrisey on the roster. Nobody will know.”

  At this point Anabel stopped brushing her teeth and looked right into the mirror.

  “You idiot, that makes four players again,” she said out loud.

  Hank

  “I washed your uniform for tomorrow’s game.”

  When Hank didn’t respond to that, his mother said, “It’s on your bed.”

  Hank was sitting in his room at his desk. His mother was outside his door, wishing she were inside. Wishing, Hank was sure, that he would invite her in and talk about tomorrow’s game.

  “Do you see it?” Her voice came through pretty loud, like she had her mouth right up to the door frame.

  Hank took a deep breath. He was staring at his computer screen.

  “Yeah,” he answered. Hank had his away-message on the screen—TOO MUCH HOMEWORK—but a lot of his friends were still trying to I
M him. He recognized Nathan’s screen name, Natman002.

  But he didn’t respond. He waited until he heard his mother’s footsteps move away from his door and then he signed off at 9:32 P.M. It was the night before the game. The big game. He was a starter.

  Hank shut down his computer and got ready for bed, and then he just lay there.

  Hank had read somewhere that it is supposed to take at least fifteen minutes to fall asleep and if you fall asleep faster than that, it means you are too tired and you aren’t getting enough sleep. An hour and a half had gone by already. Hank would almost fall asleep, but then he started thinking all over again. He was exhausted but wide awake. So much for that theory.

  Hank didn’t want Jeremy to leave, but he could understand. At least, he thought he could understand. He could understand feeling like you just have to run. Get out. Get away. In a way, Jeremy was lucky. At least he had somewhere to go.

  Didn’t he?

  When Hank was little he used to watch the ballgames with his dad—baseball, football, basketball. Even hockey. Sometimes tennis. Golf.

  There would always come a play, a second, a moment when the game was on the line. When everything could go one way or it could go another, and it always came down to one guy.

  And if he made it, if that one guy came through and made the play, got the rebound, blocked the shot, scored the goal, threw the pass, whatever it was, if he did it, everyone would be cheering and shouting. Everyone would love him. They’d win. They’d score. They’d make the play-offs or the World Series or the Superbowl.

  But if that one guy didn’t, Hank’s father, sitting in his living room watching the ballgame with his son, would always say the same thing.

  “He coulda been a hero.”

  Anabel

  The seating arrangement had changed, Anabel noticed. She noticed it right away. It was almost like the new starting five parents had moved to sit together, right in front. The parents of kids who played very little, but whose parents thought they should play more, stayed together and a few rows back. And again, those whose parents were furious sat way in the back, very close together so they could commiserate. Only Camden Tomasello’s mom and dad, who were always happy no matter what, didn’t seem to notice the hierarchy of seat placement and just sat anywhere.