by W. C. Mack
“Four again.” Nitu thought for a second or two. “If a rat sat on a fat cat’s mat, would the cat be okay with that, or find a bat to go after the brat?”
“Show off.” I groaned.
“She said ‘cat’ twice,” Jason quickly pointed out.
“Remember the time Chao rhymed eleven words?” Sara asked, smiling.
Everyone was quiet, and I knew we were all missing him.
“He’s not going to be easy to replace,” Nitu said.
“I asked Adam Johnson to join the team and he laughed in my face,” Jason said.
“Same with Becky Harper.” Sara sighed. “And I really thought she’d be into it.”
Jason moaned. “We’re doomed.”
“Look,” I said, ready to move on. “I don’t think we’re going to find someone in Sara’s living room in the next forty-five minutes, so maybe we should work on something else. Like one of the older questions?”
When Sara found the right page in her binder, we listened as she read a question out loud.
“Hmm,” Nitu said when she finished. “When does one equal two?”
We were quiet for a few seconds. I could hear Sara’s mom in the kitchen, which made me think of my own mom, and I came up with the first answer.
“Twins. One pregnancy equals two babies.”
“Nice one,” Sara said, grinning.
“How about yams and sweet potatoes?” Jason asked. “One vegetable, two names.”
“They aren’t the same thing,” Sara told him, shaking her head. “Yams have more natural sugar in them, and more moisture.”
“Why do you know that?” Nitu asked, laughing.
Sara smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Why do you know the first twenty decimal places of pi?”
“Twenty-five,” our math whiz said, grinning. “And good point.”
“Okay.” Sara stared at the ceiling. “When does one equal two?”
“I know,” Jason said, snapping his fingers. “Basketball. One basket equals two points.”
“Hey,” I said, thinking of my strange experience at school. “You won’t believe this, but Coach Baxter is making me try out for the basketball team.”
Everyone froze.
“Why?” Jason finally asked.
“I’m tall.” I shrugged.
“Sure, but …,” Nitu said, then cringed.
“Tall is one thing,” Jason said, shaking his head, “but you don’t play.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“What will you have to do?” he asked, looking worried. “Run?”
I shrugged. “Run, jump, and shoot, I guess.”
“Russ, can you do any of those things?” he asked, looking doubtful.
“Not very well,” I admitted.
“Me neither,” Nitu said. “And all three at once? Yeah, right.”
“So, tryouts will be over quickly. I’ll try, fail, and be done with it.”
I didn’t feel the slightest bit offended when everyone nodded.
“Okay, so Russell has shared his news,” Nitu said, with a smile. “Isn’t anyone going to ask me about mine?”
“Okay,” Jason said, “what’s your … oh, the district competition!”
“Yes.” Nitu pulled out a blue piece of paper and cleared her throat. “This year’s challenge is to drop an egg from a two-story window onto the pavement below, without a break or a crack.”
I could practically hear the pistol go off so our minds could start racing.
Nitu continued, “We get six rubber bands; a piece of Styrofoam; one roll each of aluminum foil, duct tape, and plastic wrap; ten feet of string; ten newspaper pages; four chopsticks—”
“What are we supposed to do with chopsticks?” Jason asked.
“Let her finish,” I whispered.
“Three cups of water,” Nitu continued, “a plastic margarine container, a pair of scissors, and two toilet-paper tubes.”
When she was done, we all sat back to think.
“What about wrapping the egg in the foil?” Jason suggested.
“And?” Nitu prompted.
“That’s it. If it’s wrapped thick enough.”
“This is Masters of the Mind,” Nitu reminded him. “The best and brightest.”
“And?” Jason asked.
“And you’re seriously suggesting a ball of foil?”
“Remember, we have to use more than five of the items,” Sara added.
At that moment, Mrs. Phillips walked into the living room with our snack. As the Masters of the Mind team worked our way through a dozen sugar cookies and two dozen ideas in the next forty-five minutes, I couldn’t help wondering who was going to fill our fifth spot. The district competition was only three weeks away.
And that wasn’t the only thing I was worried about.
Basketball tryouts were guaranteed to be a waste of time, and time wasn’t something I had a lot of. I had a paper due for English class, a math quiz that week, and the school librarian told me I was next on the list to borrow Franz Helsen’s new book. I’d have it on Friday, and I wanted to read it straight through the weekend.
Why did Coach have to choose me?
“I’d better head for home,” Nitu said, interrupting my thoughts.
“I should go, too,” Jason said, grabbing his big black case. “Tuba practice.”
I slipped the straps of my backpack onto my shoulders. “So, we’ll meet on Saturday at your house, right?” I asked Nitu.
“Ten o’clock,” she said, nodding.
“And next Wednesday we’re at your place, Russell?” Sara asked.
“No. I’ve got those basketball tryouts.”
“Wait, they’re on Wednesday?” Jason gasped.
“Yes.”
“But we’re meeting next Wednesday instead of our usual Thursday,” Nitu said. “Thursday’s my dad’s birthday. Remember?”
Actually, I’d forgotten. “Yes, but—”
“Hold on,” Jason interrupted. “We’re down to four team members, and now we’re losing Russell? We’re doomed.”
“I’m not leaving the team,” I told him. “I’m just missing one practice.”
No one spoke right away.
“Obviously we need you at the meetings,” Nitu finally said, “but one without you won’t kill us.”
I felt my shoulders relax.
“You’re sure it’ll be just one, though?” Jason asked, still sounding worried.
“Definitely,” I told him.
Nitu laughed. “He’s trying out for basketball, not Jeopardy!, Jason. There’s only one way this could turn out.”
“That’s right,” I said, laughing. “After Wednesday, my schedule will be back to normal.”
“Russell?” Sara asked, glancing up from the Masters of the Mind binder. “What if you make it?”
“Make what?” I asked, confused.
“The team,” she said, softly.
We all started laughing at once.
“Sara,” I said when I caught my breath. “There’s no way I’ll make the team.”
Personal Foul
I got my second taste of the giant in PE on Friday.
“I’m Coach Baxter,” he said in that booming voice. “Welcome to my class.”
When I looked at the guys’ faces, I could tell which ones hadn’t seen him before. Their mouths were hanging open in total shock.
But I was a step ahead of them. I’d already decided that gym-class basketball was an awesome chance to show Coach my moves before tryouts.
We split up into teams, and I moved to center court for the tip-off. It wasn’t my usual position, so I’d be showing Coach how flexible I was.
He stood next to me and Paul, who was playing center for the other team. When the ball was tossed, I went for it.
My fingers hit it first, and I pushed the ball toward Nicky Chu. He caught it and pivoted fast before passing it to Nate James. Nate was the fastest guy on the Pioneers, and he made a breakaway, dribbling toward the basket.
The rest of us ran hard to keep up, and I was glad I’d done so much jogging in the summer. Right when he got to the hoop, Nate looked left, then passed to me.
As soon as I had the ball, I lined up the shot and took it.
Swish.
Nothing but net!
The guys and I shouted and high-fived. We were on fire already!
Coach blew his whistle. “Good work, but you can’t stand around congratulating yourselves every time you score. Get that ball back in play.”
He was just as tough for the rest of the scrimmage, even though it was only a gym class. It turned out that Coach wanted to see us sweat buckets. I couldn’t remember a time when I’d played harder, even during the semifinals last year.
“Are we being graded on this?” Chris asked, in between breaths.
“Only if we survive,” Nate answered.
And I wasn’t sure all of us would.
Nicky Chu looked like he needed an oxygen tank … or a stretcher.
Paul groaned. “If Coach is this tough in gym class—”
“Don’t even say it,” I warned him.
“Tryouts will be brutal, for sure,” Chris finished, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.
Before we could say anything else, Coach shouted, “If you have enough breath for chitchat, maybe we should crank things up a bit!”
That was enough to shut us up.
When class was over, we shuffled into the locker room, totally wiped out.
“Man, I was going to try out, but forget it,” Paul said.
“Me, too,” Nicky said, groaning.
“Are you kidding?” I choked.
The team I’d been playing with forever might actually split up?
“Kidding?” Paul snorted. “Dude, that guy is a maniac.”
But the Pioneers needed Nicky and Paul!
“He’s just serious about the game,” I told them. I thought about the pictures I’d seen on his desk. “He used to coach high school.”
“Yeah, well, this is only middle school,” Paul said.
“He’s won a bunch of state championships,” I told him, remembering the headlines on Coach’s wall.
“Yeah, in North Carolina. Big deal.”
“Hello? Michael Jordan is from North Carolina.”
Chris suddenly looked all excited. “Baxter coached Jordan?”
I didn’t really say that, but if Coach taught there and Jordan went to school there, it was possible.
Wasn’t it?
I just smiled.
“No way,” Paul whispered. “That’s awesome.”
“Michael Jordan?” Nicky asked. “The Michael Jordan?”
I nodded.
“Maybe tryouts will be worth it,” Paul said. “I mean, if he coached Jordan, the guy’s gotta know what he’s doing.”
“Yeah,” Nicky said, nodding slowly. “He might be tough, but that’s how you make champions, right?”
“That’s right,” I told the guys. “And we came pretty close to being champions last year. Maybe Coach Baxter will take us over the top.”
“Either him or Russell,” Chris said, chuckling.
“What?” Paul turned to stare at me. “Russell’s trying out?”
Here we go.
“Wait,” Nicky said, “you mean your brother, Russell?”
I nodded, hoping they’d drop it.
Yeah, right.
“Can he play?” Nate asked.
“No,” Chris said, shaking his head. “Not at all.”
“Hey,” I growled, getting ticked off. “He’s only trying out because Coach is making him.”
“Because he’s tall,” Chris explained.
“But he has no coordination,” Paul said, laughing. “I saw the kid almost kill himself with a yo-yo in fourth grade.”
The rest of the guys cracked up, and my hands slowly balled into fists.
There was no way I’d let Russ make a fool of me … I mean himself, on Wednesday.
No way.
After dinner on Friday night, Dad put on his Bellows jersey, even though the guy retired like a hundred years ago. I grabbed my old Tim Camden T-shirt, from before he got traded, and put it on while I ran downstairs.
With or without my favorite player, it was game night in Portland! I couldn’t wait to see the Blazers rock the Rose Garden.
I got the drinks while Dad made a big bowl of popcorn that was so buttery it looked wet.
“This is gonna be our year,” he said, handing me a napkin.
“World championship, here we come!” I practically shouted.
If we made it to the playoffs, anyway.
The truth is, I wasn’t totally sure about some of the new players the Blazers had signed. “I just can’t believe they traded Camden,” I told Dad, for probably the hundredth time since it happened. “Do you think—”
“Russ!” Dad interrupted, when my brother walked by the doorway. “Come and join us.”
What?
Russell didn’t watch basketball. He studied, read in his room, or watched weird sci-fi movies in the basement.
My brother froze, like he didn’t know what to do.
“Uh, I was just going to start my new Franz Helsen book,” he said, holding it up so we could see it. The cover had a bunch of wizards and something that looked way too much like a unicorn on it.
“Franz who?” Dad asked.
“Helsen,” Russ said, like we should have heard of him. “It’s the seventh book in the series.” He started talking faster, so I knew he was excited. “I’ve been waiting for it since school started.”
“You can still read it,” Dad said, patting the seat next to him. “Just hang out with us and watch the game for a minute or two first.”
I looked at my brother and thought about how the guys in the locker room had laughed when they heard he was trying out for the team.
Hmm.
Even though basketball was my thing with Dad, Russell should probably learn about the game before tryouts. And knowing something about positions and rules would help when we practiced on the weekend, too.
I moved over so he could sit down, even though it would wreck my view of the action.
Russell squeezed in next to me and reached for some popcorn. He scarfed down his handful like an animal (and I don’t mean a magical unicorn). Then he leaned back on the couch like my middle cushion had always been his spot.
“Here we go,” Dad said, as the Blazers and Suns lined up for the tip-off.
The Blazers got first possession, and I could tell right away that they were in it to win it. Carl Walters made a three-pointer, then snagged a rebound off the Suns like two seconds later. Walters passed to Jenkins, who passed to one of the new guys, DeShawn Williams, who hit a layup for two.
Dad and I high-fived and I turned to give Russell five, too.
He missed, as usual.
About halfway through an awesome first quarter, the Blazers had a fourteen-point lead.
Dad turned to my brother. “What do you think, Russ?”
“Uh … it’s good,” Russell said.
He was holding his book so tightly, his knuckles were whiter than the rest of him. Like it was taking every bit of his strength not to open it.
Poor Russ.
During the second quarter, I tried to make the game more interesting by telling him who some of the players were and giving a bit of background on them.
“Cool,” Russell said, when I told him about the Tim Camden trade.
What?
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Not cool at all.”
“But they got two players in exchange for one,” Russell pointed out.
Geez, it wasn’t about math.
“Yeah, one awesome guy for two old guys.”
Russ pointed at the TV. “One of the ‘old guys’ just scored.”
“That’s right,” Dad said, pumping a fist in the air.
I sighed. “I know, but—”
“And I’d l
ike to point out that these old guys are just a couple of years younger than I am,” Dad added.
“Exactly,” I agreed. “That’s the problem.”
“Ouch!” Dad groaned.
“You know what I mean,” I told him. “Tim Camden’s only been in the league for three years. He hasn’t even hit his prime yet. They were nuts to trade him.”
Russ reached for more popcorn. “I thought he didn’t get along with the other players.”
How did he know that?
“That’s true,” Dad said. “And no matter how good a player is, he needs to respect the rest of his team.”
“Sure,” I said. “But last season we would have lost a bunch of games without Camden. Like when we played the Lakers and he made the three-pointer, right at the buzzer.”
“I remember.” Dad nodded. “But I also remember how much he cost the team in the second quarter. We could have had a nice lead at the end, if he hadn’t been fouling like crazy.”
He had a point.
“I like that DeShawn Williams,” Russ said. “I think the Trail Blazers—”
“Blazers,” I corrected. “Fans just say Blazers.”
Russ nodded. “Okay, I think the Blazers made a good choice.”
“I’m with you, Russ,” Dad said, grinning at him.
I rolled my eyes.
Like my brother had any idea what he was talking about.
“How do you even know about Williams?” I asked.
Russ shrugged. “The sports section was mixed in with the newspaper pages I’m taking to my meeting tomorrow. I must have scanned a couple of articles without realizing it.”
I rolled my eyes and shoved some popcorn in my mouth. I was better off focusing on the TV.
The Blazers were making some awesome plays, and even though it was a close and exciting game, Russ kept checking his watch. I finally asked, “Are you late for something?”
He sighed and tightened his grip on the book. “How can one quarter of a forty-eight-minute game possibly last more than twenty minutes?”
Math again?
“Time-outs and foul shots,” I explained. “Are you even watching?”
“My point is that it doesn’t add up,” Russ said, reaching for the bowl. “The popcorn’s good, though.”
By halftime we were still up by seven, the Blazers were shooting 63 percent, and the popcorn was going fast.
