Athlete vs. Mathlete

by W. C. Mack

  “Yeah. I know I won’t make it, but Coach Baxter wants me to try.”

  “You never know,” Jeff said. “You’re pretty tall, and they could probably use a tall guy.”

  With skills, I wanted to shout. Tall or not, a guy still had to be able to dribble! They made it sound like anyone could do it!

  “You’re really trying out?” Maria asked. “That’s so cool. Good luck, Russell.”

  “Thanks, I’ll need it,” he said, laughing.

  I walked over to his locker when the other kids left. “Want to take some practice shots at afternoon break?” I asked.

  “Thanks, Owen, but I’m too busy,” he said.

  “Tryouts are today,” I reminded him. “Like, in a couple of hours.”

  He pushed up his glasses and squinted at me. “I think we’ve gone over this. I’m not going to make the team, Owen.”

  “I know,” I said, nodding. “But we want to make sure you do okay.”

  “We practiced on the weekend,” he said. “You told me to just stand there.”

  “I know, but—”

  “You said that would be enough.” He was starting to look worried.

  “Sure, but—”

  “You think I’m doomed?” he asked, sounding just like that Jason kid on his brainiac team.

  “Okay, never mind the practice,” I told him. “Do you think you’ll be able to block the shots the way you did at Sunset Park?”

  He held his books tight against his bony chest. “I think so.”

  “Then you’re cool. All you have to do is show up, stand there, and when it’s over, you’ll never have to worry about basketball again.”

  At least that’s what I thought.

  The Intersection of Sets

  When I met the Masters team during afternoon break, I was in bad shape. Any ideas I’d had about surviving tryouts had been destroyed by Owen.

  And, more importantly, my confidence in my Masters skills had been seriously damaged during the practice session with Beaumont. I’d been useless.

  But then I found out I had even more to worry about.

  “We have a problem,” Sara said.

  “Another one?” I asked. “Maybe our fund-raiser should be selling ‘We have a problem’ T-shirts.”

  “Very funny,” Nitu said. “But we do need to talk about the fund-raiser.”

  “Okay, let’s meet tomorrow, at our usual—”

  “It’s my dad’s birthday tomorrow,” Nitu interrupted. “Remember? We rescheduled our regular meeting for today.”

  “Yeah, and we have to figure out the fund-raising today,” Jason said, nodding. “We talked to Mr. Wills this morning, and if we’re going to set up any kind of a booth at school, we need to give forty-eight hours’ notice.”

  Forty-eight hours? That was a problem. The registration had to be paid by Monday!

  “But they didn’t give us any notice that they wouldn’t pay the whole fee,” I reasoned.

  “Russell,” our math whiz said, resting a hand on my arm. “They don’t care.”

  “Okay,” I said, trying to think of an alternative. “Let’s not have the fund-raiser at school.”

  “Where else are we going to do it?” Nitu asked, hands on her hips.

  It was my turn to shrug. “We don’t even know what ‘it’ is, yet.”

  “Which is why we all need to meet after school today,” Jason said. “We have to get this figured out.”

  “You guys know I have basketball tryouts.”

  Jason took another look at my Nikes, and this time he didn’t look impressed at all.

  “Russell,” Nitu said, shaking her head. “Don’t you see how important this is?”

  “Of course I do,” I told her. “Obviously, it’s more important to me than the tryouts, but there’s nothing I can do. I was told to be there.”

  “What are we supposed to do?” Sara asked.

  “Have the meeting without me,” I told them. “Just like we planned.”

  “Without you, but with Arthur?” Nitu asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Has he told anyone whether he’s joining the team?” I asked, dreading the answer.

  They all shook their heads.

  “Well, if he wants to, we can’t leave him out of the meetings.” Which was too bad. “And who knows? He might have come up with some great ideas.”

  “Like having his father pay off the principal so he won’t demand forty-eight hours’ notice?” Jason asked, rolling his eyes.

  “Very funny,” I said. “Look, Arthur was probably just being difficult about the money yesterday because the team is new to him and he doesn’t know where he’s going to fit in with us.”

  “If he commits to joining,” Nitu said, offering another eye roll.

  “Yes, if he commits.” I sighed, half hoping he wouldn’t. Things were complicated enough without him. “And if he does, we welcome a new brain. Agreed?” I looked at each of them in turn, and they all quietly nodded.

  The bell rang and we said our good-byes.

  “Sara, can you call me tonight and fill me in on the meeting?” I asked, just as she was leaving. She was the most likely to give me a fair update.

  “I will.” She nodded. “And Russell?”

  “Yes?”

  “Good luck at tryouts,” she said with a shy smile.

  “Thank you.”

  I couldn’t concentrate in any of my classes. There was way too much going on in every part of my life, and tryouts were the least of it. I’d lost my Masters of the Mind confidence, I had no idea how to keep Arthur off the team, how to raise the money for our registration, or how to drop an egg from two stories without breaking it.

  What kind of a leader was I?

  A well-dressed one, apparently. I’d been complimented all day on my new shoes, and I couldn’t believe how much impact a bit of rubber and nylon had on my popularity. Of course, it was an incredibly cool blend of rubber and nylon, but still. Those shoes got me more attention than my honor roll appearances or my perfect score on the sixth-grade math exam.

  Suddenly, I had a new understanding of why some girls spent so much time fixing their hair and comparing outfits, and some boys cared so much about wearing the right jeans.

  When the final bell rang, I took a deep breath and gathered my new sports gear from my locker. It was a shame to think it would only be worn once, but there was nothing I could do about that.

  As I walked down the hallway, I hoped the Masters would have a good meeting without me. And “good” meant no Arthur.

  If he was out of the way, I was fairly sure I could get back on track. The more I thought about it, the more certain I was that the distractions of Arthur and tryouts were what had thrown me off my Masters game. I wasn’t losing my skills, I was just … sidetracked.

  When I walked into the boys’ locker room, the buzz of conversation I’d heard from the hallway suddenly stopped.

  I froze, unsure of what to do.

  A week ago, I wouldn’t have dreamed I’d be standing in a locker room about to try out for the basketball team. A week ago, all I’d been worried about was Chao moving to Cincinnati and whether we’d make it through a single competition without him.

  Life had been so much easier when all I had to think about were Masters of the Mind and Math Club. But I’d wasted study time practicing for the basketball court and classroom time worrying about whether I’d be good enough.

  Of course I wouldn’t.

  And everyone knew it.

  Even when I’d been excited about what it would feel like to be a Pioneer, I’d known it would never happen.

  Owen was the jock. I was the brains. And that was how it was supposed to be.

  I cleared my throat and looked at the guys.

  The room was dead silent, and everyone was staring at me like I didn’t belong.

  And they were right. I didn’t.

  I belonged at a table with my Masters of the Mind friends, not standing alone while a crowd of jocks I barely knew
looked me over from head to toe, wondering what I was doing there.

  What was I doing there?

  Every cell in my body told me that I was making a big mistake. That I was about to humiliate myself in front of a live audience.

  The nitrogen group: nitrogen, phosphorus, arsenic, antimony, and bismuth.

  “Seriously?” Paul asked, staring at me from his spot on the bench. “You’re seriously trying out?”

  “Yes,” I said, quietly.

  Owen’s friends kept staring at me. I waited for someone, anyone, to say something, but nobody did.

  I couldn’t think of a time when I’d felt more out of place. More wrong.

  I took a deep breath, realizing that talking about trying out and actually doing it were two very different things. These jocks would be watching every move I made, then laughing about it for weeks.

  I glanced at my Nikes.

  What had I been thinking?

  A pair of shoes wouldn’t save me.

  I needed to just turn around and walk away. I’d be better off going to the Masters meeting and helping my team than embarrassing myself because a new coach came up with a terrible idea.

  But just as I was about to leave, I heard Owen’s voice.

  Turnover

  “Come here,” I said, waving Russ over to an empty spot on the bench.

  He looked like he had a panic button in his back pocket and he was ready to use it. I felt sorry for him.

  “We’ve only got a couple of minutes,” I told him quietly. “You can do this.”

  In just a few seconds, he was dressed and ready. Well, he looked ready, but clothes couldn’t fix everything.

  “Just take a deep breath,” I told him. “All you have to do is get through it, and I’m right here with you.”

  He closed his eyes. “Thanks, Owen,” he said when he opened them again. “For everything.”

  “Ready?” I asked, and when he nodded, I led him out to the gym, where Coach Baxter was standing at center court with his assistant, Mr. Webster.

  “Welcome to tryouts,” Coach said, looking from one guy to the next. “We’re going to start with a few laps around the gym, then we’ll get into drills. What I’m looking for today is some speed, stamina, and decent shooting.”

  Whew. I could handle that.

  But could Russ? He didn’t really have any of that stuff.

  “Let’s go!” Coach blew his whistle and we started to circle the gym.

  By the end of the third lap, all of us had passed my brother. Twice.

  Part of me wanted to slow down and jog with Russ. He was my twin, after all. But the other part knew that everyone in the gym was competing for a place on the team.

  I was competing.

  And I wasn’t going to throw away my chance.

  When I jogged past him again, I whispered, “Good job, Russ.”

  “I’m not fast enough,” he gasped. His cheeks were red and he was already sweating.

  “Just keep it slow and steady,” I told him. “This isn’t a race.”

  I thought about the stopwatch hanging from Coach’s neck. The racing was later, but Russ didn’t need to freak out about that yet.

  By the end of the warm-up, we were all out of breath and sweaty, but only Russ looked like he was dying.

  Or wished he was.

  Forty-five minutes later, after a bunch of drills, most of us had finished running lines, and I’d just caught my breath when Coach asked, “Who’s left?”

  “Evans,” Mr. Webster said. “Russell Evans.”

  “And?” Coach asked.

  “That’s it,” Mr. Webster said, checking his clipboard.

  “Okay, then. Evans, you’re up.”

  Russell tucked his shirt into his shorts and moved away from the wall. He swallowed hard and walked to the line.

  I gave him a thumbs-up as he went by, and I watched him get into starting position, his awesome Nikes toeing the line. He was all alone. With a crowd staring at him, waiting for him to fail. I took a deep breath, wishing I didn’t have to watch.

  And then it hit me. I didn’t have to.

  When I stood up and walked toward my brother, everyone started whispering, but I ignored them.

  Russ jumped when I stepped onto the line next to him.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  I cleared my throat and told Coach, “I’ll run with him.”

  “You’re sure, Owen?” Coach asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, nodding.

  “Okay, then.” Coach blew the whistle.

  As soon as we took off, I knew I’d done the right thing.

  Russell was super slow, and if he’d run with anyone else, he would have been left in the dust in two seconds. I tried to forget that Coach was timing us and kept pace with Russ, so he wouldn’t look bad.

  But of course he looked bad.

  He fell over twice when he bent to touch the lines, and he tripped over his shoelaces on the way back. He even stopped to retie them about halfway through, like Coach’s stopwatch didn’t even exist.

  “Double knots,” I hissed, then heard some of the guys laughing.

  I had to keep reminding myself that Coach had already recorded my time, so I wasn’t risking anything by helping my brother.

  When we were finally finished, the stopwatch clicked, and Russell slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, with his head on his knees.

  Coach Baxter growled, “Nice teamwork, Owen.”

  That felt good.

  “Man,” Chris said, shaking his head when I walked back to the guys. “It’s like Russ was in slow motion.”

  “Yeah,” Paul said, “like a replay on ESPN.”

  “And he doesn’t mean a highlight,” Nicky Chu added.

  I glared at them and they dropped it.

  Dribbling was next. Coach told us he wanted to check out our ball-handling skills, but he was looking for control, not speed.

  Lucky for Russ.

  Coach split us into two groups, and we stood in front of the rows of orange cones Mr. Webster had put out.

  “I want you to dribble through the cones and go in for a layup at the end,” Coach explained. “Got it?”

  I was near the end of the line, which was fine with me. When each of the guys ahead of me ran the drill, I watched closely to see what mistakes they made so I wouldn’t make them, too.

  Russell’s turn was right before mine, and I heard more snickering.

  Come on, Russ. Do it for us.

  Coach blew the whistle and my twin took off. He managed to keep control of the ball, but barely. He knocked over three of his cones, but made it to the end.

  When he went in for the layup, he totally missed the hoop.

  “Air ball,” Nicky Chu sang quietly, and a couple of guys laughed.

  I didn’t have time to worry about it, though, because I was up next.

  When the whistle blew, I dribbled through the cones and made a perfect shot, off the backboard and through the net.

  Yes!

  We ran the same drill four more times, and I shot 100 percent. Seriously awesome!

  Russell only made one basket, but he did leave all the cones standing on his last run. His tryout had started out stinking like old cheese, but it was getting better. Kind of.

  “Okay,” Coach said. “We know basketball is about scoring points, but it’s also about defense.”

  I was relieved when he put me and Russ together for one-on-one.

  “You ready?” I asked my brother.

  “I missed every basket on that last drill,” he said, and sighed.

  “So what? This is what you do best. Remember what I told you the other day, about just standing there?”

  Russ nodded.

  “That’s all you have to do. Just stand there and block my shots.”

  “But then you won’t score, Owen.”

  Whoa! I hadn’t thought of that. “Okay, let me make a couple of them.”

  For the next few minutes, I made Ru
ssell look like he had some idea what he was doing, which was good enough. With my help, he blocked about 75 percent of my shots.

  Then it was my turn to defend the net against Russell. He slowly dribbled toward me, biting his lip. He checked the net, then looked back at me and came closer.

  Just stay calm, Russ.

  I bent my knees, ready.

  He dribbled for a couple more seconds, and just when I thought he was going to go right, he lifted the ball in front of him and jumped straight up in the air.

  He let the ball fly.

  Stunned, I turned to watch it drop right into the net.

  What?

  The guys on the sidelines went nuts.

  “Beautiful,” Coach said, grinning. “Great form, kid. Give it another try.”

  Russell and I lined up face-to-face again.

  “I can’t believe I made that,” he whispered to me, smiling.

  “Me neither,” I told him. What were the chances?

  “I mean, that was a jump shot!”

  “Yeah,” I muttered, ticked off. How did he know that’s what it was called? And weren’t we supposed to be showing off my defense, not his shooting? “You made a jump shot.”

  And then, right in my face, he made seven more.

  By the time my defensive “showcase” was over, I hadn’t touched the ball once, and the rest of the guys were staring at Russ like he was a superhero.

  No one said anything until Coach let out a quiet, “Wow.”

  Russ smiled, but he didn’t look like he understood what had just happened.

  I didn’t either.

  “Who taught you to shoot like that?” Mr. Webster asked.

  I waited for Russ to say my name or point to me. I probably didn’t wow anybody during the drill, but I could get some brownie points for teaching him everything he knew.

  “No one,” Russ said, shrugging.

  What?

  Of course, he was right. I couldn’t do a jump shot myself, so there’s no way I could have taught the most uncoordinated kid on the planet how to do one.

  Or eight.

  But still.

  “You’ve just been practicing by yourself?” Coach asked.

  “No,” Russ said. He cleared his throat and I could tell he was embarrassed that everyone was staring at him. “That was my first try.”

  Coach’s whistle fell out of his mouth. “Really?”