Copyright © 2016 Alison Hughes
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Hughes, Alison, 1966–, author
Kings of the court / Alison Hughes.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-4598-1219-2 (pbk.).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1220-8 (pdf).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1221-5 (epub)
I. Title.
PS8615.U3165K56 2017 jc813'.6 C2016-904520-X
C2016-904521-8
First published in the United States, 2017
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016949053
Summary: In this humorous novel for middle-grade readers, basketball-crazy Sameer tries to help the school team overcome its aversion to a very dramatic new coach.
Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this book on Forest Stewardship Council® certified paper.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cover design by Jenn Playford
Cover photography by iStock.com and Dreamstime.com
Author photo by Barbara Heintzman
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
www.orcabook.com
Printed and bound in Canada.
20 19 18 17 • 4 3 2 1
For Chris, who painted the basketball key on the backyard patio, and for everyone who played backyard basketball at the Burnham Avenue Court.
Contents
One. Game Face
Two. Eee-jected!
Three. Dig Deep
Four. Die-Hard Fans
Five. Huddle Up
Six. Evasive Action
Seven. Hush-Hush
Eight. Just Managing
Nine. Substitution
Ten. Team Motto
Eleven. Maintaining Composure
Twelve. Game Plan
Thirteen. Fancy Footwork
Fourteen. Back On Track?
Fifteen. That’s Gotta Hurt
Sixteen. King of the Court
Seventeen. Weight Training
Eighteen. Wild Card
Nineteen. Never Say Die
Twenty. Take It to the Hoop
Twenty-One. Play On
Acknowledgments
ONE
Game Face
The noise in the gym was so loud, Sameer could feel it rumbling up through his chair and thrumming in his chest. It shook the scorers’ table where he was sitting and jittered the pen beside the score sheet. The few adults in the gym had their hands over their ears, shaking their heads in alarm and giving each other pained smiles. Some kids in the crowd were doing the wave, and the non-waving sections were drumming their feet in a deafening frenzy on the bleachers as the seconds ticked down on the halftime break. Even during this pause in the basketball game, the Gladys Spinoza Junior High gym was a riot of cheering chaos.
Sameer smiled and pushed up his glasses. The atmosphere in the gym was exactly how he liked it. He swung his short legs happily, turned to Gracie and yelled, “Great crowd, eh?”
She shrugged. “The usual,” she shouted back, smiling and shaking her head.
Sameer jumped as the buzzer sounded, scrambled off his chair and stood to high-five the team members as they ran back from their halftime shooting. Every guy on the team swung by the scorers’ table to slap Sameer’s hand.
“Great job, guys…Keep it up…Shots, shots, shots, Rochon…Nikho, they’re playing close on D—burn around them and go to the hoop…You can take that number 3, easy…Boards, man, boards…You are getting up there, Nate! Whatcha been eating?…Hey, great support from the bench…” Sameer had a quick word of encouragement for every one of them.
“Sameer!” Gracie tugged at his arm and pointed at the refs, who were at the center circle, looking impatient to start the half. Sameer and Gracie switched places at the table, and Gracie snatched up the pen and smoothed the score sheet. The scoring wasn’t anywhere near as much fun as the announcing, so he and Gracie had agreed to call one half, score the next. Sameer adjusted the microphone and pulled a paper with cryptic stats on it from his pocket. Then he settled his elbows on the table, put his chin on his fists, closed his eyes and savored the moment.
Gracie had done a great job calling the first half. She had a knack for description, a quick, lively delivery and great give-and-take with the crowd. It was a tough act to follow. Sameer took a deep breath, reminded himself how much he loved basketball and this team, opened his eyes and flicked on the mic.
“We’re back, you pounding maniacs!” he thundered. The crowd roared its approval. “You guys are amazing! No school has spirit like Gladys Spinoza school spirit! We are most definitely in GLADIATOR COUNTRY!” Sameer’s friend Vijay, the Gladiators’ mascot, brandished a silver garbage-can-lid “shield” and dollar-store sword in a menacing and bloodthirsty manner, racing back and forth and baying at the appreciative crowd.
Gracie elbowed Sameer and pointed to the players on the court, her eyebrows raised.
“Whoops,” Sameer said into the mic, “you guys are such a great crowd that I almost forgot I’m supposed to call this thing! Thanks, Gracie. Okay, well, the Bobcats blew that shot, so we haven’t missed any scoring. It’s 42–39 at the half, and the Gladiators are close, so close, to their first win of the whole season, after losing—well, after losing a lot!”
From the sidelines on his left, Coach Bosetti threw Sameer a dirty look. Coach Boss had his game face on, and it wasn’t pretty. He was packed tightly into a gray Gladiators sweatshirt, and he looked, as usual, red-faced and angry. He paced the sidelines, swinging his clipboard and bellowing at his team.
“Boards! Boards! Do you understand? BOARDS! REBOUND! Speak English? You guys are PATHETIC!”
Sameer ignored him. “Bobcats sit at second-to-last place in the league, so Gladiators, this may be our game!”
“Block out! BLOCK. OUT. NATE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Coach Boss’s scream ripped through the gym, louder than Sameer with the mic. Nate, a sensitive, awkward redhead, glanced nervously over at Coach Boss, then flushed and skittered into the key like a young giraffe, one of his long legs accidentally tripping a player from the other team who was driving in for a layup. The ref blew a short blast on the whistle. Nate had the misfortune of already being six foot five and not entirely in control of his arms and legs.
“Foul on number 12, Nathan Schneider,” Sameer said quietly into the mic. He glanced down at the score sheet and added quickly, “But that’s only Big Nate’s second foul, folks, which is really excellent for a big man in a tight game. He’s been putting up monster rebounds this game too.”
“Sub! SUB!” roared Coach Boss.
As Nate came back to the bench, his face white and anxious, Sameer gave him a thumbs-up and a quick, closed-eyes headshake that meant “Shake it off, buddy—don’t let him get you down.”
“Substitution. Number 16, Kenneth Otombo, coming in for Nate. He may be their spark off the bench,” Sameer reported to the crowd. “This is Kenneth’s first appearance this game, so let’s give him a big Gladiator salute!”
The people in the crowd jumped to their feet, raised their fists above their heads and roared, “Charge!”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about!” Sameer grinned and stood,
raising his fists along with the crowd.
Play continued, and the Gladiators’ best shooter, Rochon, started to get hot.
“Rochon, the Rockin’ Roch-Man, raining down threes! Burying them! Shooting the lights out!” Sameer whipped the crowd into a frenzy, “Shooting three for seven from downtown! Better outside shooting percentage than Kobe Bryant last night! We’ll take it! Oh yes, we’ll take that three, thank you very much! Oh, wait, what’s this? The Bobcats’ coach has just wisely called a time-out. Yes, sir, smart plan.” Sameer nodded at the other coach, who ignored him. “He’s gotta stop the bleeding! Because these Gladiators, your Gladiators, are on fire!” The crowd cheered as both teams jogged in to their benches.
“Great job, guys!” he called after flicking off the mic. Blaring music filled the gym, and the cheer team ran in to execute a complicated routine.
Vijay ran over to Sameer and Gracie. His helmet wobbled perilously as he ran. “Hi, guys,” he said, looking only at Gracie.
“Your helmet’s crooked there, tough guy.” Gracie laughed and turned away to talk to a friend.
Vijay dumped his sword and shield on the ground and pulled off his gladiator helmet. Sameer and Vijay had spent a whole evening making it, covering an old bike helmet in duct tape and tinfoil and glue-gunning a yellow sponge-mop head along the top. Vijay reached behind Sameer and grabbed Sameer’s hoodie to wipe his sweaty face.
“Okay, that’s disgusting,” protested Sameer, looking up from studying the score sheet. He snatched his hoodie back.
Vijay grinned, showing gums and a line of big front teeth. “Hot in this thing. Like, hot hot.” He gestured down at the peeling silver tunic someone had donated from an old Halloween knight’s costume. He was wearing it over his regular gym clothes.
“Speaking of your gladiator costume, Vijay,” Sameer said, “couldn’t you maybe wear black shorts and a black shirt? Or red? I mean, team colors are black and red. Those green shorts, that yellow shirt…” He shook his head dismissively. “Unprofessional. Plus, they stink. Just saying.”
“Yeah yeah, whatever.” Vijay wasn’t listening. “So, Sameer,” he said, his eyes snaking sideways to look at Gracie, “has she mentioned me? Like, at all? In any way?”
“Oh yeah, Vijay. You’re all we’ve been talking about,” said Sameer sarcastically. “It’s just been ‘Vijay’ this and ‘Vijay’ that! Look, we’re in the middle of a basketball game, if you haven’t noticed. I’m working, okay?”
“I’m working too,” said Vijay, leaning in annoyingly close and breathing in Sameer’s ear. “Working on loooove.”
“Go,” said Sameer, batting him away.
Vijay grinned, then jumped as Coach Boss’s clipboard hit the wall behind him.
“Man, he’s throwing things now?” Vijay looked over his shoulder with alarm at the huddled Gladiators and the huge, ranting man. “I mean, not just screaming like usual? Wait, aren’t we winning?” Vijay checked the scoreboard, even though Sameer was nodding. “Yeah, we’re winning. Rochon was raining them in there.”
Sameer shook his head. “He’s a terrible coach. No clue how to motivate players, how to use their strengths. Just rant and rave, shame and blame. Only ever plays five, maybe six guys, even if they’re dog-tired, like now. And look at the talent we have on the bench—” Sameer was interrupted by the whistle ending the time-out.
“Go, Vijay. Shoo.”
Vijay had already turned to Gracie.
“Guess I gotta get back to my fans,” he said, grinning at Gracie and her friend Simone. He put his hand to his ear. “Hear that? The crowd’s calling me. Calling their number one Gladiator. Got to… gladiate.” He picked up his sword and shield, shoved on his helmet, gave a corny salute and ran off to lead the crowd in the GLAD-I-A-TORS cheer. Each of the four sections of the bleachers had a syllable, and Vijay conducted them like a maniac, running up and down, first slowly, then with increasing speed, until it all broke loose into laughter and applause and foot stomping.
“Such a goof,” said Simone.
“Sort of cute though,” said Gracie. “In a way.”
Sameer pushed up his glasses and looked over at Gracie. Seriously? Vijay?
“If you like skinny little brown guys,” blurted Sameer, looking down and pretending to study his notes. Where did that come from? he thought. Vijay is my friend…
“You’re a little brown guy.” Gracie laughed, swatting Sameer on the shoulder with the back of her hand.
“An even littler brown guy,” Simone pointed out. “Not so skinny though…”
“Okay, okay, Simone. You can stop right there.” Sameer’s ears felt hot.
Simone looked at him, her head tilted and her eyes narrowed.
“Hmmm. Maybe Vijay’s not the only one who likes—”
“Oh, look,” Sameer interrupted in desperation, pointing urgently at the court, “here’s a basketball game that’s happening in this gym. And here’s a mic! Maybe I better call this thing.”
“Yep, back to work. Go, Simone.” Gracie shooed her friend away.
“Aaand we’re back, Gladiator Nation!” said Sameer into the mic. “Anybody else find that the longest time-out ever? Let’s play some ball!”
TWO
Eee-jected!
It was a long fourth quarter. The constant, belligerent pressure from Coach Boss had the Gladiators rattled and racking up some cheap fouls.
“Unbelievable,” Sameer said into the mic, shaking his head. “Foul on number 22, Kyle Runningbear. This game is getting out of hand! Guys who never hack are getting called. Even Quiet Kyle gets a foul! Incidentally, Kyle blocked that shot, so it may have been worth the foul, and he’s been a wall on defense all night. We’ve still got plenty of basketball, folks, but the refs are calling this game incredibly close. The tension is palpable.”
Sameer wasn’t actually sure what palpable meant, but he’d heard the NBA announcers use it the night before. Gracie would have elbowed him if it had been wrong. Like last game, when he’d used fracas as a verb: One thing this team does is fracas well. He’d thought it sounded very smooth, even impressive, but Gracie had grabbed his arm and hissed at him that fracas meant “a noisy brawl.” Without missing a beat, he had continued, Yes, indeed, this game has been a complete fracas.
At every foul, Vijay started up a cheer where half the gym shouted, “HACK!” and the other shouted, “ATTACK!” Pointless, thought Sameer, but Vijay really does have a knack for keeping the crowd involved in the game.
Coach Boss, never one to take the high road in stressful situations, was screaming louder than ever at his players. “Engage brain! ENGAGE BRAIN!”
More ominously, he had been arguing calls with the refs all game. He was arguing Kyle’s foul right now.
“Are you freakin’ kiddin’ me? Are you JOKING?” he yelled at one of the refs. “He was straight up!” Coach Boss raised both hands over his head, pushing out his big gut. “Straight up! You’re out of your mind!”
Keep it up, Coach Boss, and you’re out of this game, Sameer thought, just as the ref made a T sign with his hands. And here we go…
“Coach Bosetti teed up. Technical foul,” Sameer explained to the crowd. He hesitated, glanced over at Coach Boss, who was arguing the call with the ref, then quickly added, “Interestingly, Coach Boss is averaging 1.5 technical fouls a game so far this season.”
Coach Boss turned and roared, “Shut up, Sameer!”
Sameer didn’t dignify that with even a glance. He flicked off the mic and turned to Gracie. “Wow, crazy game, hey?”
“Ug-u-ly.” She nodded, twirling her pen.
“Does Coach Boss ever think about how unprofessional he looks?”
“I don’t think he cares. About anything,” said Gracie, her sunny face unusually serious. “He’s such a jerk it’s embarrassing. I mean, look at him.”
Sameer looked over to see Coach Boss fling his clipboard into the corner of the gym and then growl at Anil, a forward who was having an off game, pushing his finger into
the player’s chest for emphasis.
“Oh, man. I can feel this game slipping away. Time check, Gracie?”
“About two minutes left,” she said.
Sameer nodded and clicked on the mic.
“Another point for the Bobcats for the technical foul. Number 6 has shot a perfect five for five from the charity stripe.” He paused, then continued in a loud, enthusiastic voice. “Okay, Gladiator Nation, you have two minutes to help your Gladiators get back on track! It ain’t over till it’s over! Time to make some noise!”
The crowd didn’t need much encouragement to go wild. Vijay scrambled to pull a huge cardboard letter D and a piece of white plastic fencing from a garbage bag in preparation for the D-Fence cheer.
Coach Boss argued on the possession of a ball that went out, then picked up the ball, which had rolled near the bench, and fired it back at the ref. The ref dodged it—and gave him another technical.
“Coach, you’re out of this gym. Now.” The ref made a dramatic, unmistakable thumb-over-the-shoulder motion.
“I was passing you the ball!” said Coach Boss with unconvincing astonishment. “It was a pass.” He slumped his shoulders and spread his big hands wide as if bewildered and frustrated.
“Sameer!” Gracie said above the excited babble of the crowd, “Coach Boss just got kicked out!”
Sameer smiled and nodded. “Eee-jected! Make no mistake, sports fans,” he said into the mic, “this is a tense game! Coach Boss is outta here, tossed, heading for the change rooms! The score is 53–51 for the Bobcats. But the Gladiators are pounding on the door!”
To the crowd’s delight, Vijay ran over to the gym door and thrashed away at it with his fake sword until Coach Boss shoved him aside to stomp out of the gym. Sameer saw Mrs. Lee, the school’s principal, who was sitting at the front of the bleachers, watching Coach Boss, her face set and angry.
Sameer was busy thinking. There was no other coach because both assistant coaches, nice university guys looking to do some volunteer work with their old school team, had quit weeks ago in protest against Coach Boss’s tactics. They had to have a coach to continue—league rule 3(3)(a). Otherwise, if they did win, the other team could contest the win. Sameer made a quick decision.
Kings of the Court Page 1
