Off the Rim

by Sonya Spreen Bates

  About to start the game. Wish me luck.

  I was relieved when she texted back straightaway. Good luck. Wish I was there. xx

  Coach Scott called us into a huddle and gave us our final instructions. There wasn’t too much he could say. We’d gone over our opening game plan so many times the day before in practice, it had been running through my head like a bad song.

  “This is our chance,” he said. “Mountview hasn’t been in the playoffs for over ten years. You guys have what it takes. You can win this thing. So go hard, play fair, and remember our game plan.”

  “Hunters!”

  We ran onto the court.

  The Columbia center was tall and lean. Stretch would have been a good match for him. He gave me a smile that basically said, “Go your hardest, shrimp,” and I glared back at him. There was no way I would let him think he could intimidate me. Even if he was pretty intimidating.

  The ref tossed the ball up, and the Columbia giant got the tip. We were off and running.

  The plan was to start out with a 2-1-2 zone defense. Coach had done his research on Columbia, and long-range shooting seemed to be their weak spot. We needed to keep them out of the key. Force them to take the long shots. It was a risk. If they got the long shots in, those three-pointers could add up pretty quickly. But this wasn’t the time for playing things safe. We wanted to win, not give ourselves a pat on the back at the end for putting in a good show in the first round.

  The strategy worked well. For about ten minutes. We managed to keep them out of the key, and while they got some buckets, Coach had been right. Their long-range percentage wasn’t that great. Isaiah was on fire, scoring basket after basket. Ten minutes into the game, we were up 18–11, and we were feeling pretty good. That’s when their coach called a time-out and subbed in number 61.

  He wasn’t big, he wasn’t super fast, but he could shoot. If this had been baseball, you would have called him the pinch hitter. Our zone, which had been working so well up until now, was totally useless. They brought the ball down, passed it around a bit until number 61 came open, and then up he went with the jump shot. They’d closed the gap to three points when Coach called our own time-out.

  “Time for a new game plan,” he said. “Half-court man defense. Derby, you’re on for Zuckerman. Man up on 61. And Walker, you’re on for Lane.”

  “What?” The word came out of my mouth before I could stop it. He was putting Noah on now?

  “You’re off your game, Dylan,” said Coach. “I don’t know what you’ve got on your mind, but if you put on a man defense like I saw yesterday at practice, you’ll be giving away free throws, and we can’t afford that.”

  The whistle blew, and Spence and I hit the bench.

  “Tough break,” said Stretch sympathetically.

  I couldn’t believe Coach had pulled me off. A three-point lead in a playoff game and Coach subbed on Noah Walker? He must have hit his head on the way to the game.

  Noah looked small next to the Columbia center. Small and weak. In actual fact, Noah’s taller than I am, but his lack of confidence took about three inches off him. The center could see that straightaway and gave Noah a little bump and a grin. Noah grinned back. He looked like he was going to be sick.

  Jesse passed the ball in to Carlos, and he brought it up the court, nice and slow. Columbia had set up a zone, probably to stop Isaiah driving into the key. Carlos passed it off to Matt, who fired it straight to Isaiah. Only there was nowhere for Isaiah to go. He stood there, dribbling on the spot, trying to decide on the best move. I knew the play he should make. Pass it on to the center standing on the block, draw the defense away, then duck into the key and be ready for the pass back. The problem was, the center on the block was Noah, not me or Stretch.

  Isaiah made his decision. He passed it back to Matt. Matt dribbled it twice, faked a pass to Jesse, then went for the jump shot.

  The shot bounced off the rim. Noah dived into the key for the rebound, but he was no match for Columbia’s center. The Columbia giant grabbed it, spun and passed it off before his feet even hit the ground.

  Columbia’s guard caught it and took off down the court. Matt was onto him in a flash, but the guy switched hands, spun, and passed it off to number 14, standing at the top of the key. I thought he would go for the shot, forgetting that long-range shots weren’t their strong point. Instead, he drove in for the layup. Isaiah set his block, and the guy plowed straight into him.

  The ref’s whistle blew. Yes! Charging foul.

  “Blocking foul. Number 8, Mountview. Two shots.”

  I jumped to my feet. Blocking foul? On Isaiah?

  “No way!” I said. “He set the block. It’s charging.”

  Coach waved me back into my seat. I could see he agreed with me. There was nothing he could do, though, without risking a technical foul.

  While the teams set up for the free throws, the Columbia coach subbed off their center. I think he’d figured out Noah wasn’t a threat and was taking the opportunity to rest his best center for the second half. The sub was no bigger than Noah, but he had the same wolfish grin as his teammate, and Noah looked just as intimidated.

  The shooter bounced the ball a couple of times, took aim and let off the first shot. It hit the backboard and dropped through the net.

  The ref passed him the ball again, and everyone set up for the rebound. Noah was doing the right thing—crouching, ready to jump in as soon as the shot was off. But I could see the Columbia center nudging him over, jostling for position. By the time the ball was released, Noah didn’t have a chance in hell of getting it.

  The ball bounced off the rim and everyone leaped for the rebound. Noah was a split second behind everyone else. Enough for the Columbia center to reach up and grab the ball. He brought it down, bounced it and went to pop it up again. Matt was there. The center had nowhere to go. He turned and passed it off to number 23, who dribbled a couple of times and passed it to number 61.

  I had to admit, I might not like Jesse Derby, but right now I could appreciate his street-thug attitude. He was in that guy’s face, and he wasn’t going anywhere. Number 61 couldn’t get his shot off. He took it down into a dribble and tried to get away, but Jesse shadowed his every move. In the end, he passed it back out to number 23, who tried for the three-pointer and missed.

  Matt got the rebound that time and fired it out to Carlos. It was exactly the move I would have made. Carlos tore down the court and passed it to Isaiah, who drove in for the layup.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. It had worked out okay, but the fact was, Noah was out there doing nothing to help the team. He wasn’t getting the rebounds, and the guys didn’t have enough confidence in him to pass him the ball. Not that I blamed them. He was playing like the old Noah again.

  “Come on, Walker, man up!” shouted Coach.

  “Noah,” I yelled. “You know you’re better than that. Get out there and play!” He’d proved it when we’d played the girls’ team on Saturday night. He’d gained confidence that night, and it had shown in his game. He’d gotten better and better as the night went on. Was it the fact that he’d been playing girls? Jenna’s team was good. We all knew that. In fact, they had a lot of skills the Columbia guys were lacking. But were girls ever as intimidating as these big guys?

  “He’s like Chelsea!” I yelled to Noah as he ran past. “Call him Chelsea.”

  Coach gave me a strange look, but Spence knew what I was getting at.

  “Yeah, come on, Noah,” he called out. “If we can beat the girls, we can beat these guys. Find your player!”

  Noah didn’t look our way. There was a change in his stance, though, that made me think he’d heard us. Suddenly he looked more solid, his steps more purposeful.

  Noah camped himself in the key like he’d done on Saturday night. It wasn’t exactly the man defense Coach had asked for, but pretty close. The Columbia center was hovering around the basket, looking for the pass, and Noah wedged himself in front of him whenever he could. When
the center did get free for the pass, he turned and found Noah standing right in front of him. He faked a shot and passed it off again.

  Coach glanced over at us again. “I don’t even want to guess what all that Chelsea nonsense was about, but it’s working,” he said.

  I grinned. It was the closest we’d get to a thank-you from Coach. As far as he was concerned, team motivation was all part of the game.

  Matt intercepted a pass and threw the ball to Jesse, who took it halfway down the court before being trapped by his defender. Jesse paused, dribbling on the spot, looking for the open man.

  “Noah’s open!” I yelled.

  Jesse glanced at him, then tried to pass it to Carlos.

  Carlos’s defender jumped in and tapped it away. The loose ball bounced toward the sideline before Matt and Isaiah and two of the Columbia defenders jumped on it.

  The ref’s whistle blew. “Jump ball!” He glanced toward the possession arrow. “Mountview’s possession.”

  I threw my hands up. “Noah was open,” I said. “He should have passed it to Noah.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Stretch said, pulling me back onto the bench. “It’s our possession anyway.”

  I scowled at Jesse as he ran past. “Lucky for him,” I muttered.

  Isaiah took the ball on the sideline. He waited, searching for the open man, but Jesse was on the other side of the key, ready for the inbounds pass and a chance at the basket, and Carlos and Matt couldn’t get free from the Columbia defenders. Isaiah faked a couple of times in Matt’s direction, then seemed to make up his mind. He lobbed the ball toward the key, straight into Noah’s hands.

  Noah looked surprised.

  “Shoot!” I yelled. “Shoot it, Noah!”

  He panicked. The ball went up and straight over the basket to the other side without touching the hoop, the net or the backboard. Luckily, Jesse was there. He popped it back up and it bounced off the rim.

  I felt like covering my eyes.

  The Columbia center caught the rebound. Noah stood his ground, but the center pivoted and fired the pass off to another teammate.

  Five seconds later they’d scored.

  The halftime buzzer sounded, and we headed for the locker room.

  Noah was pretty bummed. He knew he’d blown it in those final seconds. But then, I was the one who’d told him to shoot, knowing he was crap at shooting.

  “You did all right, Walker,” said Coach. “Let’s just leave the shooting to the other guys, shall we?”

  Noah nodded, a sheepish grin on his face. He and I both knew he shouldn’t have attempted that shot.

  “Sorry, Noah,” I said. “I thought it was worth a try.”

  He shrugged.

  I heard the music start up for the Columbia cheerleaders’ halftime routine. We sat around complaining about the other team and guzzling our drinks. Even Noah was getting in on the team bashing, which was a first for him. Stretch was talking earnestly to Coach Scott near the door to the bathroom. Jesse Derby was the only one who kept himself apart from the team. He sat in the corner, doing something on his phone. I couldn’t help wondering if he was checking in with Nick Smith.

  “All right, guys,” said Coach when it was almost time for the second half. “Derby, you stay on number 61. Lane, you’re on for Garth. Zuckerman, you sub on for Noble.” That left Noah and Carlos still on. Carlos had already played the whole first half. I didn’t know how much he’d have left in him if he didn’t get subbed off soon.

  “We’re going for a modified 2-3 defense,” Coach continued. “Set up the zone, but Noah and Dylan, you close it up if anyone gets near the paint.”

  We nodded.

  “I want a 3-out, 2-in offense. If you pass in to Walker, get ready for the pass out again. Dylan, look to shoot if you can, or kick it back to the perimeter.”

  We had run this offense in practice a million times, but never with this particular group. Usually, the post players were Matt and me. Now it was Noah and me, with Spence, Carlos and Jesse positioned around the three-point line. It should work. In theory. But somehow theory never seems to quite translate to reality.

  We managed to keep their scoring percentage down by stopping number 61 from making the long-range shots and shutting down the lane. Unfortunately, our scoring percentage came down too. With Isaiah on the bench and Noah passing back out from the paint instead of shooting, that left Carlos, Spence and me to get the baskets. It was tough going. The scores on both sides crawled upward, until Columbia managed to creep past us at the ten-minute mark.

  Despite the slow progress, Coach seemed satisfied with the play. Perhaps that was his intention all along. Slow everything down, give Carlos a break, and then go for the kill in the final push. I’m sure he hadn’t intended for Columbia to get up, but it was only by two points. The way the crowd roared when they drew ahead, you would have thought they’d won the whole championship.

  Coach called a time-out.

  “Back to the original five,” he said. “We’re running the triangle offense.”

  It wasn’t unexpected. In the back of my mind, I’d known it was coming. Still, my heart skipped a beat. It was a risk. It could also be our salvation.

  “You know the drill,” he said. “Take your lead from the ball handler. Your next move depends on what he does. React accordingly.”

  “Hunters!”

  It was our ball, and we set up our triangle as soon as Carlos started bringing the ball upcourt. Columbia stuck with their man defense, which was all right with us. We could string them out, open up the space to make a move. It was up to Carlos to decide what that move would be.

  Whoever said practice makes perfect is right. We’d been practicing this offense every day for the last week, and suddenly everything clicked into place. The ball went from Carlos to Matt to Isaiah, each player rotating position depending on who had the ball. Isaiah faked a drive to the basket, then passed it off to Matt, who went for the inside jump shot. The ball bounced off the rim, and I grabbed it and dunked it in. It was that easy. Well, not easy at all, actually, but it sure felt good.

  The Columbia center didn’t look quite so confident now. He tried his intimidation bump and grin on me again as their guard brought the ball down the court, but it lacked any true malice. A pass into the paint, and I knocked it away. Isaiah picked up the loose ball. We were on the offense again, racing down the court. Isaiah was held up in the key, and he passed the ball to Spence on the perimeter. Back to Isaiah again, on the corner now, then out to Carlos. Carlos drove in, spun and fired it to Matt. Up went the jump shot for a three.

  We were in the zone. Columbia started getting desperate and gave away free throws, clocking up the fouls. The crowd was strangely quiet.

  When the final buzzer sounded, the score was 58–49. We’d done it, and with a convincing win. No one would ever be able to say we didn’t deserve to be in the playoffs now.

  Chapter Eleven

  It was the upset win of the season, and we were on a high the whole way back to school on the bus. Coach kept yelling at us to keep it down, but I don’t think the noise got below the level of a jet engine in the hour it took us to get back to town. When we unloaded in front of the school, a few of the guys headed off to Jo’s Diner. I needed to talk to Jenna.

  She answered on the fifth ring. “Hey, congratulations,” she said.

  “You should have seen us, Jenna. We were on fire. And Noah. I’ve never seen him play like that. Ever.”

  “That’s great,” she said. “Did he score?”

  I laughed. “No, I’m afraid you owe the team a round of sodas.”

  She laughed with me. “I hope Carlos will take a rain check,” she said.

  Suddenly, the world spun back into reality. “Why? Aren’t you coming to school tomorrow?”

  She hesitated. “No. Mom wants me to stay home one more day.” Her voice sounded funny when she said it.

  “This isn’t because of those messages, is it?” I said.

  “Of course
not,” she said quickly. “I’ve been really sick, Dylan. You know how protective my parents are.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said, not convinced at all. “Look, I get my car back tomorrow. Can I come out and see you?”

  “Sure. That would be great,” she said.

  “See you tomorrow then.”

  Paying the bill to get my car back hurt. A lot. I’d had to borrow money from my dad, and the way I was going, I’d probably still be paying him back when I finished college. It was nice having wheels again though. I was done with walking.

  On the way to Jenna’s, I decided not to tell her about Nick Smith being the guy with the black pickup. She was freaked out enough already. It wouldn’t change anything if I told her. We would still be in the same position, not knowing why he was intimidating her. And that was the key. We needed to find out what Jenna had done that he thought was so threatening to him.

  I had a good look around the area on the way to Jenna’s place. They lived halfway up Hillridge Road, in the mountains north of town, with miles of forest between them and their nearest neighbor. Jenna said her great-grandfather had built the house, and it had been passed on from father to son for three generations. Jenna being an only child, I guessed it would pass to her next, although I couldn’t imagine her wanting to live out there in the sticks for the rest of her life.

  They had a big gravel yard out front. I pulled up next to her dad’s beat-up tractor, got out and peered into the surrounding forest. There’d been no sign of the black pickup on the way up here, but then, on the narrow, winding road there wouldn’t be many places to hide something of that size. Unless you used someone’s driveway. If, however, someone was on foot, or even on a motorcycle, it would be easy to hide in the woods and not be seen.