My Life as a Busted-Up Basketball Backboard

by Bill Myers

  “Yeah, you know, like reading and stuff like that.”

  But ImaginMan barely hears. He is too busy

  BLEEP, PING, BLAMming

  BLAM, PING, BLEEPing

  “Besides,” I type, “you can’t be driving your ImaginMobile and playing video games at the same time.”

  “Why not?” he mumbles.

  “’Cause if you don’t pay attention to your driving, you’re going to hit the semitruck I’m adding to the story.”

  “What semitruck?”

  “The one that’s completely out of control, racing toward you at a hundred miles an hour, and

  HOOOOONK . . .

  blasting its horn.”

  Our hero looks up from the game just in time to see the truck. He slams on his brakes. He grabs the steering wheel and yanks it sharply to the right, missing the passing semi by inches.After spinning out of control, he finally screeches to a stop.

  “Wow,” he gasps, “that was close! How’d you do that?”

  “I just used my imagination,” I type. “The same imagination you use whenever you read.”

  “Pretty cool,” he says.

  “You bet,” I type. ”Now, can we get on with the story?”

  “You’re the one with the imagination; let’s do it!”

  With that our hero leaps out of his car. He will no longer use his Bad Guy Detecto Screen for fear of again getting hooked on the video game (even though he almost had enough points to go to the next level). Instead, he searches the skies for any sign of KidVid’s spacecraft. There is nothing above except a few clouds and the passing Good Ear Blimp—— the passing Good Ear Blimp that now has a video screen on its side playing . . . you guessed it

  BLEEP, PING, BLAM

  KidVid’s video game! And, as our hero stares, he once again begins falling under its spell.

  “No, ImaginMan!”

  “Must . . . find . . . controls,” he mumbles. “No! ImaginMan, you have to resist! You have to fight this thing!” I type.

  “Must . . . go to . . . next . . . level.”

  “No, ImaginMan! No!”

  But it is no use, ImaginMan’s imagination is once again turning to mush.

  Oh, no! What will he do? If he falls under KidVid’s spell, how can he possibly help others? Doesn’t he realize the fate of the entire world rests in his hands? More important, doesn’t he realize that my superhero stories never end this early in these books?

  I paused for a moment, staring at Ol’ Betsy. KidVid was having a lot more of an effect upon our hero than I had imagined. And for some strange reason, the more I thought of KidVid’s power, the more I thought of Ricko Slicko’s . . .

  Don’t ask me why, but the next day Coach Kilroy let me back into practice. Maybe it had something to do with the new team uniforms appearing on his doorstep. Or the brand-new glass backboards that were installed overnight. Or maybe it was connected to the money a secret donor contributed for a new gymnasium—complete with workout room, swimming pool, and a special sauna just for coaches. A secret donor whose first name began with the letters R-I-C-K-O and whose last name ended with the letters S-L-I-C-K-O.

  Still, if I thought yesterday’s workout was tough, it was nothing compared to the scrimmage Coach had us running today. We’d barely begun, and already I was so beat that I was sucking up more air than a Hoover vacuum cleaner.

  And why not? I’d run up and down the court three whole times. And now, for some reason, Coach Kilroy wanted me to do it again!

  “Get back down here and guard your man, McDoogle! Defense, defense, defense!”

  “But I was just there!” I cried, wheezing and coughing up major body parts.

  “Get down here!” he yelled.

  “But they’ll just shoot another basket (cough, cough) and come back here (gag, gag)!”

  “That’s the idea of the game!” he shouted.

  “Well, it’s a dumb idea!”

  “McDOOGLE!”

  “All right, I’m coming, I’m coming.”

  Translation: “All right, I’m dying, I’m dying.”

  Now, I’m no rocket scientist, but it would seem a lot easier if we’d just stay at one end of the court and let their team make all the baskets they want . . . then stroll on down to our end and shoot till we were done. Talk about a great way to make friends. And think of the wear and tear we’d save on our tennis shoes (not to mention our bodies)!

  Better yet, maybe we could decide the winner by sitting around and playing a heated game of rock, paper, scissors.

  I was about to make these brilliant suggestions to Coach Kilroy when suddenly I noticed the ball coming directly at me. Can you imagine that? Someone had actually passed me the ball. Someone had actually expected me to do something with it. Now it was time for me to do what I do best. Now it was time to demonstrate my incredible athletic ability. Now it was time to drop to the ground and let that puppy sail right over my head.

  ZWINGGG . . .

  “McDOOGLE!” Ah, yes, the delicate, caring voice of Coach Kilroy. “This ain’t dodge ball. You’re supposed to catch the thing!”

  “Ohhhh,” I said, scrambling to my feet and suddenly understanding. “You mean like yesterday?” “NO!” He shook his head in panicked concern. “Not like yesterday! I don’t want any more broken teeth, or broken glasses, or ringing fire alarms.”

  I frowned. “What’s left?”

  “Just put your hands out and catch the ball.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” he sighed.

  “All right, if you say so.”

  It was a pretty weird concept, but I thought I’d give it a try. The next time the ball accidentally came my way I put out my hands, and

  ZWINGGG . . .

  it went straight through them.

  “McDOOGLE!”

  “It didn’t work, Coach.”

  “You’re supposed to close your hands when it reaches them!”

  I tell you, the man was a genius. No wonder they made him coach. And thanks to his detailed instruction I was now fully prepared. The next time a teammate decided to trust me and pass the ball (sometime around the year 2047), I not only stuck out my hands, but I actually closed them around it. And you know what?

  I caught it!

  Talk about exciting. Talk about amazing. Talk about making it into Ripley’s Believe It or Not! One guy from the other team was so excited that he raced up and started waving his hands in my face. He was obviously as thrilled as I was. Wanting to share my joy (and realizing they’d probably put the ball on display at the Smithsonian Institution), I decided to let him hold the glorious object for just a moment.

  “McDOOGLE!!”

  “What now?”

  “You’re not supposed to give the ball away, you’re supposed to keep it!”

  I groaned. “This game’s got too many rules!”

  Well, as you probably guessed, for the rest of the scrimmage my team did everything they could not to throw me the ball. But as luck would have it, with ten seconds left—after it was dropped, batted, and bounced past everyone else—it just sort of rolled to a stop at my feet.

  It was time to be the hero and prove what I was really made of. With a sudden burst of Olympian prowess, I reached down, picked up the ball, and did not give it away!

  “Go, McDoogle!” Coach shouted. “You’ve got eight seconds, go for it!”

  I looked up and saw him motioning me down the court. This was too good to be true. At last, I could make up for my mistakes. At last, I could make Coach proud of me.

  “Six seconds, McDoogle! What are you waiting for? GO!”

  I nodded, stuck the ball under one arm, put out the other, and began running down the court.

  “No, McDoogle!”

  In my head I could hear the play-by-play commentary. He’s at the forty-yard line, folks. The thirty-five, the thirty!

  “McDoogle, you’ve got the wrong sport!”

  I knew Coach was shouting something, but it was hard to hear over my
imagined crowd and screaming announcer. I guess he’d just have to wait until the post-game show to talk to me.

  He’s at the twenty, the fifteen . . . I spotted a member from the other team coming at me. But that was no problem, I simply sidestepped him, spun to my left, faked to my right, and continued my sprint to the goal line.

  The ten, the five . . . TOUCHDOWN WALLY McDOOGLE!

  In my head, the fans were going crazy. I could picture my agent demanding fifteen million dollars to renew my contract. While, all the time, in the distance, I could hear Coach Kilroy screaming: “Get him off my court! Get him off! Get him off! Get him off!”

  Poor guy. He was so overcome with pride for teaching me the game that he could barely talk. “Please . . .” He broke down, sobbing like a baby. “Just get him out of my sight . . . please.”

  I’d have loved to stick around. Maybe pass out a few autographs to fellow team members, or hang out with Coach to receive the key to the city. But I could see Mr. Slicko and his crew standing outside the doors waving for me to hurry and join them. Great. I could hardly wait to discover what exciting adventure into popularity he had planned for me next.

  Chapter 6

  Willard Weirdness

  “So what are we doing here?” I asked as our limo pulled up to 21.2 Flags Amusement Park. (They wanted to be Six Flags, but it wasn’t big enough.)

  “Watch and be amazed, Willard,” Ricko said. “Watch and be amazed.”

  Three minutes later the TV crew and I were strolling through the park. To our left was Space Molehill (it would have been Space Mountain, but I already mentioned the size problem), which, of course, would explain The Pirates of the Wading Pool ride to my right. Up ahead was It’s a Small, Small, I’m Talking Microscopically Small, World. And then I saw it . . .

  My mouth dropped open, my eyes grew wide, and my heart pounded louder than a bad rap song. Because there, rising before us, was a giant head. It was at least six stories high. Aroller coaster raced into its mouth and, by the yelling and screaming that echoed inside, it was obvious the passengers were having the scare of their lives.

  But it wasn’t the size of the head or the screaming inside that had taken my breath away. It was what the head looked like. Or should I say who it looked like. It had blond hair, black-rimmed glasses (shattered, of course), and an expression of total cluelessness.

  I began to stutter, “It’s . . . it’s . . . it’s . . .”

  “That’s right, Willard, it’s you.”

  “You had them build a ride about me?”

  “Yup. And according to the park officials, it’s the hottest ride in the park.”

  Suddenly, a roller coaster raced out of the left ear, wound around the jaw, and came to a stop directly in front of us. But instead of getting up to leave, the passengers, who seemed to be coated in some sort of slime, just sat there with dazed expressions. Some tried to speak, but instead of words all that came out was

  “Ma-ma-ma-ma . . .”

  They were definitely shaken. In fact, the ride had taken so much out of them that assistants had to help their trembling bodies from the roller coaster and carefully guide them toward the exit. “Come on,” Mr. Slicko said, pulling me to the front of the line. “Let’s see what all the excitement is about!”

  “Hey, no cuts!” a big bruiser of a kid shouted.

  Mr. Slicko turned back to him and calmly asked, “Don’t you know who I’m with?”

  “I don’t care who you’re—” That’s all Big Bruiser got out before he saw me. “It’s not possible,” he gasped. “It’s . . . it’s . . . Wilfred!”

  “That’s Willard,” Mr. Slicko corrected.

  Word spread up and down the line like wildfire. Before I knew it, everyone was swarming around me.

  “I’m so terribly sorry,” Big Bruiser pleaded. “It was my mistake. Please, cut in front of me.”

  “No,” a pretty girl shouted, “I want him to cut in front of me!”

  “No, me!” another begged.

  Things were getting pretty rowdy (not to mention crowded) as they continued to surround me. In fact, it was all the park assistants could do to pull us from the line and escort us to the next waiting roller coaster.

  “Thanks,” I said while catching my breath and taking a seat in the front.

  “No prob,” an assistant said with a grin. “Now be sure to buckle in nice and tight.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  He flashed what almost looked like a sinister smile. “In the next three minutes and forty-five seconds you’ll be reliving every one of Willard McDorkel’s mishaps.”

  I gulped nervously. “Every one?”

  “Well, not every one,” he said, “just the highlights, which, as you and I know”—he lowered his voice so as not to frighten the other passengers— “isn’t a pretty sight.”

  Then, with a menacing chuckle that grew to an ominous laugh, he released the brake . . . and we were off!

  We shot into the giant mouth and entered what looked like a river in the woods. I immediately recognized the scenery of Camp Wahkah Wahkah from My Life As a Smashed Burrito with Extra Hot Sauce. For the most part it looked pretty realistic. Even the upcoming waterfall.

  Upcoming waterfall!

  That’s right. Before I knew it our car was

  “Augh!”

  shooting off the top of a waterfall and tumbling straight down. Yes, sir, it was just like old times. The same life passing before my eyes, the same praying to God to forgive me for everything I’d ever done wrong, and the same promise that if He let me live I’d quit making those stupid jokes about my sister’s cooking.

  But instead of hitting the pool of water below, we were suddenly caught in midair by the mouth of a mechanical creature that looked exactly like the one from My Life As Alien Monster Bait. I let out my breath, I started to relax, I told God I was probably still going to make those stupid jokes, when suddenly the mouth opened and we were once again

  “AUGH!”

  falling.

  This time, however, we landed in a giant hot-air balloon basket like the one from My Life As a Broken Bungee Cord. That was the good news. But, as we all know, for me there’s always some bad . . . Our roller-coaster car was too heavy and the entire balloon started falling toward the earth. Well, actually not the earth, more like a jungle river. No problem except for the giant reptiles that were swimming below waiting to turn us into crocodile junk food.

  Listen, God, I know I keep going back and forth about those jokes, but I really will quit making them if You’ll just—

  K-CHLINK

  That, of course, is the sound of a roller-coaster car landing safely on top of the head of a giant dinosaur skeleton (complete with giant dental floss hanging from its mouth). Whew, that was close.

  Where was I? Oh yeah. But God, they really can be funny, and her cooking really is awf— Unfortunately, my negotiations were interrupted by a couple more sound effects. Like the

  RATTLE, RATTLE, RATTLE

  sound of dinosaur bones falling all over a museum floor, and the sound of me

  “Augh!”

  screaming as we headed toward that same floor at a thousand miles an hour.

  I’ll save you the gory details. Let’s just say that the ride went on and on . . . and then on some more. Before I knew it, we had become torpedo test targets, then human hockey pucks, then bigfoot breath mints. It was awful, terrible, worse than Dad keeping the TV tuned to election night returns.

  Next, we became reindeer road kill (how that giant sled ran over us without leaving permanent skid marks is beyond me), then toasted time travelers (almost fun . . . except for the smoking hair), and polluted pond scum (which explains the mysterious slime dripping from the people when they exited the ride).

  I must say I especially appreciated the attention to wardrobe when we were blundering our way as ballerinas and screaming our lungs out as skydivers. And let’s not forget the educational elements while being consumed as afterthought astronauts and
human hairballs. Finally, what ride into McDoogle mayhem would be complete without becoming a mixed-up millennium bug that is squashed flatter than a walrus whoopee cushion?

  Yes, sir, it was all there. Every highlight (or is it lowlight?) you could imagine (and some you shouldn’t). And, as our car shot out of the giant head’s ear and came to a stop, I could only do what everyone else was doing—stare in numb astonishment as slime slowly ran down my face.

  How is it possible? How can one person possibly live through so much craziness? Even more puzzling, why would people actually pay money to experience such stuff (or read about it!)?

  Unfortunately, before I had time to figure out such questions (and maybe solve world hunger while I was at it), my friends, the screaming, hysterical masses, were once again crowding in for a little visit.

  “It’s him!” they cried as they raced at me. “It’s him! It’s him! It’s him!”

  I looked up from the ride and gasped. “It’s me! It’s me! It’s me! It’s me!”

  The best I figured there were roughly 1,793 of them swarming around the roller coaster. That means 1,793 people who’d all dyed their hair blond, who all wore black-framed glasses, and whose clothes were so dorky that even thrift stores refused to accept them. (Believe me, I’ve tried.)

  Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to be loved and adored. But I find it’s better to be loved and adored if you’re also able to live and breathe. And right now, neither of those two little pastimes seemed possible—not when 1,793 fans are squishing you to death!

  “ ,” I cried, “ !”

  That was supposed to be: “Mr. Slicko,” I cried, “help me!” But with no air, there were no words. And if I remembered my biology class correctly, no air also means no life.

  Now, I hate to complain or be a bad sport, but the last time I talked to my doctor he said dying could be hazardous to my health and that I should avoid it at any cost. Always being one to follow doctor’s orders, I did what anyone who hasn’t been able to breathe for the last two to three hours would do.

  I passed out.

  Well, not passed out, really. Just sort of stopped breathing. Which led my heart to sort of stop beating. Which led my life to sort of stop living.