Hook Shot Hero

by Matt Christopher

  “Me?” Tim squeaked. “You want me to be a mentor to a bunch of seven-year-olds?” He shook his head. “I don’t know, Dick. The only experience I have with little kids is my bratty sister, Tara. I’ve never babysat anyone before.”

  “It’s not babysitting,” Dick objected. “You teach the kids basic basketball skills, then lead them through a demonstration on Parent Pickup Day.”

  “So I’d be a coach?”

  Dick waggled his head from side to side. “Sort of, but there’s more to it. A mentor takes his mentees under his wing, really gets to know them, on and off the court. Teaching is a big part of it, though.”

  Tim shifted in his seat. “Say they don’t learn anything from me? What then?”

  Dick considered the question. “Have you ever been on a team with someone who didn’t like to play basketball?”

  Tim immediately thought of Billy. “Yeah. Every time he was on the court, he wanted to be somewhere else.”

  “Try to keep that in mind when you’re working with the kids,” Dick suggested. “Show them how much fun playing basketball can be. If they enjoy what they’re doing, they’ll want to continue doing it, and then I guarantee they’ll learn something—even if it’s just how to dribble without hitting their own feet! And don’t worry, you’ll still have plenty of time to work on your own skills, because the commitment is just an hour or two a day.” He smiled. “And here’s the best part: You have my permission to skip arts and crafts to do the program.”

  Tim had to laugh at that. Of all the camp activities, spending time in the arts and crafts center was his least favorite—as Dick apparently knew!

  “Okay,” he said at last. “I’ll do it. But Dick—why me?”

  Dick’s smile broadened. “Truthfully?” he said, standing up. “I hadn’t thought of asking you until this afternoon. Then I saw how you went out of your way to welcome Jordan, Sam, and Elijah. If you treat Red, Peter, and Keanu the same way, you’ll do great.”

  He handed Tim some paperwork about the program, including suggestions for simple drills and ways to deal with young children. He told Tim to read through it and then headed for his room.

  “Come to the outdoor courts tomorrow after breakfast,” he called just before he closed his door. “You and the other mentor will meet your kids then. And thanks again, Tim. You’re really doing me a big favor.”

  Tim waved and then set off for his own room. He was halfway there when he heard footsteps and laughter outside the front door of the cabin. Tim thought about waiting for the boys, but then he heard Mike Gruber’s voice.

  “Did you see his expression when I jammed him?” Mike boasted. “He was so terrified he didn’t shoot again all game!”

  Tim felt his face turn red. He hurried the rest of the way to his room, closing his door with a soft click. He settled down on his bunk to read through the papers Dick had given him. It had been a long day, though; the next thing he knew, it was morning, and Billy was calling his name.

  “Hey, Tim, you plan to sleep in your clothes every night?” Billy asked from the other bunk.

  Tim yawned. “Nah, it’s a onetime thing.” He told him about the mentoring program as he got dressed.

  “Huh, sounds pretty cool,” Billy said. “So who’s the other mentor from the Nest?”

  “I forgot to ask,” Tim confessed. “Gotta be someone decent, though, right?”

  “I don’t know about that,” Billy replied. “After all, you’re doing it!” He ducked out the door before the pillow Tim threw hit him in the face.

  As Tim finished dressing, he went through the list of Eagles Nest campers, trying to guess who might be the other mentor. Donnie would be great with little kids, he bet. Cue Ball’s jokes would keep everyone laughing. Or maybe Bobby Last?

  But of all the possibilities, the person he saw standing with Dick at the courts after breakfast that morning was the last one he would have picked!

  5

  Gruber! Are you kidding me? Tim thought with dismay. Every fiber in his body screamed for him to run in the opposite direction. But he didn’t. Dick was counting on him, and he wasn’t about to let him down, Mike Gruber or no Mike Gruber.

  Mike didn’t look all that pleased to see him, either. “Too bad Derek broke his leg,” he said. Maybe Mike really felt sorry for Derek, but Tim guessed there was a second, unspoken part to the comment: “Too bad Derek broke his leg—because now I’m stuck with you!”

  Dick cleared his throat. “You guys have two options for how to work with your kids. One, you can stick together and teach them in one big group. Or two, you can each take three and work with them separately.”

  “Separately,” Tim and Mike answered immediately and in unison.

  “Well, so long as you’re sure,” Dick said dryly. “Now help me lower the hoops a few feet.”

  “Lower the hoops? Why?” Mike asked.

  “These guys are a lot smaller than you,” Dick reminded him. “They won’t be able to reach the rim if we don’t drop it down.” He moved to the farthest hoop.

  Mike shot Tim a sideways glance and smirked. “Maybe you’ll be able to hit a few now yourself, huh, shrimp?” he taunted as he headed to another basket.

  Tim was fishing for a retort to fling back when Dick called, “Heads up! Here they come.”

  Six little boys walked toward them with a counselor. Introductions were made all around, and then the counselor left with a promise to return in an hour. Mike immediately took his three mentees to the far court. Dick departed soon after, leaving Tim alone with his three kids—and wishing he hadn’t fallen asleep before reading the papers Dick had given him. Maybe there was something in them that would have given him a clue on how to begin!

  “Uh, okay,” Tim said. “So which one of you guys is Red?”

  The smallest of the boys lifted his cap, exposing a thatch of bright orange hair.

  “Oh, right,” Tim said. He was a redhead, too, but his hair color was more copper than carrot. “And who’s Peter?”

  A chubby boy with glasses raised his hand.

  “That means you’re Keanu, right?” Tim said to the third boy, who, to his consternation, began flapping his arms.

  “I can fly,” Keanu cried, “because I have superpowers! Zoom!”

  Tim was trying to figure out what to say to that when a loud voice from the other end of the court interrupted his thoughts.

  “When I’m talking,” Mike was saying, “I expect you to listen! Not bounce balls! Not poke each other! You got it? Good! Now sit down.”

  The boys sat down, and Mike began describing a drill they were going to do. Tim eavesdropped for a moment. Mike sounded well prepared for the mentoring duties. And no wonder—he’d signed up for the program weeks ago, while Tim had been drafted for it just the night before.

  He racked his brain, trying to come up with something—anything—to get the boys moving. He arrived at the simplest idea.

  “Okay,” he boomed, “three laps around the court! And no slacking!”

  The three little boys looked at one another and then set off at a trot. But by the end of the second lap, they were all gasping so hard that Tim was afraid they’d pass out. So he told them to stop.

  “It’s so hot!” Red whined as he collapsed onto the grass. “I’m going to burst into flames!”

  “I’m hungry,” added Peter. “Isn’t it time for lunch yet?”

  Keanu was the only one who kept running. But as far as Tim could tell, he was back to pretending to be a superhero.

  Tim glanced toward the other end of the court. Mike’s kids were busy passing the ball back and forth, but Mike wasn’t watching them. He was watching Tim—and laughing.

  Tim’s face reddened. Then he turned to his boys. “Enough,” he said harshly. “You’ve got one lap left. Move it.” He stabbed a finger at them and then at the court.

  Red shrank back. Peter’s bottom lip trembled slightly. Keanu stopped in midzoom, his expression crestfallen. Then, one by one, they started jogging. />
  That’s better, Tim thought, hands on hips. Got to show them who’s boss around here.

  Yet as he followed their progress around the court, Dick’s suggestion to show them that basketball was fun came back to him.

  Okay, so they’re not having fun now, he thought. That doesn’t mean I can’t make it fun! He scratched his head, trying to figure out exactly how he could make drills enjoyable for seven-year-old boys.

  It was a question he didn’t find an answer to, at least not in the next hour. Those sixty minutes proved to be the longest in Tim’s life. Dribbling, passing, shooting—the boys did everything he told them to do. But they performed each task with so little enthusiasm that Tim felt like he was punishing them. He didn’t know who was more relieved when their counselor reappeared, him or them.

  “Good job, guys,” he said. He wasn’t really expecting a reply—but it still hurt when he didn’t get one.

  6

  Tim returned to the courts that afternoon for basketball practice with the other boys from the Eagles Nest. As he ran his warmup laps with the sun beating down on him, he found himself sympathizing with Red’s complaint about the heat.

  Too bad I can’t turn off the sun and turn on the cool, he thought, for me and for Red!

  After the laps, the players divided into two groups, guards in one, forwards and centers in the other. Tim was in Tito’s group with Mike, Sam, and Elijah.

  “We’re working on dribbling first, then outside shooting today,” Tito informed them as he placed sets of orange cones in two rows. He tossed them each a ball. “As guards, you have to be able to dribble with either hand, not just your dominant one. Let’s see what you can do.”

  He told them to form two lines at center court. “Dribble down to the hoop and back through the cones. Speed and control the whole way. Whenever I blow my whistle, switch hands. Ready? Go!”

  Tim was first in his line. At Tito’s command, he took off. He focused on keeping his dribble low, using his fingertips and wrist to move the ball—and not letting Mike, who was weaving through the other cones, get ahead of him. He succeeded at all three.

  Fweet! shrieked the whistle.

  Without missing a beat, Tim bounced the ball to his left hand. He’d only gone a few steps when—fweet!—Tito blew his whistle again. Again, Tim switched hands smoothly.

  Then, as he was turning around at the baseline, Tito gave another blast. Still turning, Tim fumbled the cross dribble. The ball hit a cone and rolled off the court. Red-faced, he dodged past Mike to retrieve it.

  “Watch it!” Mike growled.

  Tim’s face was still burning when he passed the ball to Sam, who was next in line. When all the boys had gone through the cones three times, Tito called them back together.

  “A few mistakes, but overall, pretty good,” Tito said. “There are plenty of drills to make your dribble even stronger. The figure eight, for example.”

  He got into a low stance with one leg forward. Dribbling just a few inches off the ground, he moved the ball in a half circle around his front foot, passed it between his legs to his other hand, and then dribbled it around the outside of his back foot before passing between his legs again. When complete, the ball’s path formed a figure eight.

  Tim had done the figure eight before, so he didn’t have any trouble with it. Mike didn’t, either, but Sam and Elijah needed some practice to get it right. When they succeeded, Tito moved on to the scissor dribble.

  With his feet shoulder-width apart and his right leg forward, he dribbled a few times and then bounced the ball between his legs. He caught it with his other hand and dribbled it to the front before sending between his legs again. He brought the ball even with his front leg and began the drill from the top.

  “Join in,” he called.

  Once everyone had a good rhythm going, he urged them to increase their speed. They kept at it for a full minute before he told them to stop.

  “How are your wrists and arms feeling?” he asked.

  “A little tired,” Elijah admitted. Tim and Sam nodded in agreement.

  “Whenever you get a chance, dribble against a wall,” Tito suggested. “Keeping the ball from falling will really build up your arm strength and stamina.”

  Tim had never heard of doing such a thing but decided it was worth a try.

  “Okay, one last activity,” Tito said. “Get a second ball and spread out along the center-court line.” When the boys were in position, Tito told them to begin dribbling both balls, one with each hand.

  “Keep them in sync until you reach the foul line,” he added. “Then alternate them so one is hitting the ground while the other is hitting your hand. Turn at the baseline and come back.”

  The drill was harder than it sounded.

  “Stay low!” Tito barked. “Eyes up, not on the ball! Control the dribbles!”

  Tim was breathing hard when Tito ended the double dribble drill and sent them to Jody to work on their shooting.

  “At yesterday’s game,” the counselor said, “Dick and I noticed that some of you didn’t take shots from outside the key, even when you were wide open.”

  Mike suddenly coughed “Tim!” into his hand. Jody frowned. Mike thumped his chest, cleared his throat a few times, and then nodded as if to say everything was fine.

  “An-y-way,” Jody continued, “pair off, one person on offense, the other on defense. Offense, dribble around, throw a few fakes, and then try for a shot. Defense, be annoying but don’t interfere too much. The point is to let your partner get comfortable taking shots while being guarded, not to block his every attempt.”

  Tim paired up with Sam and started on offense. Sam followed Jody’s instructions to the letter, allowing Tim to get off several shots. Some of them missed the basket, but others banked in softly. After a few minutes, they changed sides, and Sam had his turn to drop some through the hoop.

  Then Jody had them switch partners. Now Tim faced Mike. Dread bubbled up inside him. He wondered how long it would take for Mike to make him feel foolish.

  Not long, it turned out. On his first possession, Tim fake-pumped, hoping Mike would jump to block the ball, thus giving him a chance to go back up for the real shot.

  But he never got that shot off, because Mike punched the ball out of his hands in mid-fake!

  “Jeez, Daniels, hit the weight room already, will you?” Mike said in a mocking tone. “You’re so weak you can’t even hold the ball above your head!”

  7

  Tim was so angry he saw red before his eyes. He started toward Mike, hands balled into fists. But before he’d taken two steps, someone pulled him back. He spun around and found himself staring at Dick Dunbar.

  “Is there a problem here?” Dick asked quietly.

  Tim bit his lip. He wanted to tell Dick what Mike had done but realized he’d sound like a crybaby if he did. So instead, he shook his head and mumbled, “Just going to get the ball.”

  When he returned to the court, Dick beckoned him over to an empty court. He called Sam over, too.

  “Mike and Elijah are going to work with Jody, and I’ll work with you two,” he said. “You’ve done some one-on-one shooting, right? Let’s move on to two-on-one. You two bring the ball down, work it around the key, and try for a shot. I’ll play defense and try to stop you. Okay?”

  Anything to get me away from Mike, Tim felt like replying. But he just nodded and moved to the center line with Sam.

  Sam had the ball first. He took a few dribbles and passed to Tim. Dick leaped forward and covered him. Tim dribbled to his right. Dick matched him step for step. Tim tried to shake him off by speeding up, then stopping quickly, bouncing the ball between his legs, picking it up on his other side, and then changing direction.

  Dick wasn’t fooled, though, so Tim sent the ball to Sam. Sam was in good shooting position, so he turned and lofted the ball toward the hoop. It touched the backboard and dropped through the net.

  “Well done!” Dick praised. “Go again.” Tim and Sam hustled b
ack to center court. Before they began, Tim whispered, “How about the ol’ give-and-go?”

  Sam nodded. “I shot last time, so this time, give it to me, and then go so I can give it back!”

  Tim flashed him a thumbs-up, and the two started downcourt with Tim in control of the ball. Dick came out to challenge. Tim bounced the ball to Sam, assuming that Dick would follow the ball and give him an open lane to the hoop. All Sam had to do was pass back to him and—bloop!—Tim would put in an easy layup.

  Unfortunately, Dick didn’t do what Tim expected him to. As Tim charged forward, Dick fell back to protect the basket. Tim barreled into him at full speed, waist high—and knocked the lanky center’s legs right out from under him!

  Dick crash-landed on his side. He rolled over with a groan, cradling his elbow, as Jody, Tito, and the Eagles rushed over. Tim backed away, his eyes wide with horror.

  “Can you straighten your arm?” Jody asked.

  Dick tried but only moved it a little before grimacing and shaking his head. “I think I better go to the infirmary,” he said, his voice tight with pain. He looked around and found Tim. “Daniels, can you lend me a hand getting there?”

  Jody frowned. “I think Tito or I should—”

  “Tim got hit hard, too,” Dick interjected. “I want him to get checked out.”

  Jody helped him to his feet. “He’s all yours, Tim. Make sure he gets there in one piece.”

  Tim nodded dumbly. Then he and Dick headed to the infirmary. It was slow going and silent except for the occasional grunt of pain from Dick. They had almost reached their destination when Dick paused.

  “I don’t really think you’re hurt,” he said. “I wanted you to come with me so I could tell you I don’t blame you for what happened. It was an accident. Basketball is a contact sport, no matter what anyone tells you. I’ve been injured before—and a lot worse than this!”

  “But what if it’s really bad?” Tim whispered. “Like, bad enough to end your career before it’s even begun?”