Rookie of the Year

by Phil Bildner

  I knew what pushing the envelope meant. It’s when you keep putting more and more dirty clothes on your bedroom floor because your mom hasn’t threatened to take away your Wi-Fi password.

  I wasn’t sure about an idiom. A type of expression?

  “We’re going to head outside to the amphitheater in a few for T3,” Mr. Acevedo said, hopping to his feet. “But before we do, we need to take a break. We’ve been sitting for way too long. Let’s take ten. Stretch your legs, jump around, dance with someone, do whatever. Then we’ll go out.”

  Read Aloud

  The class sat huddled close together on the top two benches of the Amp. It was definitely the coldest day of the fall so far, and everyone either had their hoodies up, their hands dug deeply into their pockets, or both. I sat next to Red. Diego was on the other side of him.

  Mr. Acevedo was the only one not sitting. He walked back and forth along a middle bench as he read from the picture book.

  “November is picture-book month in Room 208,” Mr. Acevedo had announced last Friday at CC. “From now until Thanksgiving, I’ll be reading you at least a picture book a day.”

  Each day before T3, he wrote the same sentence on the board:

  That’s the banner that’s been scrolling across the top of the class webpage all month.

  Mr. Acevedo read all different kinds of picture books—funny ones, biographies, historical fiction, even wordless picture books. Yeah, you can read a wordless picture book out loud. At least Mr. Acevedo can. So far, the one with the boy drawing pictures of animals on his sketchpad was my fave.

  Mr. Acevedo started T3 today by reading a nonfiction book about this famous mathematician who never really fit in and ended up traveling all over the world. It reminded me of the Albert Einstein book he read to us last week.

  Right now, Mr. Acevedo was reading Rooting for You by Susan Hood. He said it was one of his favorite picture books, but Mr. Acevedo says that about a lot of picture books. It’s about this little seed that’s scared to grow from the ground and deal with the world, but I’m pretty certain it’s not just about a seed.

  I don’t think little kids get all the things in picture books, and I’m beginning to think that’s how it’s supposed to be. Like Mr. Acevedo says …

  U r never 2 old 4 picture books.

  Rookie of the Year

  At Saturday morning practice, Coach Acevedo had us running from the first whistle.

  Tweet! Tweet!

  “Everyone on the baseline! Let’s go! Up-and-backs!”

  But this time, we dribbled as we ran. Going hard up with the right hand. Going hard back with the left.

  Of course, I was in total basketball mode, but I was also in friendly trash-talking mode, and since I was running next to Red, he was on the receiving end.

  “You can’t keep up with me, Daniels,” I said as we waited for the next whistle. “Why do you even bother to run?”

  “We’ll see,” Red said, smiling.

  “We’ll see?” I laughed mockingly. “That’s all you got for me? I’m going to lap you this time, Daniels.”

  Red shook his fists by his cheeks. “One time … one time, Mason Irving, you’re going to trip and fall, and when you do … when you do, I’m going to step on you. Crush you like a cockroach!”

  Tweet! Tweet!

  I charged out to a lead. “You’re too slow!” I said.

  “Keep talking,” Red said.

  I raced around the first cone and passed Red going in the opposite direction. “You’re never going to catch me!” I said. “I may lap you, Daniels!”

  But Red was keeping things a lot closer than I thought he would. He knew it, too, which explained his basketball smile. I loved seeing Red having this much fun, having this much fun with me on a basketball court.

  “Wait until we play Xbox later,” Red said after the set. “I’m going to beat you in Horse. Like I always do, Mason Irving!”

  “Video games?” I laughed and swatted the air. “That’s the best you got, Daniels?”

  Red hopped from foot to foot. “I always beat you in Horse.”

  “You’re comparing this to video games? You’re seriously buggin’ if—”

  Tweet! Tweet!

  “And they’re off!” I play-by-played the next set. “Red dribbles out to a surprising early lead, but will he be able to hold off Irving once he starts dribbling with his left?”

  I sped up, executed a Rip Hamilton–like change of direction at midcourt, and blew by him.

  “Irving takes the lead!” I announced. “Oh, Red’s in trouble now! Irving is toying with him. A man competing against a boy, a wizard against a muggle. What a dominant performance by Clifton United’s all-world, starting point guard.”

  When Red reached the baseline, I was waiting with my hand on a hip, tapping my foot. “Who’s your daddy?” I said.

  Red laughed. “You’re Clifton United’s up-and-back running machine!”

  “Handshake?”

  “Oh, yeah, Mason Irving!”

  For the first time, we busted out our new handshake at basketball.

  “Roll left,” we chanted. “Roll right. Slap right, slap left.” We jumped, bumped hips, and on the landing shouted, “Boo-yah!”

  * * *

  “Let’s circle up, Clifton United,” Coach Acevedo said.

  We huddled near midcourt.

  “Time to shift gears. Time for a contact drill.” He pointed his whistle at Red. “You’re with me.”

  Red hustled over next to him.

  “For those of you new to Clifton United,” Coach Acevedo said, “this is the only time I’m going to address this. Red over here doesn’t like physical contact.” He placed his arm around Red’s shoulder.

  Red tensed but didn’t squirm away. A few weeks ago, he would have. A few months ago, he would have bugged.

  “So Red doesn’t participate in contact drills,” Coach Acevedo said. “Or, I should say, Red participates differently because he will participate in this next drill.” He drew a circle in the air with his finger. “Everyone contributes.”

  “Red is Clifton United’s free-throw-shooting machine!” Tiki blurted. She hopped from foot to foot like Red.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Thanks, Tiki,” Coach Acevedo said. “Now, enough with all this talking. Let’s get poppin’. Two lines underneath the basket.”

  We raced over. I was first in one line. Tiki was first in the other.

  “This is an excellent drill for finishing strong around the basket and playing through contact,” Coach Acevedo said. “Here’s how it works: Two people lie down on their stomachs under the baskets. Red over here is my shooter.”

  “I’m the shooter.” Red patted his chest. “Thanks, Coach Acevedo.”

  “Red, you start out on the wing by the three-point line and dribble around. After a few seconds, take a shot.” He pointed his whistle at the rest of us. “As soon as that ball leaves his hand, everyone yells, ‘Shot!’ On three, let’s give it a whirl. One, two, three…”

  “Shot!”

  “That’s what we want to hear all season. Every time an opposing player takes a shot, we’re yelling ‘shot.’ It helps keep everyone involved and focused.”

  “That’s what you wrote on the website,” Tiki said. She held up her arms and pushed out her hip.

  “That’s exactly what I wrote, Tiki. I’m glad you took the time to read my post.” Coach Acevedo pointed his index fingers at Tiki and me. “My two point guards, you’re my first victims. On the floor. When your teammates say ‘shot,’ that’s your cue. You’re on your feet. Battle for the board, battle for the basket. You go until one of you makes a layup. Whatever it takes.”

  “Whatever it takes?” I shook out my hair.

  “I’m not calling fouls.” Coach Acevedo twirled his whistle. “But let’s not get too crazy. No tripping, elbowing, drop-kicking, or undercutting.”

  I shook my tingling hands and feet, took a few quick breaths, and dropped to the floor. Then I
looked at Tiki. I half expected her to be flailing around like a goldfish out of its bowl or lying on her back instead of her stomach, pretending to make snow angels. But she wasn’t. She was on the ground in ready position.

  Tweet! Tweet!

  Red began to dribble. His smile grew as he swung around the top of the key to the far side of the court.

  “Any day now, Red,” Coach Acevedo said. “Take that shot.”

  He took the three-pointer.

  “Shot!”

  I sprang to my feet and tracked the ball. Red’s shot was only going to graze the front rim. I shoulder-bumped Tiki toward the baseline and widened my stance. But instead of jumping for the ball, I turned my hip so that Tiki couldn’t get around me. I caught the rock, dribbled once to my right, and shot the off-balance baby jumper.

  “Boo-yah!” I hammer-fisted the air as the ball dropped through the hoop.

  “Well done, Rip.” Coach Acevedo slide-stepped over and gave me a pound. “Love the energy, love the intensity.”

  I couldn’t have hidden my smile if I tried.

  “Same two,” Coach Acevedo said. He pointed Tiki and me back to the floor. “Run it again.”

  We dropped to our stomachs.

  “I’m Rookie of the Year,” Tiki said.

  “What?”

  “Rookie of the Year. I’m Clifton United’s Rookie of the Year.” She winked and cracked her gum. “Neat-o, right?”

  Tweet! Tweet!

  This time, Red shot the ball as soon as Coach Acevedo blew the whistle.

  “Shot!”

  “Irving leaps to his feet,” I play-by-played in my head. “The shot clips the bottom of the backboard, and Tiki reaches the ball first. Oh! Irving chops it out of her hands … The ball’s loose. Irving’s got it. He lowers his shoulder and checks Tiki to the side. Coach Acevedo’s really letting these two play. Irving dribbles toward the hoop and goes up for the layup. Oh! Tiki ties him up. Irving muscles up another shot…”

  Swish!

  “Boss!” I grunt-shouted. I pounded my chest and flexed like a defensive back after a sack, not that I looked anything like a defensive back. “I’m a basketball boss!”

  “Great work, Rip,” Coach Acevedo said. “The Gnat is back!”

  Gnat.

  Coach Acevedo called me Gnat. That’s what the other teams called me when I played third-grade select because when I played defense, I was annoying. Like a gnat.

  “One more time, you two.” Coach Acevedo pointed to the court again. “Go hard.”

  A second later, I was back on the floor next to Tiki.

  “This is superific fun,” she said, touching my wrist.

  I pulled it away.

  “I just love how hard you’re trying.” She cracked her gum again. “If I didn’t know any better, I would think you were trying to start a fight.”

  I glared.

  “I really am going to win Rookie of the Year,” she said, “don’t you think?”

  Was she trying to get inside my head? Was this her weird way of trash-talking? If it was, it wasn’t working. It was just weird.

  “Okay, Tiki,” I mumbled.

  “Okay, what?” She snort-laughed. “Zwibble.”

  “What?”

  She flexed her eyebrows. “That’s my fave-a-fave word, remember?”

  I let out a puff. It was time to teach the Rookie of the Year she wasn’t the Most Valuable Player.

  Tweet! Tweet!

  Once again, Red put up his shot right away.

  “Shot!”

  We both jumped up. This time, Tiki went right at me and boxed me out as the ball hit the back iron and popped straight into the air. She was in perfect position for the rebound, but as soon as she leaped for it, I shoved her in the back. She still caught the ball, but not in position for a layup.

  “Now what?” I said, shoving her again.

  She dribbled right but then spun left and blew past me.

  “Ooh!” a few kids shouted.

  She had an open look. She was going to score. She flipped up the shot. The ball danced along the lip of the rim …

  Somehow, it didn’t go in.

  “Oh!” kids shouted.

  We both leaped for the rebound. This time, I grabbed it. I put the ball on the floor, went left, and then Rip Hamilton–like changed direction. But Tiki stayed with me. Using my shoulder and elbow, I bodied her away so I could put up a layup.

  It went in.

  “Boo-yah!” I hammer-fisted the air. “Mason Irving, MVP!”

  Working Me

  “Honey, I really need you to sit still,” Mom said.

  I was trying to, but I was only wearing thin shorts, and the MacBook on my lap had gone from warm to dag-this-is-getting-really-hot.

  We were in the basement watching the Chargers and the Broncos. I was on the floor, Mom was on the couch behind me. She was relocking my hair. She hadn’t in several weeks, and she was tired of picking out the lint and telling me it looked ratty.

  I was tired of it, too.

  I reached for her phone on the sofa cushion.

  “How many screens do you need?” she said.

  “You’re the one who asked me about the Eagles game.”

  “There’s a computer in your lap.”

  “I’m looking at something.”

  “Honey, all you’re doing is refreshing the same page.”

  I was on the Clifton United webpage. Coach Acevedo was posting the schedule this evening, and I couldn’t wait to see who we were playing.

  I checked the phone. “Thirty-four carries, a hundred seventy-two yards, and two touchdowns,” I said, reading the screen. “That’s a day.”

  “My running back?”

  I showed her the display. “Your running back.”

  “Go, Eagles!”

  Mom plays fantasy football with the teachers from her school. Practically all the players on her team are Philadelphia Eagles. Mom loves the Eagles. She knows that team the same way Red knows the NBA.

  “Your hair is so brittle,” she said, grabbing the sides of my head and turning it forward.

  “This is where you tell me I’m not moisturizing my scalp enough.”

  She popped my ear.

  “Ow!”

  “Oh, please, Rip. That didn’t hurt. If I wanted that to hurt, you would know.”

  I checked her phone again. “How much longer?” I asked.

  “As long as it takes.” She pulled the phone from my hand and placed it out of my reach. “If you’re going to wear your hair like this, you’re not leaving this house looking—”

  “Tiki can ball,” I interrupted.

  “You working me now?” She leaned forward and turned my face her way.

  “No.”

  “Out of nowhere you start talking about Tiki?”

  “She’s lefty. I’ve never played with a lefty before. That’s going to mess with the other teams.”

  “How so?”

  “Practically every kid goes right. On D, everyone gives kids the left without even realizing it. Tiki’s going to blow by everyone.”

  “I’m glad to see you’re giving her a chance.”

  “See how responsible and mature I am?”

  “Now I know you’re working me.” She popped my ear again.

  “Ow!” I ducked.

  “Hold still.” She pulled my head closer and stretched a lock above my neck. “You turned in all your forms?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  I looked over at the phone, but Mom pressed her hand to my cheek and faced me forward again.

  “Do you think they’ll ever change the cell-phone policy at RJE?” I asked.

  “Not while you’re a student there, unfortunately.”

  “It’s stupid.”

  “It’s an unfortunate situation. Don’t get me started.”

  Actually, that’s exactly what I wanted. We hadn’t talked about the cell-phone policy in a while, and I needed to know she still fel
t the same way.

  I was part of Operation Food Fight. Avery and Diego had convinced me to go along with it, and Mr. Acevedo had given us permission. Well, sort of. To be honest, I still didn’t think it was the best idea, and I couldn’t stand that Tiki was involved, but Operation Food Fight wasn’t about Tiki. It was about the Lunch Bunch. We wanted the Lunch Bunch back.

  “What those kids did last year, posting those pictures and videos, was awful,” she said. “And once they started making all those comments, it took things to a whole other level. The parent reaction was completely understandable. But you don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater.”

  I knew what that meant. Mom always used that expression when she talked about the district ban on cell phones and the end of the BYOD program in the elementary schools.

  Mom’s fingers moved to another lock. “You don’t punish everyone when a few kids mess up,” she said. “It sends the wrong message. And you definitely don’t take away a valuable teaching tool. At my school, we have strict rules and guidelines for— Rip, I told you not to get me started!”

  “Sorry.”

  Even though I wasn’t.

  “I feel bad for the next kids who pull a stunt like that.” She chuckled. “And I feel even worse for their parents. That’s not going to be a pleasant situation.”

  I swallowed.

  “Honey, if you ever get caught doing something stupid, I hope you have the good sense to admit it, particularly if—”

  “The schedule!” I turned from Mom’s hands and tilted the computer screen. “No way!”

  “Lean back, Rip. I’m almost done.”

  “I don’t believe this,” I said.

  “What don’t you believe?” She grabbed my collar and pulled me back.

  “This has to be a mistake. We play Millwood again.”

  “Millwood? I thought you were playing all new teams.”

  “I thought so, too.”

  “It’s still an eight-game season?”

  “Uh-huh … I mean, yes.” I read the schedule. “We open at home against Harrison a week from Tuesday. Then we play Bartlett, Fairlawn, Thorton Ridge, Walker, Yeager, and Cypress Village. Then Millwood. All new teams, except for Millwood.”