by Phil Bildner
“Let’s go, second unit.” Coach Acevedo waved us up.
Wil, Maya, Chris, Jeffrey, and I headed onto the court.
“Let’s go, Bench Mob.” Tiki kindergarten-clapped as she bounded off.
“Bench Mob!” Coach Acevedo said, smiling. “Nice! I like that.” He pointed the second team in. “Let’s go, Bench Mob!”
“Let’s go, Bench Mob.” Red waved his towel.
I grabbed the locks above my neck. Fart-boy Rip was now head of the Bench Mob.
“Way to be our floor leader, Tiki,” Coach Acevedo said. “Way to be our Rookie of the Year.”
I kicked at the court.
Mission #2
Team Operation Food Fight was in position: Red was sitting at the booth, Tiki was standing by the middle garbage cans, Diego was at the back of the line, and Avery and I were a couple kids away from the entrance to the service area.
Mission two was under way.
“This line is taking forever,” Avery said.
“You’d think it would move faster because there’s no choice today,” I said.
“Exactly. Everyone’s getting the same friggin’ meal. These lunch ladies have no idea what they’re doing.”
Today was the Thanksgiving lunch—honey-roasted turkey, golden yams, seasoned mashed potatoes, traditional holiday stuffing, and pumpkin pie. Whether or not the foods that ended up on our trays resembled anything close to those items remained to be seen.
I checked the lunch-duty teachers. Ms. Dunwoody sat with her first graders, just like she had during the first mission. I still didn’t know the name of the teacher by the door to the gym. She taught third grade. She never spoke to the fifth graders. We thought she was scared of us.
I stepped into the service area. “We need to be talking,” I said.
“What do you want to talk about?” Avery asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Fine.” She knocked my leg with her armrest. “We’ll talk about the lunch ladies. I made up names for them.”
“What?”
“I made up nicknames for the lunch ladies.” Avery nodded to the lunch lady serving the food. “That’s Donatella.”
“Not here,” I said through my teeth.
“For the last mission,” she said, “she wore a purple—”
“Not here,” I said, cutting her off.
“Relax, dude. We’re just talking. Last time, she wore a purple sweatshirt under her uniform. I noticed it as I was going through the footage. The purple reminded me of Donatello. Like Ninja Turtle Donatello. So I call her Donatella.” She pointed to the lunch lady by the register. “She’s Bunion.”
“Stop, Avery.” I was next in line. “Talk about something else.”
“Fine. Let’s talk about the Bench Mob.”
“How do you know about that?”
“Dude, I’m a Clifton United fan.” She tapped the inside of her wrist and smiled. “I have my finger on the pulse of the team.”
I let out a puff.
“You’re 2–0,” she said. “You should be happy.”
“I am happy,” I muttered.
“Tiki’s a beast out there. Fifteen points the first game, twelve points yesterday. Did you have any idea she was this good?”
“The other teams don’t know about our press yet. We’ll see what happens when word gets out.”
“They don’t know about Tiki!”
I looked from Avery to the lunch lady and back to Avery. “Does anyone else know you came up with these nicknames?”
“Not yet.”
The lunch lady tapped her plastic spoon against the side of the Plexiglas. “What’s it going to be, young man?” she asked.
“I think I’ll—”
“I’ll make it easy for you,” she cut me off.
She dropped a clump of mashed potatoes into one corner of the tray and a scoop of stuffing into another. She then plopped some yams beside the stuffing.
“Thank you,” I said. I grabbed my prewrapped slice of pumpkin pie and headed for the register line.
“Donatella was pleasant,” Avery said, rolling up next to me. “Let’s see how Bunion is.”
I checked the lunch lady by the register. “Why do you call her that?”
“Because she wears her hair up in a bun.”
I motioned to the two lunch ladies in the back. “What are their names?”
“Over by the sink, we have Tarantula. Something about the way she moves her arms makes me think of one. And over by the fridge, we have Ratio, which I do admit is a lame name.” She snapped her fingers. “Maybe if I go behind the counter and get a closer look at her, I’ll come up with a better one.”
“Not funny, Avery.”
“We’ll have footage from all different angles.” She wheeled past me. “We’ll even have shots of the inside of the refrigerator.”
“Avery, wait!”
She rolled up to Bunion, hockey-stopped beside her, and turned for the opening into the kitchen …
… and nearly ran into Principal Darling.
“Slow down, Speed Racer!” Principal Darling said. She grabbed both armrests. “You almost ran me down.”
“That was close!” Avery said.
“A little too close, Avery.” Principal Darling shook her head. “Obey the traffic laws. No accidents, please.”
“No accidents,” Avery said.
Tarantula handed Principal Darling an already prepared holiday meal, and Principal Darling headed off.
“Yikes,” Avery said, grinning.
I grabbed the back of my neck and squeezed. “I’m buggin’ out over here.”
“Relax, dude.”
“If they’d caught you back there—”
“I would’ve talked my way out of it in a second.” She bumped my leg again. “I’m the girl in the wheelchair, remember?”
“Don’t go back there, Avery.” I brushed the locks from my forehead. “It’s too risky.”
“Time to go through the line with Diego.”
“Don’t go back there.” I stepped into her path. “Promise me you won’t when you go through with Diego.”
She nodded.
“No, promise me you won’t. You have to say it.”
“I promise I won’t go back there when I go through with Diego.”
Where I Read
I looked back at the hoop above my closet and shifted my already extended arm a little to the right. I rolled the Nerf out to my fingertips and tap-turned the ball until the seam was in line with my knuckles. Then I took the no-look, over-the-shoulder, from-halfway-across-my-bedroom bank shot.
Swish.
I scooped up the ball and plopped back down in front of my notebook.
“Keep up with your Where I Read work this weekend,” Mr. Acevedo had said at CC on Friday. “It’s the only homework you’re getting from me, and I really don’t even consider it homework. It’s going to help us down the road.”
I didn’t keep up with it. Yeah, I read over the weekend. I always read. But I didn’t write down where I did the reading. I saved that part until Sunday night. Mom said I couldn’t watch football or have the Wi-Fi password until I did it.
I grabbed my purple teddy from my bed and popped to my feet. With my bare toes, I gripped the Nerf and flipped it up. I caught it with my left hand and tossed it right back into the air, and then, using the bear’s belly, I hit the ball toward the hoop.
Swish.
“Bang!”
I never missed the purple teddy belly shot.
I scrambled after the ball and then dove back to my notebook.
Basement
Car
Kitchen table
Bed
Hood
“Rip to his feet,” I muttered as I jumped up again. “He sizes up his man. Looks for an opening. He jukes right, crosses to his left, drives down the lane, the running one-hander with his left …
“… Boo-yah!”
Road Test
Before the start of our f
irst away game at Fairlawn, Coach Acevedo flipped the ball to Red. “Go do your thing,” he said.
Like Red did at our first two home games, he dribbled out to the foul line and took his underhanded free throw.
Swish.
“Bam!” Red pinched his number twenty-four. “Three for three!”
He scooped up the ball and raced back to the bench. I double high-fived him first, and then we rolled our arms right into our handshake.
“Boo-yah!” we shouted as we landed.
“Three for three.” Red hopped from foot to foot as he slapped hands and gave pounds all around. “I made the foul shot before the game against Harrison. I made the foul shot before the game against Bartlett. I made the foul shot before the game against Fairlawn.”
“Now Clifton United needs to make it three for three,” I said.
“Oh, yeah, Mason Irving. Oh, yeah.”
I rubbed Red’s hair. Just like I did the other day. And like the other day, I got in a good rub before he ducked.
He smiled the whole time.
I checked the gym. The court was our real opponent today. It was middle school–sized, much bigger than the one we were used to practicing and playing on at RJE. We would have to cover a lot more ground on our press.
I needed to be out there. The Gnat needed to be out there playing suffocating defense. Coach Acevedo had to know that. He had to play me. If he didn’t play me today …
“Let’s circle up,” Coach Acevedo said. “Time for our road test.” He waited until everyone was standing on the word VISITORS in front of our bench. “We all know the deal. We have back-to-back games this week before the Thanksgiving break, but we take these games one at a time.”
“One game at a time, one possession at a time,” Tiki said.
“Exactly,” Coach Acevedo said. “That’s how we’re going to beat these guys.”
I looked over at the Fairlawn bench.
The players all stood around the word FALCONS written in red on the gym floor. The red matched the trim, letters, and numbers on their uniforms, full uniforms—jerseys, shorts, and socks. A group of Fairlawn parents sat directly behind the bench. One mom was wrapping orange slices in paper towels.
We only had two fans today. Mehdi’s dad, of course. And Chris’s mom.
“We’re playing on a big court,” Coach Acevedo said, “but that’s going to affect them more than it affects us. We’re ready for this. This is where all our conditioning pays dividends, and if you don’t know what dividends means, look it up when you get home.”
I’m pretty sure I knew what dividends meant, but at the moment, I didn’t care.
“It’s time for Clifton United’s press-tacular press!” Tiki raised an arm and pushed her hip out to the side.
“Press-tacular!” Coach Acevedo smiled. “I like that.” He patted his iPad. “Even if they’re ready for our press, they’ve never had to face it in a real game. That means they’re reacting to us. That means we’re setting the tone. We come out strong. We beat them early.”
I clenched my fists. I needed to be out there. Clifton United needed me out there.
* * *
“Tiki with the smothering defense,” I play-by-played. “She’s got her man tied up … and the ball’s loose. It’s picked up by another Falcon player … Oh, stolen by Dylan. Dylan’s got the ball. He hands off to—”
Tweet! Tweet!
“We’ve got a reach-in foul on number eleven on red,” the ref called. He patted his arm where the Falcon player had smacked Dylan. “Blue ball on the side.”
I didn’t want to do the play-by-play, but Red insisted, and I knew he wouldn’t stop bugging me until I did. Once I started, Clifton United went on a run, so I couldn’t stop.
“Six minutes gone and Clifton United leads 7–4. What once was a four-point deficit is now a three-point lead. That press of theirs is really causing problems for the Falcons. Keith is set for the inbounds on the near side…”
“Ref, let me get a time-out,” Coach Acevedo said.
Tweet! Tweet!
“Time-out, blue!” the ref announced.
“Let’s go, Bench Mob,” Coach Acevedo said. He pointed my way. “We’re switching things up.”
I bolted over. Not what I was expecting. Not in a gazillion years. But I was ready. I was so ready.
“Let’s do this, Bench Mob!” Keith topped fists with Maya.
“This is all you, Rip.” Dylan forearmed my chest.
I pumped both fists and pivoted into Tiki.
She gave me double pounds.
I pulled back my hands. I didn’t mean to give her pounds.
“I don’t want you to like me just because I’m good at basketball,” Tiki said.
“What?”
“I don’t want you to start liking me because of basketball.” She blew a bubble. “Some kids are like that, you know.”
“No.” I swallowed.
“Yes.” She snort-laughed. “Zwibble.” She tapped my wrist.
I yanked it away.
“I just gave you my good-luck touch,” she said. “I touched you with my fave-a-fave word.”
“You’re so weird, Tiki.”
Coach Acevedo rapped his iPad. “Let’s go, Bench Mob,” he said. “Same intensity, same energy. No letdown.”
“No letdown, Mason Irving.” Red held out his fist.
“Letdown?” I gave him a hard pound and spun to my teammates. “The Bench Mob is about to show the first unit how it’s done!”
* * *
I took the inbounds from Maya and lofted a pass to Chris down low. He was already facing the basket when he caught the ball. He dropped the easy deuce.
9–4.
The Falcons inbounded the ball to my man. Well, they tried to. It never reached him. I leaped around him, caught the rock, and before landing, touch-passed the ball back to Chris. Another easy deuce.
11–4.
“Way to set the tone, Rip.” Coach Acevedo clapped.
“Bench Mob!” cheered Clifton United from the sidelines. “Bench Mob!”
The inbounds went to my man again. This time, he caught it, but as soon as he did, I stripped it away. The ball bounced off his shin and out of bounds.
Tweet! Tweet!
The ref patted his leg and pointed. “Off red, blue ball!”
I brushed the locks off my forehead and checked the bench. Red, Max, Emily, Keith, Jason, Dylan, Mehdi, and Tiki were all standing and cheering.
Maya passed the ball in to me. I dribbled toward the top of the key and sized up my man. For less than a nanosecond, his eyes danced. I broke to the hoop with my bedroom move. I dribbled right, crossed to my left, drove down the lane, and put up a running one-hander.
Swish!
13–4.
“Boo-yah!” I hammer-fisted the air.
Time-out, Fairlawn.
* * *
The Bench Mob played the rest of the half. Then we started the second half. When the first unit finally came back in with nine minutes to go, Clifton United led 30–13.
Garbage time.
I finished with eight points, five steals, five assists, and two rebounds.
Clifton United was 3–0.
Perked Up
“My shot was on today,” I said.
“Four for five from the floor, Mason Irving,” Red said, rotating his finger around the cup holder in the middle armrest. “A jumper from the corner, a jumper from the elbow, a layup, and a layup.”
We were in the backseat of my mom’s car. I was on the driver’s side, Red the passenger’s side. Like we always sat. Heading home from ball, we’d stopped at Perky’s—the overpriced coffee shop Mom always complains about, but goes to anyway—and while she dipped inside, we waited in the car.
“Did you see that crossover I had?” I asked.
“That was awesome!”
“I looked like Iverson.” I waved my hands back and forth in front of my knees like I was dribbling. “That kid I blew by is still looking for his tigh
ty-whities.”
Red laughed. “Your crossover’s as good as Takara Eid’s.”
I gave him a look. “Why’d you bring her up?”
“Takara Eid’s on Clifton United, Mason Irving.”
I let out a puff. Through the storefront windows, I could see Mom standing in front of the glass counter with all the muffins and doughnuts. Mom almost never went to Perky’s in the evening, but she said she needed coffee tonight if she had any hopes of finishing the paperwork she wanted to get out of the way before Thanksgiving weekend.
“When was the last time you had coffee?” I asked.
“I don’t like coffee,” Red said. “Do you?”
“Only with tons of sugar.” I’d taken off my sneakers and socks when we got in the car, and with my bare toes, I opened and closed the air vents. “Whenever I drink it, my mom always says, ‘Have some coffee with your sugar.’”
“Have some coffee with your sugar,” Red said. “That’s a good one, Mason Irving.”
Inside, Mom was talking to Dana. Dana was the other reason we’d stop at Perky’s. She was an assistant principal at a different school in my mom’s district. She liked to bring her laptop and work at the back tables at Perky’s. She called it her second office. Dana and Mom had been hanging out a lot these past few weeks.
“Did you see my touch pass to Chris?” I said. “And what about that dime to Maya to start the second half?”
“What about that steal you had when you knocked the ball off that kid’s leg?”
“Clifton United’s defense was suffocating!” I pounded the armrest. “Suffocating. They couldn’t even get the ball in.” I faced Red. “Coach Acevedo’s definitely going to play me more, right, Red?”
“Definitely, Mason Irving.”
Yeah, Coach Acevedo had to play me more. He had to.
Odd Man Out
Twenty-two hours and fifteen minutes later …
I couldn’t wait to set foot on the floor at Thorton Ridge Elementary. After the clinic I put on yesterday at Fairlawn, I was itching to get right back on the court and do it all over again.
What a court!
This was no ordinary elementary school gym. Thorton Ridge had a full athletic center, a separate building behind the school. The basketball court had parquet floors, real benches, four rows of bleachers on each side, and an LED scoreboard with advertisements.
