by Phil Bildner
“Not this time!” he shouted, smacking his clipboard and stalking the sidelines while the Millwood players shot around. “No way, no how! Not in our house!”
I clenched my fist and pounded the floor. No way, no how were we losing this game.
* * *
“You ready?” I asked.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Red said.
He stepped onto the court for his pregame free throw, and as soon as he did, the boos came loud and fast. Of course they did. The last time Red had stepped to the line against Millwood, he’d ended their season. But the boos didn’t even faze him. Dribbling across the floor, Red kept on smiling his basketball smile.
You got this, Red. You got this.
But when he reached the top of the key, he stopped. Slowly, he turned in a circle. As he did, his smile grew even wider, and the boos grew louder. When he faced our bench, where the entire team was standing hand in hand, he waved.
I let go of Mehdi’s hand and thumped my chest.
You got this, Red. Seven for seven. You got this.
Red stepped to the line and trapped the basketball soccer-style under his left foot. He pressed his earplugs deeper into his ears and took several breaths. Then he picked up the ball, squared his shoulders, and looked at the front rim. He dribbled three times—low, hard dribbles—and stood back up. He spun the ball until his fingers were on the right panel, looked at the rim again, extended his arms, and shot the ball.
Underhanded.
Swish!
* * *
“Let’s circle up,” I said to Mehdi, Jason, Dylan, and Keith. We put our arms around one another near center court. “We’re playing our game today. We’re calling the shots.”
“This may be their court,” Keith said, “but today it’s our court.”
I glanced over at the Millwood players lining up on the circle. I recognized most of them from the last time we played. Mega-Man was jumping center again, Super-Size was pacing by the foul line, and their point guard was already swinging his elbows and looking my way.
Keep looking, Elbows.
“Clifton United goes thirteen deep.” I patted the number three on my jersey. “Everyone contributes.”
“Let’s do this for Tiki,” Jason said.
“Let’s do it for the Rookie of the Year.” Dylan thumped his chest.
I looked around the huddle and made eye contact with everyone. “Every little thing we do on this court matters.” I put my hand in the middle. Everyone placed theirs on mine. “On three, team. One, two, three…”
“Team!”
* * *
On our first possession, Keith sank a jumper from the elbow, and we jumped out to a 2–0 lead. But we didn’t jump ahead like we did in our other games. Millwood hung tough, just like we expected them to.
“Break that press!” the home fans chanted each time Millwood had the ball. “Break that press.”
Our press was definitely working. We were getting stops, but Millwood was finding holes and beating us down the floor. One time, Elbows whipped a pass to Super-Size, who sank a shot from inside the foul line. Another time, their guard with the glasses and the fingernails scratched my arm, dribbled around me, and drove past Jason and Mehdi for a basket.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Coach Crazy said. “That’s how it’s done.”
But each time Millwood looked like they had our pressing defense figured out, someone on Clifton United stepped up. One time, Dylan picked off a pass and fed Jason for a bucket. Another time, Keith stripped Elbows clean and scored an easy deuce.
“What are you doing out there?” Coach Crazy banged his clipboard. “Play Millwood basketball! Stop embarrassing yourselves!”
“U-ni-ted!” Red and Max led the Bench Mob cheers. “U-ni-ted.”
With eight minutes to go in the half and Clifton United leading 12–10, Coach Acevedo brought in the Bench Mob—Wil, Maya, Chris, Jeffrey, and Emily, who took my place with the second unit.
“You’re playing against their scrubs,” Coach Crazy barked. “Wipe the floor with them.”
I traded fist bumps with Red when I reached the bench.
“You good?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah, Mason Irving.”
I peeked down at Coach Crazy. “He’s not getting to you?”
Red pressed his earplugs with his thumbs and shook his head.
On the court, the Bench Mob did its job. After Millwood scored, Maya hit a shot from inside the paint. Then, after Millwood scored again, Chris was fouled while taking a three-pointer. He made two of the free throws.
Then neither team scored for a while.
“You can’t beat their benchwarmers?” Coach Crazy steamed. “You can’t beat their scrubs?”
The next time Millwood had the ball, they broke our press with a long—lucky—baseball pass.
“Stomp them!” Coach Crazy swung his arms and kicked out a leg. “Stomp them!”
Suddenly, Elbows picked Chris’s pocket, sneaking up from behind. He spun and found Mega-Man for a hoop.
“That’s the way,” Coach Crazy screamed. “Crush their spirit.”
I checked Red. He was squinting, and his trembling fists were by his eyes.
“He’s more nuts than ever,” I said.
Red knuckle-pressed his earplugs.
After Millwood stopped us again, Jeffrey fouled Super-Size in the act of shooting.
“Make these,” Coach Crazy ordered as Super-Size stepped to the line. “We’re going for the kill. Make these!”
Super-Size did.
Millwood scored the last six points of the half and led 16–12 at the break.
* * *
At halftime, Coach Acevedo didn’t have very much to say. He just told us to keep up the intensity and expect absolutely anything.
“They knocked you out of the game last season,” I said to Keith, pumping him up as we retook the court.
He tugged my shoulder strap. “Time for us to knock them out of the playoffs,” he said. “I want to see the Gnat.”
“The Gnat is here.”
We had to make stops. We had to break the momentum.
To start the second half, I went right at Fingernails as he brought the ball upcourt. I swiped at his dribble and got my hand on it, tapping the ball behind him. I scooted past him and beat Fingernails to the rock. I fired a pass to Keith, who scored a layup.
“Gnat!” He pointed my way.
Millwood broke our press the next time down the floor, but their half-court offense couldn’t convert. Elbows missed a shot, and Mehdi grabbed the rebound.
I brought the ball up and ran our offense. At the top of the key, I passed to Dylan on the right and set a screen for Mehdi. Then I kept moving, cutting down and across the paint.
“Jason!” I waved him my way.
He ran off my shoulder, and then I stood up straight and perfectly still with my feet a little more than shoulder width apart and my arms crossed in front. I braced for impact. Super-Size lowered his shoulder and barreled into me. But I stood my ground. That’s not to say he didn’t lift me off the ground. It felt like a sledgehammer hit my chest, but I slowed him down.
Jason caught Dylan’s pass in the paint and turned. He had a clear look. He sank the shot.
Tie game.
That’s how things stayed. For the rest of the half, neither team went up by more than two points. Even when the Bench Mob was in the game, and Coach Acevedo kept them in for a while so that the starters would have fresh legs for the finish, the game remained close.
With a little over a minute left, we trailed 29–28. We had the ball and a chance to take the lead.
“I want the shot,” I said to my teammates. I patted the front of my jersey. “Get me open. I’ll make it.”
I got the ball near half-court and blew past Elbows. Fingernails slid over, but I was ready for him. I planted my right foot between his legs, lifted my toes, and heel-pivoted. Then, off balance and out of control, I whip-spun around him.
I wasn’t done. I went hard to the rim, right at Mega-Man, and got off the shot. He smacked me on the arm and bumped me with his hip.
The ref called the foul. The ball went in.
“Boss!” I popped my jersey and then high-fived my teammates.
“Rip! Rip! Rip!” the Bench Mob cheered.
As I set myself on the line, I checked the clock. Thirty-seven seconds. We led by one. We had one time-out left. Millwood didn’t have any.
“After I make this,” I said, looking from Mehdi to Dylan to Jason to Keith, “we press hard. Make them work. They’re gassed.”
I stepped to the line and calmly sank the free throw.
31–29.
Millwood got the ball inbounds, but we made them work. It took them four passes to get across the timeline.
Twenty-nine seconds.
Super-Size passed to Fingernails in the corner. Fingernails took the shot. It banged off the back of the rim. Under the boards, both teams batted around the ball. Somehow, Fingernails came up with it and dribbled out.
Twenty-two seconds.
“No fouls!” Coach Acevedo shouted. “No fouls!”
I guarded Fingernails tight as he dribbled cross-court. I wasn’t going to foul him, but I wasn’t about to let him have it easy. He passed to Mega-Man at the elbow, who put up a shot. It hit off the side of the rim and went out of bounds under the basket.
Clifton United ball.
Fourteen seconds left.
Coach Acevedo called our final time-out.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he said in our huddle. He motioned for the kids in close to kneel and for the kids in back to move in. “You ready?” He looked around and made eye contact with a bunch of us. He stopped on Red.
I flinched. I knew what was about to happen. It was brilliant. A brilliant coaching move by Coach Acevedo.
“They’re going to foul us.” Coach Acevedo soccer-style kicked up the ball by his foot and kneed it to Red. “That means it’s time for our free-throw-shooting machine. You up for it?”
Red hopped from foot to foot. “I’m playing in the game?”
“You are.”
“I’m allowed to play in the game, Coach Acevedo?”
“You are. You have permission.”
He spun to me. “Did you hear that, Mason Irving?” His basketball smile took over his face. “I’m in the game.”
I hammer-fisted the air and slid next to him. “You got this.”
“Oh, yeah, Mason Irving. Clifton United goes thirteen deep. Everyone contributes.”
“They’re going to hit you hard,” I said. “Really hard. It could be Super-Size or Mega-Man.”
“Clifton United goes thirteen deep.” Red pulled off his Bench Mob shirt. He smoothed out his jersey and brushed his number twenty-four. “Everyone contributes, Mason Irving.”
“We’re going to beat them again, Red,” Coach Acevedo said. “We’re going to beat them again.”
“We’re pushing the envelope.” Red’s smile couldn’t go wider. “Aren’t we, Coach Acevedo?”
“We most certainly are.” Coach Acevedo gave him a pound. “Let’s push it even further.” He turned to Max. “You’re in, too. You’re setting one of the screens for Red. You up for it?”
“Oh, yeah!” Max raised his arm. “If Red’s up for it, I’m up for it.”
“I’m up for it, Max Stevens.”
A moment later, Jason, Keith, Max, Red, and I took the floor. We had our instructions: Set screens. Get the ball to Red.
“Here we go,” I play-by-played under my breath. “Fourteen ticks left on the clock, Clifton United leads by two, trying to end Millwood’s season once again.”
Red was getting open. Even if it meant I had to knock Millwood players over like bowling pins, Red was getting open.
Tweet!
Out of bounds, Keith smacked the basketball.
Red ran for the far corner, I bolted up to Max at the foul line, and Jason slid toward the near corner. I set the screen for Max, and he curled off my shoulder and ran a few steps. Then he planted his feet and folded his arms across his chest. Red brushed Max’s shoulder as he sped by. Then he brushed my shoulder and ran off the second screen.
That second screen wasn’t needed. Max had already taken out Fingernails. Red was open. Keith passed him the ball. Red caught it, wrapped his arms around the rock, and waited.
Fingernails fouled him a second later, bumping Red from behind. Hard, but not too hard.
Tweet!
I raced over to Red. “You good?”
He stood up slowly. His face was squinched, his arms still wrapped around the ball.
“You got two shots,” I said. “Can you—”
“I’m Clifton United’s free-throw-shooting machine,” he said softly.
“You are, Blake Daniels.” I reached over and ruffled his hair. He ducked away, but not before I got in a good shake.
Red’s smile returned.
“I need the ball, Number Twenty-Four,” the referee stepped to Red.
Red quickly handed it to him and bolted to the line.
“It all comes down to this,” I announced. “Red’s on the…”
I stopped.
Suddenly, everything was gone—the clock, Coach Crazy, the crowd, the Bench Mob, the music, the players, everything. Except for Red and me. We were the only ones in the gym, the silent and still gym.
Red was locked in. I was locked in.
He trapped the ball soccer-style under his left foot, placed a finger over each earplug, and took a few breaths. With both hands, he picked up the ball, squared his shoulders, and looked at the front rim. Then he dribbled three times low to the ground—hard dribbles that echoed and lingered. He stood back up and spun the ball until his fingers were around the word SPALDING. He looked at the rim again, extended his arms, and took the shot.
Underhanded.
Swish.
32–29, eleven seconds.
One more. This was the one that counted. This was the one that would put the game out of reach.
Red was still locked in. I was still locked in.
He went through his routine and shot the free throw.
Underhanded.
Swish!
“Boo-yah!” I hammer-fisted the air.
“Bam!” Red raised his arm.
33–29, eleven seconds.
“No fouls!” Coach Acevedo said. “No fouls!”
We let Millwood get the ball inbounds, but we didn’t let them bring it up the floor untouched. By the time Elbows rushed his three-pointer, there were only four seconds left. The ball hit the backboard and landed in my hands. I threw it back into the air. Before it landed, the final horn sounded.
Clifton 33, Millwood 29.
“You did it again!” I raced up to Red.
“We did it, Mason Irving!”
I ruffled his hair, but this time, Red didn’t duck or move away. And as everyone raced over, Red basketball-smiled his biggest basketball smile ever.
“Let’s circle up!” I called.
All twelve Clifton United huddled at the free-throw line. We draped our arms around one another and swayed from side to side.
“Every little thing we do matters,” I said. I chin-nodded at Red and then looked around at my teammates. “Everyone’s doing our handshake, with one difference.”
I explained, and in less than a nanosecond everyone had paired off. I was with Red.
“Roll left, roll right,” Clifton United chanted. “Slap right, slap left.”
Everyone jumped, bumped hips, and on the landing …
“Zwibble!”
Acknowledgments
There are so many I need to acknowledge. Thanks and love to …
Wes Adams, my editor. You continue to challenge me. You continue to push me. Keep on keepin’ on.
Andrew Arnold, the designer whose vision for this series far exceeds my wildest expectati
ons.
Mary Van Akin, Katie Halata, Lucy Del Priore, and the entire team at Farrar Straus Giroux and the Macmillan Children’s Publishing Group. A dream team has rallied behind my series. What more could an author hope for?
Tim Probert, the illustrator whose images bring Rip and Red to life.
Erin Murphy, my agent. You make it happen and get it done. I treasure it all.
Jean Dayton, my booking agent. The best in the business … even though you root for the Cubbies.
Anna Rekate, my friend and fellow educator, who reads through my early drafts and provides the no-nonsense feedback I crave.
Donalyn Miller, your Reading in the Wild and The Book Whisperer should be required reading for all teachers. Mr. Acevedo’s Where I Read mini project was inspired by your words.
Rachel Carr, whom I taught middle school with way back in the day at P.S. 333. When I visited your class at P.S. 130 in Lower Manhattan a few years ago, you introduced me to one of your students, Zachary Maxwell, a blossoming filmmaker who had just completed a short documentary, Yuck. That film inspired one of the storylines in this book.
Zachary Maxwell, your film Yuck now serves as the answer to a question I’m often asked: Do you ever get ideas from school visits?
Ezra Azrieli Holzman, a superhero kid and friend who introduced me to the word prestanderous while guest-hosting the YouTube series Sez Me.
Holly Morgan-Winsdale, who told me all about Zwibble and allowed me to use it in this book.
Kareem Eid, who as a teenager traveled with me to New Orleans on a post–Hurricane Katrina volunteer trip, and who, ever since, has taught me so much about growing up and being Muslim in America in the twenty-first century.
Kevin, my husband, my family.
By Phil Bildner
The Rip and Red Series
A Whole New Ballgame
Rookie of the Year
The Sluggers Series
with Loren Long
Magic in the Outfield
Horsin’ Around
Great Balls of Fire
Water, Water Everywhere
Blastin’ the Blues
Home of the Brave
About the Authors
