Longshot

by Lance Allred

  Little by little, Sharlie and I came to know each other in physics class. We’d playact as junior high kids, passing notes back and forth, which actually began to turn into flirting. I could tell that Sharlie was coming to like me, and I liked her, too. But I was so awkward. I had no idea what I was supposed to do.

  I was so passive and hopeless that Sharlie was forced to make the first move and asked me to the prom, which was girl’s choice. My friends were excited for me, but I was nervous. I was also in the middle of a basketball season that wasn’t going according to plan.

  It came time for me to answer Sharlie about the prom. One of my friends came up to me on my eighteenth birthday, the very same day I was playing my old school and rival, West High, and said, “Dude, Sharlie wants to kiss you for your birthday.”

  This was also the very same day I was arrested for truancy. Yes, I was arrested.

  Greg’s mom wanted to cook me a birthday breakfast, and so three cars full of my posse all packed up to drive to Greg’s house. Greg and I were riding in a jeep belonging to Preston Hayes. Our jeep was the last car in the caravan to leave the school parking lot. Incidentally, it was also the only car that had an expired license plate.

  Right as we pulled out of the parking lot, a truancy cop pulled us over—having grounds to do so thanks to the expired license plates. We tried explaining that it was my birthday and that we were en route to a birthday breakfast at a friend’s house. He was having none of it as he called it in, while behind him a score of the usual troublemaker kids made their way to the 7-Eleven across the street.* While the truancy officer was telling us that he was going to take us downtown, I, as politely as I could, pointed to the kids at the 7-Eleven and told him he might have better luck with them.

  Preston, Greg, and I sat in the juvie hall for two hours while this cop, who wore a leather jacket, tight jeans that were stretched from the wallet he kept in his back pocket, and black Velcro sneakers, interrogated us. Each of us was taken aside to be grilled individually by the booking officer, who was too old to have a real job at the police department. He warned us of the slippery slope we were traveling, of how truancy led to drug use, which led to killing hookers, which led to a life behind bars and lots of child-support payments. When he was done, we were escorted back to our arresting officer.

  When we sat down with our Tom Cruise–wannabe officer, the dialogue went something like this:

  TRUANCY OFFICER: Why were you skipping school?

  ME: It’s my birthday.

  TRUANCY: Sure. Now if it was your birthday, where were you headed?

  ME: To my friend’s house, as his mom was cooking me a birthday breakfast.

  TRUANCY: Mmm-hmm, sure. Did you clear it with your parents or do you have an excusal note?

  ME: No, I have a 3.8 GPA. My parents both are schoolteachers and trust that I will take care of my schoolwork, and they don’t care if I skip school as long as my grades don’t fall.

  TRUANCY: I see. So you have no excusal note?

  ME: No. You can call my mother at work, and she’ll tell you that I have her permission, and you can let me go.

  TRUANCY: Well, she needs to be down here herself, or another adult whom we can release you to. In the meantime I need some info. Address?

  ME: 32 South 1300 East.

  TRUANCY: Date of birth?

  ME: [Incredulous silence]

  TRUANCY: Date of birth, please.

  ME: Again, that would be today…

  TRUANCY: Mmm-hmm, sure.

  Preston Hayes’s father finally came and we were released into his custody, as my mother had given him permission over the phone. When we left the building, Preston’s dad said only one thing: “Sorry, guys. This is my fault. I should’ve had the license plates renewed.” Much ado about nothing.

  When we landed back at school just at the end of lunch break, one of the assistant principals met us at the door. He was much smaller than the rest of us, and was putting on a big show about how we took our education for granted and how just because I was a basketball player, I was no more special than anyone else and I wasn’t above school rules. He was going to make an example out of us. When he finally got me alone, he looked at me with a proud smile on his face: “By law, you’re now ineligible for tonight’s game.”

  He led Greg and me to the principal’s outer office, where I sat and fretted, worrying about what Coach Rupp was going to say and how I was letting my teammates down. I was near tears—on my eighteenth birthday.

  It didn’t last long, as Principal Kay Peterson, whose children had been taught by my father at Alta High School, saw me out of the corner of his eye. “Lance! Get in here,” he said. “I haven’t measured you in a while!” It was a tradition that whenever Peterson caught me in the hall or near his office, he dragged me into his office, stood me up in his chair, and measured me with a yardstick, then marked my height with pen on his wall.

  I complied, and Greg, being Greg, was along for the ride and quietly stuck by my side. The assistant principal followed us into Peterson’s office, worried he was about to lose the fish on his line. He began grumbling his head off that I needed to be held to the same standards as the rest of the student body. He was fruitlessly yakking away until Principal Peterson looked at him and then down at me from atop his chair: “Why were you skipping school, Lance?”

  “It’s my birthday, and Greg’s mom was going to cook me a breakfast.”

  “Really? Happy birthday.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Peterson,” I said as he palmed the top of my head, penning the wall.

  “Well,” Principal Peterson said, stepping down and taking the form from the assistant’s hands, “I think we can worry about this another time. Maybe some lunch duty? How does that sound?”

  “I can do that.” My eyes twinkled with joy. “So, I can play?”

  “Sure, just because it’s your birthday,” Peterson winked at me. “But on the condition that you get a double-double tonight, you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right, get out of here and go to class.”

  I nearly skipped out of the office. Greg, who may as well have been wallpaper, scooted out behind me, hoping not to draw attention to himself. I don’t think Peterson ever noticed that Greg had been in the room. The assistant principle could still have gone after Greg, but where would the fun have been in that when you nearly took down the basketball star?

  I went and played that night and had a great game. It was all swell, except for the part where one of the kids from West High School, while guarding me, blatantly punched me in the testicles, which my father happened to catch on tape. There was no reason for him to punch me, except that the West High players hated me, for I had betrayed them and transferred to East. I didn’t even exchange words with the kid. There was no dialogue at all. (There rarely is dialogue with me, as I’m deaf.) There wasn’t a thing to warrant his random ball punch. I keeled over in pain but was able to make it down to the other end of the floor, where I was subbed out of the game. Coach Rupp came over to me as I lay curled in the fetal position behind the bench. “What is wrong?” he asked.

  “He punched me in the balls!”

  Dad by this time had come down, his face red with rage, holding out the tape to Coach Rupp and Principal Peterson. I was taken to the locker room, where I vomited. It really was a hard hit. I can’t tell you how bad it hurt, as it was spot-on. His knuckles got both of my guys. The officials reviewed the film during halftime, and the kid was ejected.

  After the game, all of my friends showed up at Mom and Dad’s house. I walked in and they all gave me a hug, and then my friend Jon, in front of everyone, said, “Sharlie wants to kiss you. Let’s go!”

  “Um…,” I said hesitantly.

  “Go!” Mom said as she tried to shove me out the door.

  “Well, I can’t just show up and act all cool, like she has to kiss me!” I was panicking. Put me on a basketball court in front of hundreds and I was fine, but put me in a room alo
ne with a girl and I was a wreck.

  “You have to answer her for the prom, right?” Jon asked. Greg and Jared, along with my friends Max and Jake, were standing behind him, smiling and nodding.

  Do it, Greg mouthed.

  “Ya!” Mom said.

  Jon was savvy. He came up with the idea of writing the word yes on a one-inch piece of paper and then laminating it. Then, just before I saw Sharlie, I’d put it on my tongue. I’d let her see that my prom answer was on my tongue, and then she’d have to kiss me to get the answer.

  Everyone clapped with excitement as I shook my head in disapproval. Dad was giggling to himself as he quietly read in his library, sipping his Pero—the fake coffee beloved of Mormons. “That’ll be fun!” Mom commented. How embarrassing is it that my parents were involved with my first kiss?

  We all loaded up Max’s Club Wagon as Mom and Dad waved goodbye from the front door. As we were driving over to Sharlie’s, I tried talking myself out of it. Max was egging me on, saying he wouldn’t turn the car around, nor was he going to leave Sharlie’s house until I kissed her. I was terrified, shaking.

  “Dude, Sharlie is so hot, I totally would,” Jared piped from the back of the wagon.

  “Totally what?” Greg asked.

  “Totally do more than kiss her,” Jared declared as though he knew the ladies, when in fact none of us in the car had ever kissed a girl and I was about to be the first. I was going to be the first guy, of everyone in the van, of all of my dear friends, who would lose his virgin lips, a fact that both thrilled and scared me.

  We pulled up to Sharlie’s house. I cowered as I leaned my head against the window and stared at the house: “I can’t do it. I’m not going in.”

  “Dude. You’re such a [female genital],” Jake taunted. “Get your ass out there and do it. I will drag you out there myself if I have to. She is hot. That’s a woman in there waiting for you, and you need to take advantage of this as everyone else in this van would if they had the chance. It’s your duty as a man!”

  I turned around in my seat: “Would you guys do it?”

  “Yes,” they all said, in flat unison.

  “I’d throw her,” Greg said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  I stalled some more while all my friends called me various terms for the female reproductive system. Jon finally took the initiative and jumped out of the car. “Where are you going?” I yelled.

  He didn’t answer but went straight up and knocked on Sharlie’s door. She answered. I could see her talking to Jon and then looking out to the van as he pointed at it. She laughed and then went in and got her sweatshirt. When she came out, she was wearing her snow boots. We were past the point of no return.

  “Do it!” Jared yelled.

  “I’d throw her,” Greg whispered again, mostly to himself as he wistfully looked out the opposite window in deep introspection. He was tired. He had had a long day with me, what with our arrest and all.

  I took out the laminated yes and put it on my tongue as I got out of the van. I walked up to Sharlie and Jon.

  “Hey,” she said, smiling brightly. She really was cute.

  “Hey, I got something for you,” I said. I looked at Jon, who was standing only two feet away from us. I looked at Jon some more, waiting for him to get the cue that he could leave. But he just kept staring back and forth between Sharlie and me, wide-eyed with excitement.

  “Jon?” I said finally.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can you give us some room?”

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry.” He took a step back.

  I saw no point in delaying the awkward moment and just stuck out my tongue. Sharlie cocked her head back with a huh? look. She then looked closer and saw the yes on my tongue and laughed. She reached up and grabbed my head, pulled me down in front of all of my friends, whose faces were longingly pressed against the windows, and opened her mouth as she took my tongue between her teeth, bit, and sucked off the yes.

  We could’ve gone longer, but hey, I was new at this. It was weird, yet fun at the same time. But I mostly didn’t want to continue, with Jon standing right there in front of us. She took out the yes from her mouth, smiled, and said, “Happy birthday.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And thanks,” she said as she pointed at the wet yes.

  “No problem.” We awkwardly stepped back from each other, said our good nights, and went to our respective doors. I climbed back into the safety of the passenger seat, while all my friends chided me.

  “Weak.”

  “Lame.”

  “So lame.”

  Jake leaned forward: “Dude, get back out there. You can do so much better than that!”

  “I know!” I said, not needing any encouragement as I quickly opened the door and ran across the snow and up to Sharlie’s door. I banged on it. She opened it, and before she could even say anything, I took her head, pulled her to me, and kissed her like a beautiful girl ought to be kissed, with my friends hooting and howling from the Club Wagon, which was rocking emphatically. We kissed for a good ten seconds. I pulled away.

  “I knew I could do better,” I said.

  I walked away like a man.

  By the time the dance came, I was painfully sick with mono and pneumonia. Sharlie’s dad rented us a plane for that night, which was totally awesome. However, while we were in the air somewhere over Park City, looking at all the pretty lights and with the fog spreading through the canyons like a spider’s web, I threw up in the plane—all over my suit and Sharlie’s nice dress. Good times indeed.

  13

  Midway through my junior year, Coach Rupp called me into his office in the middle of the school day and sat me down by his desk.

  “I’m hesitant to give this to you, as I don’t want you to stop working: I want you to stay hungry.”

  He pulled a letter out of his desk and handed it to me. It had my name on it, and on the return address stamp was an Aggie, the mascot of Utah State University. “If you want to play Division I basketball, Lance, you’re going to have to defend, and that means more than just blocking shots. You can play at Utah State, and you can play well, but it’s up to you.”

  I walked out of the office, stunned. I was ecstatic, but also disbelieving. While every basketball player wants to play in college and then professionally, and while I had thought about it, I had always assumed it was nothing more than a pipe dream. I was just focused on being a decent high school player. I couldn’t believe I had my first recruitment letter from a Division I college.

  When the season was over, Noah Eyre was recruited to be on the FranklinCovey AAU basketball team. The Amateur Athletic Union, or AAU, is designed to promote and develop amateur athletes. Their off-season tournaments are made up of teams who have sponsors that are usually unrelated to, but supportive of, sports. The FranklinCovey AAU team is a perfect example. A group of Mormon businessmen developed the FranklinCovey business firm, which likes to sponsor Mormon high school basketball players from around the country.

  Noah had to back out of the first spring tournament because of family obligations, but he was kind enough to tell the FranklinCovey coach, Coach Wardenburg, that I would be available to fill in for him. With a few days’ notice, I committed to flying out to Los Angeles. It would be only my second time in an airplane and my first road trip away from home or family.

  The first game in California, I was starstruck, seeing college coaches in the stands whom I had been watching for years on TV. Of course I was nervous as it was my first game in front of college scouts, and I totally sucked. After the game was over, I apologized to Coach Wardenburg and said I’d do better next game.

  “Oh, Lance,” he said, “the point of these things is to get better over time. By the end of the summer you’ll be playing more confidently. Just give yourself time.”

  Time wasn’t needed, as the very next game I exploded. I think I might have scored thirty points, but I cannot recall accurately. When Coach Wardenburg subbed me out at the end of the game, he just g
ave me a scoff: “I had no idea. Noah told me you were good, but not this good.”

  “I told you I’d play better the next game,” I said assuredly, proud that I had honored my word.

  He smiled and patted my shoulder: “Don’t do anything stupid, and don’t talk to anyone, as the recruiters are going to be hard on your tail now.”

  When I arrived home from the trip, Dad came up to me and said, “Well, I just got a call from Coach Wardenburg, as he has been receiving calls about you.” Dad then pulled out some sheets of paper fresh from the computer printer. The text was from the West Coast Hoops forum of Scout.com, a recruiting/scouting service that traveled to all the AAU tournaments. “And the best player I had never heard of before this weekend was Lance Allred,” I read.

  I felt I had played well, but not that well. I was young and impressionable and felt minuscule compared with all the high-leaping, long-armed athletes that were there on the court with me that weekend. I had not even considered that I might be a recruiting prospect, thinking I was just a stand-in for Noah.

  The mail began to come, and soon I was hoarding letters from universities all around the country, universities that I had never imagined would know my name. However, the letter that I most wanted, the one from the University of Utah, never came. BYU, with its inside position and boosters in the FranklinCovey enterprise, recruited me the hardest. I really liked BYU’s Coach Cleveland, but I had no desire to attend the institution itself.*

  That spring the U of U made it to the NCAA national championship game, defeating Arizona and North Carolina along the way before they fell to Kentucky. The Hunstman Center, where the U of U Utes played, was only four blocks away from Mom and Dad’s house. I had one of the top ten programs in the entire country right in my backyard.

  Yet why wasn’t I getting a letter from the Utah basketball offices, which were only four blocks away, instead of from North Carolina and Wake Forest, both three thousand miles away?