“Hi there,” said Mom when she saw me.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Warren Goodman spoke to Dad today,” Mom explained before going to the kitchen. “Well, he and some higher-ups from his office did.”
“The article caused quite a stir at the office,” Dad explained.
“I hope you didn’t get the promotion, Dad, because if this is your happy face, you need help.”
Dad sat up straight and rubbed his chin. “No promotion,” he said slowly. Then he did his impression of a lumber company executive. “Warren said, ‘Phil, if it was up to me…,’ then gave me some you-know-what about tight budgets and maybe next quarter. Blah, blah, blah.”
“Is this all because of the article?” I asked.
“It’s a big part of it,” Dad sighed. “If the public is more sympathetic to the salmon, it isn’t good for business. We lose money, people lose their jobs. And your old man doesn’t get promoted.”
Dad seemed pretty discouraged. I knew how he felt. “Hey, it’s like you told me at Thanksgiving,” I said, trying to remember his speech. “You may not like your job, but you go out and do it the best you can. I mean, my first choice wasn’t to sit on the bench, but at least I’m on the team. Only twelve guys in the school can say that.”
Dad squeezed my hand. “Thanks, Toby. But it’s a little more complicated than that.”
“Why? You know what they say in basketball—just take it straight to the hoop.”
“Straight to the hoop,” Dad repeated. “Straight to the hoop.” He stood up, muttering to himself. He snapped his fingers, then walked over to the desk in the hallway. He found a pencil and a piece of paper. “This could work,” he said as he began punching numbers on a calculator.
“What could work?” I asked. “Something for your boss?”
Dad answered without looking up. “I’m not sure.”
I got the idea that he was too distracted to explain.
After a few minutes of watching Dad’s fingers fly on the calculator, I stretched and started to leave the room. I was sure we’d be smelling whatever Dad had cooking before too long.
21
In the days leading up to our next game, we could all feel something different in the air. Everybody was running a little harder in practice, talking more during scrimmages, and complaining less about playing time.
Coach told us to think of it as another chance to start the season. Except we were 0–3 with seven games left. Finishing 7–3 might get us into the postseason league tournament. Or it might not. As for me and JJ, we were on the same team, but we were no longer best friends. Sometimes I thought I saw him watching me when I was joking around with Raj or McKlusky or one of the other guys. But if he had something to say to me, he never said it. He just did his thing quietly and let his basketball do the talking.
One day in practice, Coach was in a foul mood. Everything anyone did was wrong. We ran all afternoon while he stood on the sideline scowling. Even Roy seemed to know to keep his mouth shut. We were still running at 4:45, when Megan came into the gym, took a seat in the bleachers, and opened a book, glancing up at us every once in a while. She hadn’t been in the gym long when Coach lined us up on the baseline. We had just finished running.
“Take a breather,” he said. “We’re gonna do it again in one minute.”
“Again?” Khalil gasped.
Coach nodded. “Again.”
“I’m gonna die before I see high school,” Khalil grumbled.
We were seconds away from running when Megan came down and walked over to Coach. “Dad,” she said.
“Yeah, Champ?”
“I was thinking…”
“Oh, great,” said Roy.
Megan ignored him. “…Your next game is against Madden Creek. They’re the biggest team in the league and you haven’t worked on rebounding or boxing out since the first week of practice. Don’t you think that might help more than just running all day? I mean, these guys aren’t going to be any good if they’re dead.”
Trashman nodded and said, “She’s right about that. Gotta be alive to take out the trash.”
Coach looked down at Megan, then at us on the baseline. The whistle fell from his mouth. “All right,” he announced. “Get in groups of three. A shooter, a re-bounder, and one of you boxing out. Go!”
After that, nobody had a problem with Megan.
Our next game was Friday at Madden Creek. Madden Creek had a bad reputation. Their players were thugs. Their coaches were thugs. Their cheerleaders were thugs. The thing about facing a team of hooligans and goons was that whoever was playing them eventually became hooligans and goons, too. By the fourth quarter against Madden, the game had become a full-blown brawl, especially in the paint. Anyone who dribbled below the free-throw line was hammered instantly. For once, I was actually happy to watch from the end of the bench. The worst thing that happened to me on the sideline was a punch in the shoulder from Megan every time the ref called a foul.
“That was a charge,” she said, socking me in the arm. Ruben had just been called for his fourth foul. One of the Ram guards had plowed into him while driving the lane. To add insult to injury, the basket was good, and Madden was up by six with five minutes to play. As far as we knew, our season was five minutes from being all but over.
Ruben fouled out a minute later. Then Roy. Then McKlusky.
“Malcolm!” Coach hollered. “Go in for McKlusky!”
Malcolm, aka Trashman, jumped up. “It’s time to take out the trash,” he said as the home crowd egged him on.
We were down four now. There were three minutes left.
“Their best player has four fouls,” said Megan. “We need to take it right at him. If they lose him, they’ll lose the game.”
It was hard to share Megan’s optimism.
Then, with three minutes left in a five-point game, our tenth man fouled out. Coach had no choice. I was the last bullet in his chamber. He looked down at me and pulled the trigger. Momentum carried me right onto the court. Luckily, Megan grabbed me and pointed toward the scorer’s table before I could make the same mistake again. “You have to check in, pinerider,” she said.
“Oops.”
“And take off your warm-up shirt.”
My time on the court in the Hamilton game had been short, confusing, and, since the Harriers had been up by nineteen, meaningless. Now there was no more messing around. This was a game we could win—a game we had to win. And Coach was depending on me to step up.
We had the ball and trailed by seven. Raj was back in the game and playing with three fouls. He began the motion. My job was to set a baseline pick for JJ, who would use it to curl open in the opposite corner. The defender raced toward me, his eyes watching the ball. He was burly and had spikes gelled in his hair. One of his teammates called out, “Screen right!” but it was too late. Spikes slammed into me. I kept my hands at my side and didn’t give an inch. On contact, Spikes brought his arm down hard on my thigh. Pain shot up my leg from the charley horse. The ref never saw the cheap shot. But JJ made his shot and we went the other way, needing a stop. We were down by five points with two minutes left.
Thirty seconds later the score was the same when Raj missed a long shot. The ball came off the rim straight into the hands of the Rams’ point guard. I was the only person between him and the hoop. It was life or death for us. One more basket and the game would be out of reach. I shifted into high gear and raced to get in better defensive position. Knowing a touch foul would put Madden Creek on the free-throw line, I resisted the urge to swipe at the ball and came to a spot just off the right elbow.
The point guard was speeding straight at me with Spikes on the wing. Spikes had a glint in his eye. I knew that look. It said, I’m going to score and there’s nothing you can do about it because you are unworthy and I am great. Sure enough, Spikes called, “Trailer,” and the point guard dished. I shifted to my right and anchored myself to the floor. Spikes picked up his dribble and barreled
toward me like a hurricane about to make landfall. I thought about Old Dude and the meaningless bloody lip he got when the game was already as good as won. If he could take one for the team during garbage time, I could do it now. Spikes went up. My arms were crossed in front of me. My feet set in concrete. His knee hit me first—right in the gut. Then his forearm hit my chin. Our hips collided and we tumbled to the floor. The last thing I saw as my vision faded to black was the ball falling through the basket. The Rams cheered. Our season was over. The whistle blew. A moment later JJ, Coach, Megan, and most of the team were standing over me. I tasted something warm on my lips. As I lay there on the court, the gym was as quiet as a church.
The cheer started from somewhere near the back of the bleachers. “Toh-BEE. Toh-BEE. Toh-BEE.” It got louder. They chanted my name and stomped until Coach pulled me to my feet. “Way to go, Wheeler!” he shouted into my ear.
“Huh?” My head was still swimming.
“The ref called charge!” Raj explained excitedly. He handed me a tissue for my lip.
Ruben pulled me by one arm. The guys who were in the game surrounded me, high-fiving me and patting my head. JJ was there too, tapping my fist with his. And maybe it was the dizziness, but for a split second, I felt like we were back at the rec center and he was congratulating me for hitting a shot.
Over on the sideline our bench was going bonkers. Even Roy was waving a towel over his head. Behind them, the crowd was now cheering “Let’s go, Chuckers!” We were still down five with a little over a minute to play.
Raj set up the offense quickly. There was no time to waste. We ran a high screen for JJ, who found himself doubled by his man and Spikes, the guy who was supposed to be guarding me. I knew what was coming. I raised my hands just in time to catch the ball, squared my feet, elevated, and released just as Spikes collided with me.
The whistle blew.
Two shots!
I stood on the free-throw line. Had someone pushed the hoop farther away or was it still just fifteen feet? I dribbled twice, then shot, using my right hand to push and left hand to guide like Megan and Coach had taught me. It was short. I looked over at the bench. Megan was mouthing something. “Bend your knees,” she said.
I stared at the hoop and felt the crease of the ball in my hands. Then I bent my knees and released. The next shot was perfect.
We were down four.
Then Raj, who had been hiding behind Khalil, jumped in front of the inbounds pass, stole it, and zipped the ball to Malcolm under the basket. The lead was two!
“Pressure, pressure, pressure!” Coach yelled. “No fouls!”
We set up our trap. The Rams were rattled. The momentum was ours. Soon, the ball was too. There were ten seconds left. Raj yelled “Pilchuck!”, passed off to JJ, and set a pick for me. Seeing JJ hounded by his defender, I shifted up to his right. We were beyond the three-point arc now. JJ dribbled toward me, leading his man right into the screen. Then, in the two seconds he was open, JJ drained a three-pointer as time ran out, and the gym erupted.
We lifted JJ up to celebrate. It was the same scene I had witnessed the year before—only now I was in the middle of it.
22
All week, a smile was etched on my face. I hadn’t been this happy since Megan and I beat Vinny Pesto at the rec center. Not even the extra set of wind sprints Coach ordered when Roy pulled Malcolm’s shorts down in the middle of practice could kill the high. As a team, we were on the board—no longer winless—and I had made a difference. Sure, I was part mascot, part player, but at least now I mattered. And I was determined to make the feeling last. I was going to go to every game ready to do whatever I had to to help the team win. I would take a hundred charges, set a thousand screens, or just cheer from the end of the bench.
Wednesday was the night Raj, McKlusky, and I were going to the girls’ game. I raced home from practice, showered, and bolted through the kitchen, where Dad was sitting at the table with a stack of books. I could see that the books were nothing I’d ever want to read. Some were about wood products. One was about writing business plans. But the books must have been interesting to Dad because when I slowed down to tell him where I was going, he barely lifted his head.
At the game, I found Raj and McKlusky. We cheered in the stands. After everything Megan had done to help me, it felt good to do something for her. Besides, she was right. The girls’ team was good.
McKlusky was cheering more loudly than anyone. Every time Melanie drove the lane, he’d say, “You can’t stop that.” Then she’d hit a short floater and he’d say, “Can’t stop that, either.” Raj was quieter. Every once in a while, he’d mutter, “After the game. After the game I am going to ask Cassandra to the dance.” He made at least six trips to the bathroom during the second half, and after each trip, he’d come back to his seat with his hair just a little different. Once, he came back without the turtleneck he had been wearing under his sweater. Five minutes later, he was back in the bathroom. When he reappeared, the turtleneck was back on. As the clock ticked down, Raj began tugging at it, like he needed air.
“Is it me?” he asked us. “Or is it hot in here?”
“It’s you,” I said.
“Gee, thanks.”
“You have nothing to worry about,” I promised. On the court, Megan stepped to the line. After she made the first one, the team huddled around her. “I guarantee you Cassandra is going to say yes.”
“Why do you say that?” Raj asked as if I was holding out on him. “Do you know something? What did you hear?”
Megan missed the second shot. They were down two with two minutes to play. But Melanie stole the inbounds pass. McKlusky stood and shouted to the other team, “Better call the police. You just got robbed!”
I wanted to watch the game but I had to calm Raj. He was a wreck. “I don’t know anything,” I said. “I just have a feeling. I saw the way she said hi to you in the woods. That wasn’t acting.”
“Maybe,” he said.
“When you ask her, just be yourself.”
“If I ask her. I might chicken out.”
“You’re not going to chicken out,” I said.
Suddenly, everyone around us rose to their feet. McKlusky grabbed Raj and shook him. “Are you watching this?” he yelled. “Cassandra just tied the game!” Before Raj could answer, McKlusky was cheering again.
“Why is he so calm?” Raj asked.
“Probably because he isn’t thinking about it.”
As we watched Cedar Crest bring the ball upcourt with a minute left, I realized I was a little jealous of Raj. Sure, he was nervous about asking Cassandra. But at least he had decided to give it a shot. I couldn’t bring myself to do more than think about asking Megan. What was I so afraid of? Not her dad. I didn’t have that excuse anymore. Embarrassing myself on the dance floor? Maybe, but seeing McKlusky jump up and down like a lunatic after Cedar Crest turned the ball over made me suspect I might not be the only person in school without rhythm. As the girls’ bench cheered on the starters before the last shot, it occurred to me I had been here before. It was something I wanted to do but always found excuses not to do—like join the basketball team. Well, this time I wasn’t going to wait two years to get in the game.
The winning shot was a simple pick-and-roll from Melanie to Cassandra for a layin as time ran out. The crowd went crazy. I saw Coach Applewhite throw his fist in the air. The girls high-fived Cassandra, then scrambled to the locker room after shaking hands with the other team. With all the excitement, the temperature in the room had gone up ten degrees. While we waited for the girls to come back to the gym, Raj made one last trip to the bathroom. When he returned, the turtleneck was gone—again.
He and McKlusky waited near the snack stand by the front door. I sat in the empty bleachers. When Cassandra and Melanie emerged, Raj inhaled deeply. I could see he was talking to himself. He knew he had to go first. The girls walked up to them, smiling. Raj looked up at Cassandra, wringing his hands. Then, before anyone knew what had h
appened, McKlusky was talking to Melanie. He finished and she nodded enthusiastically. After that, it was only another second before Raj played his hand too. Cassandra beamed. When it was over and the girls had left the gym, McKlusky and Raj shook hands, then strode back to me, heads held high.
A moment later, Megan came into the gym, wearing track pants and a sweatshirt. I waved to her, but she didn’t see me. Before I could walk over, Coach had her wrapped in a bear hug. Her mom was there too. I sighed. The timing wasn’t right. If I was going to ask her to the Winter Blast, it wouldn’t be today.
Ever since I made that free throw in the Madden Creek game, I had been looking forward to scoring an actual basket. It happened in our next game—against the other team’s twelfth man. It was our fifth game of the season and afterward we were 2–3. The game was a blowout. McKlusky was leading the way with thirteen points, and he was 4–4 from the line, which just about made Coach tap-dance down the sideline.
As the time came off the clock and our lead increased, I slid farther and farther over the edge of my seat. Whenever play stopped, I looked to the other end of the bench, hoping Coach would call my name. He had put in everyone else, even Malcolm.
Finally, with 1:10 remaining, Coach called my name. I got into position on the court. When play started again, I lost my man behind a screen, caught the ball above the free-throw line, and, without hesitating, popped in a sixteen-footer that got nothing but net. It was one of the best moments of my life.
Toby Wheeler Page 11
