Toby Wheeler

by Thatcher Heldring

  Everybody began speaking at once. Some of the guys agreed with Ruben and Roy. Trashman announced, “Trashman doesn’t care who plays as long as we win.” Raj yelled for quiet so I could talk. McKlusky banged his shoe against a locker. I looked helplessly at JJ, who seemed seconds away from turning and leaving for good. Suddenly the door flew open and we heard a loud whistle. But it wasn’t Coach. It was Megan, standing in the doorway with two fingers in her mouth.

  “What’s the matter with you guys?” she began. “The biggest game of your lives is in ten minutes and you’re in the locker room arguing about whether your best player should be allowed to play. Seems like a no-brainer to me.”

  “We can win without him,” said Roy.

  “What are you, crazy, Morelli? Do you remember the Landusky twins? They went for fourteen points each last time you played Hamilton. They ran over you like logging trucks. And guess what? They’ve grown! Trust me, the only way you guys are going to win this game is if you can spread the court out. And the only way to do that is to score from outside. So it comes down to this. You can either act like a bunch of stubborn donkeys, leave your best shooter off the court, and go on being losers, or you can grow up, accept his apology, and stick it to Hamilton once and for all.” Megan stared us all down.

  Roy started to open his mouth.

  Ruben shook his head. He reached into the equipment bag, dug out a jersey, and tossed it to JJ.

  JJ slipped it on quickly. “Thanks for letting me back on the team,” he said. “I never should have left.”

  “Forget about it, man,” Ruben answered. “We got a game to win.”

  Coach came into the locker room. He saw JJ, smiled, and made a small check on his clipboard. Then he gathered us in a circle. “It’s time,” he began. “In thirty-two minutes, you guys are going to be league champions—if you remember what got you here. Twelve guys playing for something bigger than any one person.” Coach swept his finger around the huddle like the second hand on a watch.

  “Let’s shock the world,” Ruben said.

  As the starters took the court, for the first time I laughed out loud at the thought of my being in the game with the clock ticking down. What had made me say that to Vinny? The odds were a million to one. In real life, I would be happy to win any way we could. As Roy passed me, I pulled him over and whispered, “If you watch Pesto closely, you can read him like a book. Whenever he curls his lip, it means he’s going to shoot. When he takes a deep breath, it means he’s going to drive.”

  “Thanks, Wheeler,” said Roy. “I think I can use that.”

  Megan was right about the Landusky twins. They had grown. In fact, they were the tallest eighth graders I had ever seen. Combined, they were nearly twelve feet of muscle. When the two teams met on the court for tip-off, Pilchuck looked like Munchkins. Just before the ref blew his whistle, Vinny spied me, sneered, tapped his championship patch, and raised two fingers. I made the L on my forehead and got ready to cheer.

  In the first five minutes, there were a combined eight turnovers, seven fouls, and four points. The Landusky twins were mugging anybody who came within spitting distance of the basket.

  The game stayed close. With five minutes left in the third quarter, Coach called a time-out. I stood again, waving my towel and chest-bumping the guys coming off the court.

  “We have to contain those guys inside!” Coach shouted.

  Ruben nodded, wiping the sweat from his nearly bald head. “They’re big, Coach.”

  Raj pointed to Ruben. “Your guy is putting the ball on the floor every time he catches it. Just stay low and wait for him to dribble.”

  After that, Ruben adjusted his defense. He waited for his man to catch the ball, kept his feet on the ground despite the head fake, and timed his swipe well enough to rack up four steals by the end of the third quarter.

  Across the paint, Khalil and McKlusky were subbing in and out for each other and taking body blows from Hamilton’s big men. Every possession was another round of hip checks, elbows to the gut, and forearms to the head.

  On offense, JJ was slipping through defenders at will. Still, I wondered if anybody else could see he was holding back. Finally, in the fourth quarter, Megan said to me, “Why isn’t JJ using his left hand?”

  “Beats me,” I said. Being able to go in either direction was one of the things that made JJ so dangerous. Why would he deliberately holster his secret weapon in the biggest game of the year?

  The game picked up pace. Shots began to fall. JJ was smooth as ever. Pesto was hot too. Both offenses were clicking down the stretch. But the fouls were adding up—especially after the sloppy start to the game. Khalil sat with three fouls. Ruben picked up his fourth but Coach chose to leave him in. Then, with six minutes left in the game and Hamilton up by seven, Roy picked up his fourth foul. Kicking at empty space, Coach threw Malcolm into the game and told Ruben to stick with Vinny.

  “Are you sure you want to do that?” Megan asked after the time-out. “One more foul and Ruben is gone.”

  “I know that!” Coach barked.

  The ref blew his whistle and the game started again. There were five minutes left. Coming off a screen, JJ hit a three-pointer to pull us within four. Then Raj stole a lazy entry pass and skipped it ahead to Ruben for two more. Hamilton scored on their next possession; we answered back. It was a two-point game with two minutes to go, when Vinny curled his lip, jab-stepped, and fired a jumper. Ruben stretched his arm to defend, but he stretched too far and made contact. With a minute-forty on the clock, he was out of the game.

  Coach called his last time-out.

  “JJ,” Ruben said, slipping on his warm-up shirt. “Your man is cheating to the right. You haven’t gone left all night. The lane is there.”

  JJ shook his head. “Not yet.”

  Roy leaned in. “Come on, man! We’re running out of time. Just go left.”

  “Not yet,” said JJ.

  Roy was about to protest when Coach cut him off. “It isn’t gonna matter what anyone does on offense if you guys don’t get a stop on defense!” He banged his clipboard against the top of a chair. “We did not come this far to fall two points short,” he continued, picking up steam. “Pesto is killing us. We stop him, we win this game!”

  “I can do it, Coach,” I said.

  Everybody turned to face me.

  “I can stop him. I stopped him at the rec center. I can stop him here.”

  JJ nodded. “It’s true, Coach. He can do it.”

  Coach stared at the rafters. “I can’t believe I’m about to do this.” Then he grabbed me by the shirt. “Start on the right wing. Set a screen for JJ. And, Wheeler—crash the boards. You got that?”

  I felt a surge of energy rush through me. I was going to be on the court with the championship game on the line! As I took off my warm-up shirt, a roar came from the crowd. But I was focused on the job Coach had given me. Shut down Pesto. Set a good screen. Crash the boards. In a steady voice, I answered Coach. “Yes, sir.”

  Khalil inbounded the ball to Raj, who dribbled right to the top of the arc, passed to me on the right wing, then set a screen for JJ. It was the play we’d been running all season—and all night. JJ caught the ball and dribbled with his right hand. His defender stayed to his right, daring him to go left. Suddenly, when we absolutely needed a basket to stay alive, JJ went left. He switched the ball with a crossover, sped to the basket, and with his left arm extended, he delivered the ball to the rim, laying it in softly.

  The game was tied.

  The seven guys on the bench jumped up and down, hugging each other. But it wasn’t over yet.

  We raced to get back on defense. I found Vinny on the elbow. “Told you I’d be here, Pesto,” I said.

  “Not for long, gym rat. This game is over.”

  A moment later, Vinny had the ball. He was dribbling between his legs, but his eyes never left mine—and mine never left his.

  “What’re you gonna do, Pesto?” I asked. “Curl your lip and shoot, or
take a deep breath and drive?”

  Suddenly the smirk was gone. Vinny seemed unsure what to do with his mouth. So, at last, he chose to simply shut it. Dribbling left, he lobbed an entry pass into Melvin Landusky—the right-handed one. McKlusky was there, his red hair standing tall, his arms straight up and down. But the ref called a foul. The Hamilton bench erupted. Our fans booed loudly. With fifteen seconds left, the Harriers had a chance to go up two.

  Landusky’s first free throw hit the rim like a rock and shot straight back. The second one clanked against the metal hinge, bounced twice, and dropped in.

  There was just enough time for me to find JJ.

  “Pick and roll,” I said. “If I set a screen and you roll with the ball, Vinny will stay with me. He won’t switch. He’d rather lose than see me hit the winning shot in his face.”

  “You’re sure?” JJ asked.

  “One hundred percent,” I said, remembering the play Megan and I had run at the rec center. “I’ve been here before.”

  JJ held out his fist—the ready sign. “One more thing,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Game on.”

  I brought my fist down on top of his. “Game on.”

  We had to work quickly. Starting from midcourt, JJ dribbled toward me, leading his man into the screen.

  Ten seconds left.

  JJ’s defender was stuck between me and JJ. I rolled the other way with my hands up.

  Nine seconds.

  JJ’s man yelled, “Switch!” but Vinny followed me. There was nothing between JJ and the basket.

  Eight seconds.

  It happened in slow motion.

  Vinny raced toward JJ, already blaming everyone else on defense for the breakdown.

  Seven seconds.

  JJ took the ball behind his back, looked one way, and passed the other way…to me.

  Six seconds.

  I caught the ball and paused, seven feet from the basket.

  Come on, Vinny. Come and get it.

  Pesto skidded to a halt, switched directions, and flew toward me. He wasn’t alone. Three Harriers rushed at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Raj open on the wing.

  Five seconds.

  When Vinny was close enough to see the whites of my eyes, I squared my feet, bent my knees, and swung a pass ahead of his outstretched hands.

  Raj snagged it, pump-faked, and snapped an entry pass to Khalil.

  Three seconds.

  McKlusky flashed to the low post and Khalil hit him with the ball.

  Two seconds.

  Time seemed to stand still as McKlusky pivoted toward the basket and put the ball up off the glass.

  I thought of Coach, who had given me a chance; Megan, who had been there too; Mom and Dad, who’d forbidden me to even think of quitting; Old Dude, who’d told me what a benchwarmer could be; and Vinny Pesto, who had lit the fire under me in the first place.

  It had all come to this moment.

  The ball bounced cleanly off the backboard and splashed through the net.

  BUZZER.

  The game was over and we had won. My world became a knot of sweaty bodies as twelve guys piled on top of each other in the paint. We were champions.

  28

  The first person to find me after the game was Vinny Pesto. To my surprise, he was smiling. “You may be a champion, but you’re still a gym rat to me,” he said.

  “Same to you, chump.”

  Vinny shook my hand. “See ya at the rec center, scrub.”

  There was only one thing to say. “I’m going to beat you like a twelve-egg omelet, Pesto.”

  For the first time, Vinny looked at me like he knew I could. Shaking his head, he said as he walked away, “I can’t believe you passed the ball.”

  I was still charged with excitement as the court filled with people. Mom and Dad pushed their way through a pack of other parents and found me near the spot where, moments earlier, McKlusky had laid in the winning shot. Mom was fired up, like she had hit the winner herself. “That was amazing,” she said as her feet danced on the hardcourt. “When does next season start?”

  “Maureen,” said Dad as he put his arm around me, “you’re gloating.”

  “I don’t care,” she gushed. “We won, Phil. Toby won. I think we’re allowed to enjoy it.”

  “We’re very proud of you, Toby,” Dad went on. “You found a way.”

  “I guess I had my lightbulb moment,” I joked, before promising Mom and Dad I would meet them in the parking lot.

  All around me, guys were still high-fiving and dog-piling. Across the court, Megan chatted with Valerie. The dance was the next night, but I wasn’t nervous anymore. I knew there was a seventy percent chance Megan was going to be happy, no matter how many times I stepped on her feet…. The weather forecast was calling for snow.

  Suddenly, I felt a large hand on my back. Coach Applewhite. He offered his hand—the same way he had that day we had met at the rec center. “We couldn’t have done this without you, Toby,” he said, his voice slightly hoarse from shouting. He leaned in. “The truth is I’ve always said it takes twelve guys to win one game, but I never really believed it until this season.”

  “Thirteen, Coach.”

  “Thirteen?”

  “You always said it takes twelve guys to win one game. But it takes thirteen. You didn’t count yourself.”

  Coach covered my hand with both of his. He released his grip, then left me near the baseline. I walked over to the bench. Down at one end, Coach’s sport coat was still draped over his chair. Near the other end sat JJ, watching the rest of the celebration with a smile on his face. I took the seat next to him, the seat I had kept warm since November. He punched me lightly on the shoulder. Was he saying good game—or goodbye? I wasn’t sure. But I knew that no matter what happened, it was okay now. He was free. And me? Well, I had proved to the world that a gym rat could play real ball, and that no one was too good for me. It was everything I had wanted to do. In fact, the only bad thing about the end of the season was how long I had to wait to do it all again.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to the following people: Jodi, Elizabeth, Beverly, Vikki, Barbara, Maria, Ericka, Marissa, Joe, Victoria, Scott, and Chelsea.

  About the Author

  Thatcher Heldring grew up in the Pacific Northwest, where he taught himself to write and play basketball—though not at the same time. After college, he moved to New York City, where he played softball during the summers and indoor soccer year-round. In his spare time, he held down several jobs in book publishing. He has also worked as a grocery bagger, a ditchdigger, a shortstop, a small forward, a goalie, a scorekeeper, a coach, a rabid fan, and a benchwarmer. He and his wife, Staci, live in Seattle, a good place for indoor sports.

  Thatcher Heldring’s short story “A Genius for Sauntering” appeared in the young adult anthology Not Like I’m Jealous or Anything: The Jealousy Book, edited by Marissa Walsh and published by Delacorte Press. Toby Wheeler: Eighth-Grade Benchwarmer is his first novel. Visit him online at www.thatchertheauthor.com.

  Published by Delacorte Press an imprint of Random House Children’s Books a division of Random House, Inc. New York

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2007 by Thatcher Heldring

  All rights reserved.

  Delacorte Press and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Heldring, Thatcher.

  Toby Wheeler, eighth-grade benchwarmer / Thatcher Heldring.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: When Toby finally
decides to join the middle school basketball team, he does not anticipate the changes that will occur in his relationship with his best friend JJ, who is the team’s star player, as well as in other areas of his life.

  [1. Basketball—Fiction. 2. Friendship—Fiction. 3. Interpersonal relations—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.H3734To 2007

  [Fic]—dc22

  2006036824

  eISBN: 978-0-375-89056-7

  v3.0