Hot Hand

by Mike Lupica

  Billy said, “Or you’re faking now.”

  Ben turned over on his bed, so he was facing away from Billy. “Go play your game, okay?”

  “Not before I find out what’s really wrong with you,” Billy said.

  “You think I’m blowing off piano again, don’t you?” Ben said.

  “Are you?”

  Ben didn’t say anything right away. Didn’t turn around. Billy didn’t know what to say, either. He knew he was the older brother here, by a year. Yet he never felt a year smarter around Ben.

  He’d always thought Ben was the smart one of the kids in the family, as if he was the one who had the most of their mom in him.

  Billy wanted to be smart enough to get something out of him now, as much as he wanted to get out to the car and get to the game.

  The best he could do, still talking to the back of his brother’s head, was this:

  “Well, any time you want to talk.”

  “I don’t,” Ben said. “Have a good game.”

  He headed back down the front stairs. From the kitchen, he could hear Eliza, either talking to Peg or on the phone.

  They all made fun of her and how the only thing she seemed to love more than purses or clothes or shoes or music or Instant Messaging was the sound of her own voice. But the way Ben was acting lately, Billy didn’t mind that sound so much these days.

  At least when Eliza was around, somebody in the house actually seemed happy.

  He found out in the car that his dad wasn’t coming to the game.

  His dad never missed a practice or a game. But as soon as Billy did everything but dive into the backseat, apologizing for keeping them waiting, Mr. DiNardo said that he’d just gotten a call on his cell. Billy’s dad, he said, had some big emergency with his biggest client and had to go straight to his office.

  Now neither one of his parents was having a weekend this weekend, Billy thought.

  “So I guess you guys are stuck with me today,” Mr. DiNardo said.

  Billy and Lenny didn’t act as if they were stuck with anybody. They pretty much reacted the way you did when you walked into the classroom and saw an easy substitute teacher you’d had before, one who will let you do pretty much whatever you want to, short of having a spitball war.

  “High five,” Lenny said.

  Billy gave him one that produced a loud slap.

  “Bump,” Lenny said.

  They bumped fists.

  Mr. DiNardo, a funny guy who was the morning disc jockey on the town radio station, was checking them both out in the rearview mirror while they were stopped at a red light on Cherry Street. He said, “For a game this big, you guys have a lot of confidence in me.”

  Lenny looked at his dad in the rearview mirror. The two of them looked exactly alike to Billy, and now they had the same grin on their faces.

  Just like that, Billy couldn’t believe how jealous he felt, just looking from one face to the other, seeing again how much the two of them liked each other. Trying to remember the last time it was as easy being with his dad as it was for Lenny to be with Mr. D.

  Sometimes Billy wished he and his dad could like each other as much as they said they loved each other.

  “It’s not exactly you we’re confident about, Pop,” Lenny said. “It’s us.”

  “Hold on to that thought,” Mr. D said. “Because you guys both know I’m a basketball coach in name only.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr D,” Billy said, feeling as cocky as his friend Lenny all of a sudden. “We got you today.”

  He wasn’t sure whether he was really feeling cocky, or whether he was just happy that he was going to get to play ball today without his dad looking over his shoulder.

  Maybe he was just happy for once to be playing for somebody else’s dad.

  ELEVEN

  They were ahead almost the whole game.

  Never by more than ten points. It wasn’t like they were running away with anything, not against the Hornets. Not against Tim Sullivan, the guy Billy considered the second-best player in the league after Lenny.

  Tim Sullivan was taller than Lenny, tall enough to play forward in their league, or even center if he wanted. But in his case, size didn’t matter. Tim Sullivan was a point guard, had always been a point guard, and the only other point guard who could come close to covering him, because of how big he was and how good he was, was Lenny DiNardo.

  Tim Sullivan was the player Billy’s dad was always talking to him about. He said Billy should be more like him, that even though Tim could get his shot against any player in the league or any defense, even though he seemed to always have the ball in his hands when he was in the game, he managed to keep everybody else on his team “involved.”

  That was a big word with Billy’s dad. Involved.

  He made it sound like something you did in church instead of a gym.

  Today, though, as much as Tim was keeping his teammates involved, the Magic were winning the game. In Billy’s mind, there were two big reasons for that:

  1. Lenny was doing a good job guarding Tim.

  2. Billy Raynor couldn’t miss.

  Could. Not. Miss.

  He felt the way he did sometimes at the Pop-A-SHOT they had in the basement, when he’d be down there by himself and get a good rhythm going. He’d make everything he threw at the basket until the clock ran out.

  That kind of day.

  Mr. DiNardo wasn’t telling him he was shooting too much because nobody was. If anything, the guys on his team wanted him to shoot more.

  So he had that going for him. And this: Because the Magic were down a couple of players, he and Lenny got to play the whole second half.

  “That’s the way your dad would do it, right?” Mr. DiNardo said at halftime.

  Billy and Lenny answered at the same time. “Absolutely, Coach,” they said.

  “I think that’s the first time anybody ever called me Coach,” Mr. D said.

  The Hornets tried to switch from zone to man-to-man in the third quarter. They even switched Tim Sullivan over to Billy. It made Billy mad the first couple of times down the court, Tim guarding him so closely, ignoring everybody else, that Lenny couldn’t get him the ball.

  Guarding him so tight those first couple of times Billy could hardly breathe.

  Lenny could see how annoyed Billy was. When Tim was shooting a couple of free throws, he came over and stood next to him. “Dude,” he said, “they had to put the big dog on you. It’s a compliment.”

  The switch actually worked for the Magic, because Lenny started scoring anytime he wanted to against Tony Gilroy, the guy from the Hornets who was guarding him now. After about two minutes, the Hornets had to switch back, Tim going back on Lenny. Before the quarter ended, Billy hit two straight shots, and the Magic were back to being ahead by ten.

  It looked like they would stay ahead, not let the Hornets get any closer than that, until Lenny picked up his fourth foul with six minutes left. He called the time-out before his dad did and took himself out of the game.

  As he was leaving the court, he said to Billy, “Don’t let the other guys panic if they make a run. ’Cause they probably will make one now, without me in there.”

  “No worries, dude,” Billy said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. Because sometimes when Lenny wasn’t out there with him, he felt as if he were trying to play with only one sneaker on.

  The Hornets made their run, just like Lenny said they would. They scored three baskets in a row in the first minute Lenny was on the bench, then even when Lenny put himself back in, they scored two more baskets on turnovers.

  Just like that, the game was tied.

  This was a whole different game from the one they’d been playing all morning.

  It stayed tied into the last two minutes. The Hornets stayed in their man-to-man, Tim on Lenny, Tony Gilroy on Billy. Billy hit another one on the outside, snuck away on a fast break, getting to the middle just like his dad would have wanted. He wasn’t sure, but keeping track inside h
is head, he had twenty points now, the most he’d ever scored in a game.

  He knew it would make his dad crazy if he even thought Billy was keeping track of his own points.

  But his dad wasn’t here.

  The game was still tied with twenty seconds left.

  Lenny called their last time-out. Everybody knew he was the one who’d really been coaching the team all game long. He wasn’t going to stop now. In the huddle he told everybody where they should go on the last play, what they should do. The rest of the guys out there with him—Billy, Jeff Wilpon, Jim Sarni, Danny Timms—just listened.

  When Lenny was finished, he looked up at his dad, as if remembering he was still there, and said,

  “If that’s okay with you, of course, Dad.”

  Mr. DiNardo smiled.

  “Boys,” he said, “you just do exactly what my son the coach told you to do.”

  There was nothing tricky about the play Lenny had come up with. He said there was no way he could take Tim Sullivan one-on-one. But he wanted Tim to think he was going to try, anyway. He was going to drive to his right like he wanted to go around him on the baseline, have Jim Sarni set pretty much what would be a fake screen on him.

  At the same time he was making his move, he wanted Jeff Wilpon to run over to the other side of the court and set a pick for Billy.

  The way Lenny said it would happen from there, Billy would cut around Jeff’s pick, then be open when Lenny passed him the ball a couple of steps inside the free throw line.

  Everybody knew it was Billy’s favorite spot.

  And then, if everything had gone the way it was supposed to, Billy would make one more open shot today and the Magic would be the number-one seed going into the play-offs.

  And they would still be undefeated.

  Lenny made his move with ten seconds left. Jim set his pick on Tim, Lenny took a couple of more dribbles to his right like he was going hard down the baseline.

  Only he put the brakes on.

  Tony Gilroy, Billy’s man, turned to watch. As he did, Jeff came over and set a pick on him.

  Billy blew past both of them, busting it the way Lenny had told him to, and headed toward the lane.

  One small problem: Tim Sullivan was running at him from his right almost at the exact same moment Lenny was getting ready to pass Billy the ball. Billy thought about cutting the other way, toward the basket. But when he gave a quick look behind him, he saw Tony Gilroy scrambling back into the play, coming hard from Billy’s left.

  There was still plenty of time to give the ball right back to Lenny, who Billy could see was wide open now.

  But Lenny, who usually would take the last shot himself, had wanted Billy to do it this time, or he wouldn’t have drawn up this play in the huddle. And Billy wanted in the worst way to be the kind of guy who had the ball in his hands in moments like this, who wasn’t afraid to take the last shot in a game, no matter how hard a shot it was.

  Hero shots, Lenny called them.

  Making one against somebody as good as Tim Sullivan was going to make it all that sweeter.

  He knew he wasn’t passing the ball now, passing up a chance like this.

  Billy squeezed between Tim and Tony instead, leaned in the way he thought only Lenny could for one of his hero-shot moves, took one last dribble and let the ball go.

  The shot was still in the air when the horn went off.

  Billy had stumbled right after he shot, tripping over Tony Gilroy’s leg, ended up sitting pretty much under the basket as regulation ended between the Magic and the Hornets.

  It ended this way:

  With his shot hitting nothing but net.

  Magic 42, Hornets 40.

  The Magic were still the only undefeated team in the league.

  Lenny got to Billy first, then Jim, then Jeff, then Danny Timms and the rest of the guys. Mr. D came next, saying, “Okay, you guys are 10-0 but, hey, I’m 1-0.” He grinned at Billy then, looking more like Lenny than ever, and gave him some fist to bump.

  It was when Mr. D stepped away to hug Lenny that Billy saw his dad standing in the corner of the gym, almost hidden by the end of the bleachers, arms crossed, not looking happy, not looking sad.

  Just there.

  Watching everything that was happening around the Magic’s basket.

  Billy walked over to him. Maybe somebody else would have gone running after a game like this, jumped right up into his dad’s arms.

  But it wasn’t like that with them.

  Billy walked.

  “You were here?” he said.

  “Got here with about eight minutes left to play,” his dad said. “When it still looked like we were going to win easy.”

  “How come you didn’t coach?”

  “It was Pete’s game to win or lose,” he said. Pete was Mr. DiNardo. “You don’t just show up and tell him to move over. That’s not the way it works in sports.”

  Billy wanted to get back with the guys, get back to the celebration. But before he left, he had to ask.

  “What did you think of that last shot?” he said.

  His dad didn’t even hesitate.

  “Lenny didn’t have a guy within ten feet of him,” he said. “You should’ve passed.”

  TWELVE

  “Yo,” Lenny said at recess on Monday. “I still can’t believe your dad dogged you that way after we won the game.”

  “Me, neither,” Billy said.

  “Sounded to me like more of that tough love my dad is always joking about,” Lenny said. He used his fingers to put little brackets around tough love the way Eliza would sometimes.

  “Yeah,” Billy said. “Except the joke was about as funny as the Ratner twins.”

  “The Ratner twins are funny,” Lenny said. “Just not the way those two dopes think.”

  They were sitting on a couple of swings that had been on the playground at West from the time when it was one of the lower schools in town. The daily four-square game was still going on, but Billy and Lenny had bagged out of it, saying they were giving everybody else a chance today.

  “Not only did you make the winning shot,” Lenny said. “You made it against Tim Stinking Sullivan.”

  “You noticed, huh?” Billy said. “Least somebody did.”

  “He just thinks he’s toughening you up, or whatever, for the play-offs,” Lenny said. He was tossing some small, smooth rocks he’d picked up into a plastic trash can about ten yards away, hardly ever missing. Billy was sure there were probably sports that Lenny didn’t make look easy, he just couldn’t think of any.

  Lenny DiNardo made everything he did look easy. Not only that, he made whatever he was doing at a given time look like the most fun thing in the world. It was why Billy had always wanted to be like him, pretty much from the first day they’d met.

  “With all the stuff that’s been happening lately,” Billy said, “I’m pretty sure I’m tough enough, LD.”

  Lenny gave him one of his no-worries smiles. “I hear you,” he said, and then put out his palm so Billy could give him an old-fashioned low five they’d seen in a basketball game on ESPN Classic, one where you just slid your own hand over the other guy’s, like you were trying to scoop a dollar bill or something off it.

  “If my dad is gonna be like this in the regular season, I don’t even want to think about what he’s gonna be like in the play-offs.”

  “We’re probably gonna need to wear helmets,” Lenny said, “and that’s just at practice.”

  Billy poked Lenny, pointed and said, “Can I put my helmet on now?”

  Zeke and the Ratner twins were walking straight at them.

  When he was close enough to them, Zeke said, “You guys a little big for swings?”

  Neither Billy nor Lenny said anything. Billy had a feeling ignoring Zeke wasn’t going to make him go away.

  Unfortunately he was right.

  “I’ve been forgetting to ask you something, Raynor,” Zeke the Geek said. “You had a chance to work on your tackling lately?”<
br />
  “Yeah,” Bruce Ratner said.

  “Yeah,” Hank Ratner said.

  Billy still didn’t say anything. He’d been instructed by Mrs. Marion—ordered by her, was really more like it—to stay away from Zeke when they weren’t in class.

  When she had told Billy that he had almost said, Yeah, Mrs. Marion, I have to be told to stay out of Zeke the Geek’s way.

  Only now here Zeke was.

  Billy couldn’t believe he was looking for more trouble in front of the whole school. But he was Zeke, and trouble was really the only thing he was good at, the way Lenny was good at sports or Ben was good at piano.

  Maybe he wasn’t scared of Mrs. Marion any more than he was of the other kids in the school.

  “Asked you a question, Raynor.”

  Zeke was standing as close as he could be to the swing Billy was sitting on without actually touching it.

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you, Zeke,” Billy said, looking up at him.

  What happened next happened fast.

  The Ratner twins moved in behind Zeke. Suddenly the rest of the playground couldn’t see Billy unless they looked through Bruce and Hank Ratner.

  Before Billy could get a better grip on the rope handles attached to his swing, Zeke the Geek leaned down and jerked the seat up so that Billy went flying backward into the dirt.

  “Hey,” Lenny said, hopping out of his own seat. “That’s just plain old wrong, dude.”

  Zeke turned to him and said, “You want some of this, DiNerdo?”

  “Yeah,” Lenny said, stepping toward Zeke, “unfortunately, I guess I do.”

  “Lenny, no!” Billy said, getting to his feet, brushing the dirt off him. “You don’t want to get suspended over this loser, too.”

  “Why not? It’ll be fun,” Zeke said. “Then we can be losers together.”

  “Good point, Zeke, no kidding,” Billy said. “It’s amazing you don’t get better grades with a brain like yours.”

  “You really think I’m gonna let you get away with sucker-punching me?” Zeke said.

  “I try not to think of you at all, Zeke.”

  Billy looked past Zeke. No teachers around, just like the last time.