by Mike Lupica
Billy looked over at the clock, the same clock he’d look at during practice, wanting it to slow down when they’d be scrimmaging at the end of practice, not wanting the scrimmage to end.
Eleven o’clock, exactly.
There would be other big games, he told himself. He would make sure of that.
The next time he looked up at the clock at 11:02, the gym at West got quiet and the first boy walked up the steps of the stage they’d set up under one of the baskets, sat down, took a deep breath, held his hands above the keys for a second, then started to play.
The next time Billy looked up at the clock, after the third kid—and first girl—had played, it was 11:15.
Billy knew it was all classical music because his mom usually had that kind of music playing in the house when she was there, working or cooking or just reading. He knew, because his mom had told him, that Ben was playing the hardest piece of anybody in the program, something by Mozart.
And other than hearing when somebody would make a mistake, hitting some clunky key and making a clunky sound that was like dragging a finger across a blackboard, that was about all Billy knew about the music he was listening to in the gym at West.
But he knew he’d made the right choice.
For his brother.
The audience had finished applauding the girl. It was Ben’s turn now. He came walking up the steps, looking straight ahead, his face real serious. He sat down and had to move the bench a little closer to the piano. When he had it adjusted the way he wanted, he turned and looked down to where Billy and Peg were sitting.
Maybe just to make sure.
Billy wasn’t sure if you were allowed to do this at a piano recital, but he gave his brother a couple of fist pumps.
Ben smiled.
Billy thought it was for the fist pump and that he would start playing now.
Only he didn’t.
He just kept staring out at the audience and smiling, and it was then that Billy heard, “Is this seat taken?”
And looked up and saw his mom.
TWENTY
He and Peg were out the door after the applause for Ben had finally stopped.
Billy didn’t know how good the kids coming after Ben on the program were going to be. But from what he’d heard so far, he couldn’t believe any of them would come close to his brother, who had blown everybody away.
As Billy had listened, he realized he couldn’t tell the difference between his brother’s music and what he’d hear on his mom’s radio at home.
That’s how well Ben had played.
Afterward, Billy applauded harder than anybody, didn’t even get embarrassed when he looked around and saw that he was the only one in the gym giving his brother a standing O.
His mom finally touched his arm and said, “Go.”
The clock said 11:25.
Halftime.
Maybe.
Before he left, Billy said to his mom, “When did you . . . ? How . . . ?”
She said, “I was on my way to the airport in Boston about ten minutes after I talked to Ben and you. And I will give you all the other details later. But right now you have to go play your game.”
Billy changed in the backseat of Peg’s car.
Looking in the rearview mirror, she said, “I’m not peeking. But I didn’t notice you putting your uniform in the car.”
Billy said, “I was wearing it underneath my clothes. Just in case.”
Peg said, “Little bit like Superman changing in the phone booth.”
Ben was a Superman guy, because of his comic books. Billy had never even watched the cartoon show.
“What?” he said to Peg.
“I’m even older than I think sometimes,” Peg said, grinning at him in the rearview mirror. “Now I think I’ll just drive.”
The clock on her dashboard showed 11:40 when they pulled up in front of the gym, after having stopped at what felt like every single stoplight between West and the high school.
Billy ran up the front steps, through the double doors, past a table in the lobby where some girls he knew from school were selling drinks.
On his way across the lobby, he heard a horn sound.
And hoped it wasn’t the horn ending the game, that they hadn’t played faster than usual today. Or that they hadn’t started earlier than they were supposed to—
No. He was still in time.
They were getting ready to start the fourth quarter.
The scoreboard said the visitors were leading 28-24, but Billy had no way of knowing whether the Magic were the visitors today or not.
The guys were still in the huddle around his dad, who was kneeling.
Billy ran for them like he was going for a loose ball.
“Dad,” he said.
The other players turned around and stared. Billy felt like everybody in the gym was staring at him.
Again.
Then Lenny and the guys gave him room.
Joe Raynor, still kneeling, looked up, clipboard in his hand. Billy tried to read his face, not knowing how mad he was.
He sure hoped his dad had checked his messages at home, so at least he’d known why Billy hadn’t shown up earlier.
If he hadn’t checked his messages at home, maybe he didn’t think Billy had even tried to call.
“Dad,” Billy said again, but then before he could say anything else, his dad held up his hand.
“Later,” he said. “We’ve got a game to win.”
“I know I should have told you myself,” Billy said. “But I was afraid you’d be mad.”
“I’m not mad,” his dad said. And then he did the last thing Billy expected.
He smiled. Then he swallowed hard and said, “What you did is what I should have done for him. I’m proud of you.”
The ref blew his whistle then, came over and said he needed the Magic players back on the court.
“I almost forgot,” Billy said. “Are we up four or down four?”
“Down,” Lenny said.
Billy’s dad was still looking at him.
“You ready?”
Billy grinned. “I was born ready,” he said.
“Then get in there.”
TWENTY-ONE
Billy’s dad said one last thing to him as they were breaking the huddle. “Don’t be afraid to shoot.”
It was Magic ball. Billy could see the Hornets were in a packed-in zone, which is what happened when your team couldn’t make anything from outside. They basically dared you to keep shooting from out there.
But on that first possession of the fourth quarter, somebody finally did make an outside shot for the Magic. The first time Billy touched the ball he did exactly what his dad had told him to do: drained one.
Now they were down by two.
At the other end, Lenny snuck in behind Tim Sullivan as he was trying to make a move toward the basket, took the ball away from him, wheeled and started up the court for a two-on-one with Billy.
When the Hornets’ guy back on defense cheated over to block Lenny’s path to the basket, Lenny passed the ball to Billy, just inside the free throw line. His favorite spot.
He drained another one.
Game tied, just like that.
As he ran back on defense, he saw the double doors to the gym open and his mom and Ben walk through them.
When Ben caught his eye, he gave Billy the same fist pump Billy had given him at West.
Billy, trying to be cool, just nodded.
The Hornets went back to a man-to-man, mostly because of Billy. The two teams traded baskets for a while, Lenny being the first to take advantage of the man-to-man with a layup and a short jump shot. Then with four minutes left, Billy hit his third outside shot of the quarter. The game was tied, 38 all.
Maybe the perfect season was going to end up with a perfect shooting day.
The Hornets—Tim, mostly—hung in there, though. The Magic pulled ahead by two points with three minutes to go. Then the Hornets got a couple of stops and they we
re up by two. Billy drained another one. Four-for-four. He was still in the zone, and the game was tied again.
A foul at the other end of the court.
Tim Sullivan made one of two free throws.
Hornets by one.
And then everybody stopped scoring, just like that.
It was as if everybody on the court got nervous all at once. It wasn’t any big stuff. Jim Sarni got called for a travel right before he hit a shot that would have put the Magic back ahead. A guy on the Hornets cut the wrong way on Tim and he threw the ball out of bounds. Lenny got fouled, went to the line and missed two free throws.
Then Tim, amazingly, missed two himself.
Magic ball, thirty-two seconds left.
Billy’s dad called time-out.
In the huddle, he didn’t talk about what was on the line for them. He was all business, saying, “We’re gonna hold it for the last shot. Except we’re gonna pretend that ten seconds left is the end of the game. That’s when we shoot. If we miss, that’ll still give us time to foul and send them to the line, where they haven’t exactly been stellar lately.”
He told them to work it around on the outside while they ran down the clock. When it got under twenty seconds, Lenny was supposed to drive to his left—Lenny was the only kid on the team who could dribble equally well with both hands—and then pass it back to Billy as he came around a double screen from the other side.
All Billy could do was nod.
His dad said, “I’m going with the hot hand. Yours.”
In the last game, he was finally Last Shot Raynor.
“Wow,” Billy said to Lenny as they walked slowly back on the court, both of them trying to breathe normally.
“The way you always wanted it, dude,” Lenny said. “You’re gonna be money.”
Billy could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the way it did when his dad would get mad and make them run those suicide drills at the end of practice. He couldn’t tell whether he was scared or just excited.
Maybe both.
He wished the game were tied, he knew that for sure.
Wished that the worst that could happen if he missed was overtime.
Then he reminded himself that good shooters weren’t ever supposed to think about missing.
He wiped the sweat off what was supposed to be that hot hand of his on his jersey.
As they worked the ball around, he touched the ball twice, nearly dropped it right out of bounds the second time.
Twenty seconds left.
At ten seconds, a little later than he was supposed to, Lenny crossed over on Tim and went left.
Billy waited, like his dad had told him to, until Jim set the first screen. Made his move. Jeff picked off the Hornets’ guy, who had switched over on Billy.
Billy was wide open.
Money, he thought.
Lenny turned and threw him the ball. Billy took one dribble the way he liked to, looked up, went into his shot, felt his legs and arms coming up together.
Five seconds left.
Everything feeling perfect.
Right up until he passed.
Passed to Lenny DiNardo, who was wide open about three steps from the basket because Tim Sullivan had come running—too late—toward Billy.
Maybe it looked like a shot as Billy let it go. But he was passing all the way, hitting Lenny right in stride, watching from his favorite shooting spot as Lenny released the ball.
Money.
There was no time after the ball went through the basket for Tim to do anything but throw the ball wildly down the court as the horn sounded.
The crazy day got even crazier then, guys running in all directions on the court. Billy felt somebody grab him from behind, thinking it had to be Lenny.
Ben.
Who stepped back now and shot Billy the hardest high five in the history of high fives.
Billy said to his brother, “Hey, watch the hands.”
“Yours or mine?” Ben said.
Then Lenny was with them, and he was pounding on Billy, and Billy was pounding on him. Then all the other guys on the Magic piled in, and they were all pounding on each other.
When Billy finally got loose, he turned around and there was his dad.
“That wasn’t the play I drew up,” he said.
Then he said, “But it sure was a play that great players make.”
He smiled at Billy then. A real smile. The biggest Billy could ever remember seeing on him.
“Nice pass,” his dad said.
