“Good one, Coach,” Weston said from against the wall, where the rest of us were waiting our turn.
Here’s how the Fox Hunt/Gut-Buster worked: Two players stand on the baseline under one basket. Coach tosses the ball (the fox) downcourt toward the other basket. The two players (the hunters) take off after the ball. The first one to get the ball continues to the basket to shoot. The other guy defends the basket. If the shooter misses and the defender gets the ball, they both take off toward the other basket, and the new shooter gets a chance to score. If he doesn’t make the hoop and his opponent nabs the rebound, then they have to run all the way back down the court again. The first to score wins. More important, the winner sits. The loser goes back in line and keeps doing the exercise until he finally makes his shot. The last guy standing, who never scored, has to come half an hour early to practice for a week to practice free throws.
Believe me, doing the Gut-Buster once is hard enough. Doing it two or three times can leave your mouth tasting like everything you’ve eaten for two days. Not pleasant.
To be fair, Coach keeps a sharp eye on the players. If he thinks anyone is struggling, he benches them until they feel better.
Which is why Theo was sitting on the bench, hunched over, wheezing like a vacuum cleaner that just sucked up a golf ball.
“I should…never eat…breakfast…on Wednesdays,” he croaked. He swallowed hard whatever had just come up into his mouth.
What he meant was, Wednesday was the only day we had practice before school. All other days we had it after school. On Wednesday afternoons Coach had to pick up his kids from their school because that was the day his wife, a surgeon, performed all her arthroscopic knee surgeries. She’d even performed surgery on some professional athletes, including one Laker, two Clippers, a Dodger, and two Anaheim Ducks. He’d told us that they met when she’d repaired the torn meniscus in his left knee. Sounds gross to me, but he always gets a dopey grin when he tells the story. As far as I can tell, love has a lot to do with lame first-meeting stories and dopey grins.
“Faster, boys!” Coach Mandrake hollered through cupped hands. “My daughter’s hamster could get to that ball faster! Her hamster!”
“But, Coach,” Weston said, “even if your daughter’s hamster could get to the ball faster, then what? He couldn’t pick it up with his tiny hands. So he couldn’t dribble or shoot.” He wiggled his hands as if they were hamster size, trying to dribble a giant basketball. “See? No can do, Coach.”
The rest of us standing behind Coach and Weston couldn’t help ourselves. We burst out laughing.
Coach turned toward Weston with a scowl. Even his goatee seemed to be frowning. “Excellent question, Weston. Do two laps around the gym and see if that helps you come up with the answer.”
“Aw, Coach,” Weston complained as he started his laps. When Coach couldn’t see his face, Weston grinned at us and gave a thumbs-up sign. That’s because doing laps was easier than doing the Gut-Buster. He could jog at a slow pace because Coach would be focused on us, which meant Weston wouldn’t get tired, plus he’d miss his turn hunting the fox because we’d have to get to classes soon. Win-win. Exactly the kind of clever ploy Master Thief would use to overcome an obstacle. I made a mental note so I could use something like this in my comic.
Coach glanced over at Weston and he picked up speed. When Coach looked away, Weston slowed down again.
“Is it still Wednesday?” Coach hollered at Roger and Sami. “Is it possible we’re actually going backward in time? Am I getting younger standing here?”
We all watched as Sami caught up to the rolling ball at half-court and jogged beside it for a few feet like a cowboy roping a cow. Suddenly he bent over and scooped up the ball, then started dribbling toward the basket for what should have been an easy layup. Roger, with a scowl of determination on his face, chuffed after him like a sputtering locomotive. Say what you will about Roger, he didn’t like to lose.
“You’d better make that shot,” Roger shouted at Sami. “’Cuz I don’t know if I can stop from running into you.”
Sami took the bait, glancing fearfully over his shoulder as he dribbled closer to the basket. The sight of Roger hurtling toward him like a wobbly meteor rattled him enough to make him miss the layup. He quickly scrambled after the ball and spun to shoot again. Too late. Roger was there just in time to get a hand up, tipping Sami’s shot straight into the air. Roger used his bulk to box out Sami, snag the ball, and start dribbling toward the other basket.
“Now, that’s what I’m talking about!” Coach said encouragingly. He tugged his goatee as if each tug were sending wireless energy to Roger and Sami. “Go, boys, go!”
Coach Mandrake was the only black teacher at Orangetree. He also taught music and social science. I knew that he’d played keyboard for a rock band called Justice in the nineties. There were some photos of them on the Internet. They put out a CD called Dark Clouds Comin’ that had made the charts. I’d asked him once why the group didn’t stay together, and he’d shrugged and said, “We didn’t know what we wanted. We just thought we did.”
I had no idea what he’d meant, but I knew it was supposed to be meaningful. Adults like to say things like that, as if life is a riddle we can only solve when we’re older. The thing is, though, we’re alive right now, too. We’re going through scary stuff every day. We could use some answers now. But good luck getting them, unless they come in the medicinal form of this-is-good-for-you-which-is-why-it-tastes-so-bad lectures. Has any kid ever gotten anything from a lecture, other than how to nod sheepishly and say, “Yes, I learned my lesson”?
Roger was within fifteen feet of the basket. He turned his back to the hoop and started reversing in, using his heft to force Sami backward. But Sami had quick hands and kept swatting at the ball. Once he nicked the ball and it rolled away. But Roger grabbed it first.
Probably the biggest thing Coach ever taught me was by accident. One time I went to see him about a broken locker. He wasn’t in the gym, so I looked for him in the music room. As I approached, I heard this really faint violin music. I knew from listening to my parents’ music in the car that it was some famous classical piece by Bach or Vivaldi. I figured he must be playing his iPod in preparation for a music appreciation class. But when I opened the door, Coach was standing in the middle of the room, playing the violin, his eyes closed, his body swaying slightly in rhythm with the music.
I’d just stood there for a moment, unsure what to do. I don’t know why, but for some reason his playing made me think of my comic book drawings hidden in my drawer. I’d always thought of him as just “Coach,” the guy who taught us how to play better basketball. Sure, he also taught classes, but since I wasn’t in them, that didn’t count. And I knew he’d played college ball and was in that rock band, but that was before my time, so that didn’t count either. All that counted was now.
And now I saw him differently. He was more than I’d thought, and that made me feel a little ashamed. Since that day I’d been wondering about all my teachers. What else was there was about them that I hadn’t realized? What secret talents and dreams did they keep hidden in their drawers?
“Chris,” Coach said, turning toward me, “you’re up.”
SHOWDOWN
“READY, Chris?” Coach said, holding the ball.
I nodded.
“Ready, Three?”
“Always, Coach,” Three said confidently.
Three was Justin Caldwell III, but we called him Three. He was quick and our best ball handler, plus he had a sweet eight-foot fadeaway jumper that was hard to defend against.
Coach bowled the ball down the court. “Go!” he shouted.
Three and I leaped across the baseline and ran full speed down the court.
No one cheered or called names. Coach didn’t allow it, because he didn’t want any player to feel bad if they weren’t being cheered for. “Besides,” he’d told us, “you don’t play for cheers, you play because you love to play. You let any other re
ason creep in and you risk losing the fun.”
Our response: “Yes, I understand.”
But we didn’t, of course, because having people cheer from the sidelines is part of what made it fun. Otherwise, why build bleachers?
None of this stuff was on my mind as I raced toward the rolling ball. The only thing in my head was the ball, as if my brain had morphed into a basketball. “Get the ball! Get the ball!” my basketball brain chanted.
Three kept pace next to me. I realized that I wouldn’t be able to outrun him; we were too evenly matched in the speed department. So I had to try something else.
As we both got within ten feet of the rolling ball, I saw Three start to crouch a little and reach out his hand to snatch up the ball. That’s when I made my move. I crossed in front of him, slightly bumping him with my hip as I passed. This knocked him sideways a couple of steps, but he quickly recovered.
“Keep running, Weston,” Coach yelled. Out of the corner on my eye I could see that Weston had stopped to watch us. He ignored Coach’s warning.
Here’s where I did something out of the ordinary. Everyone always tries to grab the ball while they’re running alongside it. That’s difficult to do, because you have to reach both hands down, which is awkward and gets you a little turned around.
Instead, I ran ahead of the ball a few feet, let it roll into my hands, and sped off toward the basket.
Three was only two feet behind me and gaining fast.
I went into my layup mode. Anticipating that, Three launched a desperate leap, hoping to block my shot. However, I’d expected that move and stopped dead five feet from the basket. Three hurtled past me. I shot the bank shot.
Score.
No adult riddles or life lectures or hidden meanings. No secrets. No lies. No brother hiding something. No parent pushing you somewhere. No hidden drawers.
Just a ball through a hoop. That I understand.
LOCKER ROOM CASANOVAS
“WHEN you kiss a girl,” Juvy said as he tied his shoes, “you’ve got to really mash the lips. Like when you’re twisting an orange on a juicer.”
“Sounds painful,” Weston said.
“It’s not,” Juvy replied. “Plus, it lets the girl know you’re serious.”
“Serious about what?” Sami asked.
Juvy shrugged, either because he thought the answer was too obvious, or because he wasn’t sure of the answer. I know I wasn’t.
We were changing in the locker room after practice. Weston, who had dodged the Gut-Buster, looked fresh and ready to go. The rest of us were munching on energy bars to get us through until lunch.
During these twenty minutes, we talked about a lot of worldly stuff. Mostly girls. At least the other guys talked. I listened. None of us had any real experience with girls anyway, so it was mostly guesswork. It was like talking in detail about a sport you’ve never played and didn’t know the rules of. Girls were basically like cricket to us.
“I heard you’re supposed to be gentle,” Sami said. “I heard my sister talking to her girlfriends. They said it’s more like two sponges pressing lightly against each other.”
“Nope,” Juvy said. “That’s not true. Maybe that’s what girls tell each other, but in real life they want a real man.”
I wasn’t sure how mashing lips made a guy more manly, but since I didn’t have any real information to add, I just kept quiet and finished my energy bar.
Theo buttoned his shirt without looking at the rest of us or joining in the conversation. I suspect he and Rain had been doing some kissing, but he never mentioned it, so it was off-limits to bring up.
“I kissed a girl over the summer. She was sixteen,” Juvy said.
Sixteen! This instantly made him our team expert on all things related to girls. Harold Claymoore had been nicknamed Juvy because his dad was always saying that’s where he would wind up (in juvenile hall detention) if he didn’t “straighten up and fly right.” “Flying right” meant saying “Yes, sir” to everything his dad said, especially playing football, which Juvy hated, because his dad had been a star quarterback in high school. “Best years of my life,” I’d heard his dad say once, with no hint of pleasure on his face. “Worst years of mine,” Juvy had muttered. His dad had grounded him for two weeks.
“Sixteen?” Three said. “That’s crap.”
“Was she awake when you kissed her?” Roger scoffed, but the jealousy was plain on his face.
“She was cool. I was visiting my grandparents in Colorado and she lived down the street. We hung out at the pool together.”
“And?” Weston said with a grin.
Juvy shrugged. “And one night we were sitting in the Jacuzzi. There was no one else there, because my grandparents live in a retirement community and everyone’s in bed by like six o’clock.”
“Then what was this girl doing there?” Three asked skeptically, like a detective who’d just cracked a felon’s alibi.
“Her folks got divorced and she and her mom had to move in with her grandmother until they could find a new place.”
“Get back to the kissing,” Weston said.
“Nothing much to tell. Like I said, we mashed lips so hard I could feel her teeth. She seemed to like that.”
“Any tongues involved?” Weston goaded.
“Nope,” Juvy said. “Just lips. But we still text and Skype, so I must’ve done something right. Anyway, I’m going back to visit my grandparents this summer, and we’ll see what happens.”
See. What. Happens.
Those three words were so filled with hope and possibility and adventure that the rest of us just nodded.
For some reason, Brooke’s face popped into my head.
“Hey, guys,” I said, “I have a favor to ask.” They all turned to face me with surprised looks. I’d never addressed them as a group in the locker room, only on the court when we were strategizing. And I’d certainly never asked them for a favor. It felt a little like in a fantasy movie when the trusted adviser kills the king and then tries to convince everyone to follow him.
I told them about the game after school at the park. I didn’t mention anything about my brother owing money. I asked for volunteers to play.
“Aw, dude,” Weston said. “I’ve got guitar lessons after school.”
Roger said, “Count me in, bro. I love to crush club teams. Bunch of rich brats.”
Roger’s dad owned three Taco Bells, but Roger still saw himself as some sort of man of the people, the Abe Lincoln of basketball. Still, I was glad to have him.
Theo stood up, his skinny six-four frame towering above the rest of us. “I’ll be there.”
“Sure,” Tom Farley said. “But I’ve got to be home by four-thirty to walk the dog.”
I nodded thanks and turned to the others.
“No can do,” Juvy said. “My dad’s got me on a strict schedule until I get my grades up. No park, no movies, no TV, no Xbox. It’s worse than prison.”
Sami and Three also had other plans but seemed sincerely sorry.
“No problem, guys,” I said. “I know it’s short notice.” I only had four guys, but I felt confident I could pick someone else up during the day.
The warning bell for first period rang and we scrambled for class. I texted my brother: Game on.
MAKE IT RAIN
“HAVE you found out anything about my brother?” I asked Theo as we walked to English class.
“Not yet. I was going to go down to Dad’s station this afternoon and try to make a few calls on their phone. When the caller ID shows the police department, people are more likely to answer.”
“Sounds risky,” I said. From what I knew of Officer Rollins, he would not appreciate Theo doing anything sneaky at the station.
Theo shrugged. “It’s for a good cause. Anyway, now I can’t go until tomorrow, since I promised to play on your team at the park.”
Crap! Theo wasn’t the best athlete, despite his height, but he was a steady rebounder and played with a lot of enthusiasm
. Losing him would really hurt the team. Even though I knew it was just for practice, I still wanted to win.
But I wanted to know what was up with Jax even more.
“No,” I said. “Do it today. I’ll find someone else to play. This is more important.”
“Okay,” Theo said. “I can ask Rain to play in my place.”
“Yeah, that’ll work,” I said. Rain was a better player than Theo, so it was actually an upgrade. She was fast, a good passer, knew how to pick and roll, and had a quick release of her shots. Guys who didn’t know her usually gave her room at first, and she made them pay.
“I’ll call you tonight with whatever info I get,” Theo said.
I nodded and we both walked into English class. Brooke glanced up when we entered, then quickly looked down again at her book, as if we weren’t worth noticing. For some reason, that made me smile.
Stupid, I know. But still, there it was.
WHEN IS A HOLE NOT A HOLE?
“RIDDLE of the day,” Mr. Laubaugh said. He held up a DVD of The Breakfast Club. “This is the prize. It got me through a rough and tumultuous puberty. I reluctantly part with it in the name of higher education.”
“‘A brain, an athlete, a basket case, a princess, and a criminal,’” Clancy quoted.
“That’s right,” Mr. Laubaugh said.
“Kinda like us,” Clancy said.
“Yeah,” Clancy’s pal, Dirk, said, “with you as the basket case.”
They both chuckled and bumped fists.
It occurred to me for the first time that I had never bumped fists with anyone. I mean, I had obliged when they’d stuck their fists out expectantly. But I’d never instigated one, never offered my fist first. I’d shaken hands with people when introduced, just as my parents had taught me to do. But the fist bump was different, more personal, implying friendship or acknowledging a shared moment.
I started to imagine a superhero called Fist-Bump, whose slightest knuckle bump could shatter buildings.
Mr. Laubaugh interrupted, “Okay, here’s the riddle. Everybody take out your pencil and paper, because there will be math.”
Stealing the Game Page 6
