Copyright
Copyright © 2003 by Matt Christopher Royalties, Inc.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Little, Brown Books for Young Reaaders
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com
www.twitter.com/littlebrown
First eBook Edition: December 2009
Little, Brown Books for Young Readers is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Matt Christopher® is a registered trademark of
Matt Christopher Royalties, Inc.
ISBN: 978-0-316-09403-0
Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Matt Christopher®
THE #1 SPORTS SERIES FOR KIDS: MATT CHRISTOPHER®
1
Tim Daniels lifted the basketball high over his head. The kid who was guarding him kept reaching out, swatting at it, trying to knock it out of his hands. But Tim was too quick for him. He pivoted first one way, then the other, looking for someone to pass to. No one was free. In that split second, Tim made up his mind to go for the hoop. He faked a pass. The defender took the bait, flailing at the imaginary pass while Tim spun around the other way and drove to the basket.
If he’d been about a foot taller, he might have gone for the slam dunk. But at five feet five inches, there was no way. Tim settled for the layup. “Yes! Five — zip!” he yelled, pumping his fist in the air as he back-pedaled down the court on defense.
At least he wasn’t the shortest player on the court. Deivi Alvarez was only five two. But that didn’t make Tim feel any better. Deivi was what, twelve? Tim was almost fourteen, and who knew if he had any more inches left in his growth spurt. Yeah, sure, it was cool to be called little sparkplug on the basketball court, but he wished he could lose the little part. It was getting old really fast.
Actually, if it weren’t for the fact that he was a good athlete — especially at basketball — most kids would probably have called him a nerd. Slim and compact, with wavy red hair and freckles, Tim was always told he was cute by girls. But the few times he’d actually asked them out, they were never available. He couldn’t help feeling they were secretly laughing at him. It made Tim feel even smaller than usual.
He felt best about himself when he did well in school and, of course, when he was on the basketball court. No confusion then. There wasn’t another kid his age in the whole neighborhood who could dribble, pass, and drive the lane like he could. Plus he was good on defense — he always had a few take-aways, and even a rebound or two.
So what if he couldn’t shoot to save his life? He knew how to sink a layup — and since no one could stop him when he drove to the hoop, what more did he need?
Sure, he’d ridden the bench on the Cougars the past two years. But that was because six-foot-tall Hakim Butler was the school’s starting point guard. Butler was graduating in two weeks, though — and come September, Tim had high hopes of moving into Hakim’s spot. After all, hadn’t he grown five inches just this past year? He understood Coach keeping him on the bench when he’d been five feet tall. But now? Hey, he wasn’t that short anymore!
The kid he was guarding got a little careless with his dribble, and Tim was on it like a cat. Tipping the ball away, he raced after it, grabbed it, and tossed it down-court to Kevin Oster, who dunked it with a roar of triumph. Kevin Oster had to be six two, minimum. Dang, thought Tim. What are all these kids eating?
The game ended up 11–2. Of course, it was just an after-school pickup game in the school yard. It counted for nothing, even if it was fun. What really mattered, when it came to basketball, was making the Cougars starting lineup in the fall:
Tim heard a car horn beeping and looked up to see his dad in the minivan, waving. “Coming!” Tim shouted, waving back. He said good-bye to his friends, grabbed his book bag and cap, and ran to the van.
“Hi, Pops,” he said, buckling up. “Home from work already?”
“Your mom’s got a meeting with her boss, so I took off early.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So how’d it go?”
“How’d what go? Oh, the game? We won 11–2.”
“Wow. Brutal. You ought to take it easy on those poor guys.…”
“Dad,” Tim said, fighting the urge to smile, “it was just a pickup game. No biggie:”
“So listen,” his dad said, giving Tim a quick look before he flicked his eyes back to the road. “I’ve got an idea for you this summer. Wanna hear it?”
“I’m working this summer,” Tim reminded him. “At Lotsa Pasta, as a busboy. Remember?”
“Why don’t you hear what I’m talking about first,” his dad suggested.
“Fine. What?” Tim said, sighing. “I am not going to college-prep camp, Dad. I’m only in seventh grade, okay?”
“I’m not even gonna tell you what it is, if you’re going to be so closed-minded.”
“All right, all right. What is it?”
“Never mind.”
“Come on. Tell me!” Tim demanded, really curious now.
His dad had a distinct twinkle in his eye. “How’d you like to go to basketball camp for the summer?”
“Wh-what do you mean, basketball camp?”
“You learn skills, you compete, I understand the NBA sends some players and coaches to do clinics with the kids … oh, never mind. You wouldn’t be interested …”
“Yes I would!” Tim said. “Are you kidding? The pros come there to teach?” He could see it now — he’d go to this camp whatever-it-was and come back ready for the NCAA, if not the NBA! The Cougars would make him starting point guard for sure.
“You could actually still chill for part of the summer,” his dad said. “Mom and I can’t afford to send you for the full eight weeks, just for four.”
“Fine! Whatever. Just sign me up,” Tim said. He was already imagining himself hitting ten foul shots in a row, ten 3-pointers in a row, sinking shots from half-court … nothin’ but net …
“You sure now? I mean, you’ve never been to sleep-away camp before.”
“So what? I’ll be playing basketball all day, right?”
“Well, now, I don’t know about all day …”
“You said it was a basketball camp!”
“Yes, but they have other stuff, too — swimming, softball, arts and crafts, you know, that kind of stuff.”
“Oh.” Tim considered it for a moment. “Yeah, well, I guess that’s okay.”
“You still want to go?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Because it’s very late in the day, and they only have a couple slots left. I’ve got to sign you up by tomorrow.”
Tim shrugged. “So sign me up,” he said. “No problem.”
“You sure? Last chance to change your mind.”
“Dad,” Tim said, sighing again but smiling, too
, “just do it, okay? I’m not gonna change my mind.”
The next day after school, Tim was in the community pool, racing his best friend, Billy Futterman. Billy was five inches taller than Tim and much, much heftier. He wasn’t exactly an athlete — in fact, Billy was one of Tim’s “nerd” friends — but he sure could swim. Tim guessed it was Billy’s doughy consistency that helped him float. For Tim, swimming was pure struggle. He had practically no body fat, and it was exhausting work just to keep from sinking like a stone.
At the moment, Billy was way ahead of him, and they still had two laps to go. “I quit!” Tim shouted, swimming for the ladder and getting out of the pool.
“Hey,” Billy shouted back, suddenly realizing his opponent had quit the race. “What’s the matter? Can’t take losing?”
“Come on,” Tim protested, “you beat me every time, and I still race with you. I’m just tired, is all. I played basketball for three hours yesterday.”
Billy swam up and got out of the pool, and the two of them headed for the locker room. “What do you love so much about basketball, anyway? You’re not tall enough.”
“Shut up, okay? I just like it, that’s all.”
“Sorry. It’s just — well, I mean, you’re fast. You could run track or something.”
“I grew five inches this past year,” Tim pointed out as they dried off and got dressed. “And I’m still hungry every fifteen minutes,-so I’m probably still growing.”
“And you can’t shoot, either. You gonna grow out of that?”
“It just so happens I’m going to basketball camp this summer,” he told Billy.
“Oh yeah?”
“Camp Wickasaukee. My dad says it’s famous. NBA guys come there and coach you and stuff.”
“Well, I’m glad one of us is going to have fun. Me, I’m going to have the summer from hell.”
“Huh?”
“My mom and dad decided they’re not taking me to Europe with them.”
“They’re not? I thought you said —”
“They decided I’d be bored, can you believe it? All those dusty old museums and cathedrals. I begged them to take me. Know what my dad said?”
“What?”
“No self-respecting teenager wants to spend the summer traveling with his parents.”
“Well,” Tim said, shrugging, “you’ve gotta admit, most kids would rather be doing stuff with kids their age.”
“Not me,” Billy said. “They’re making me go to some camp! Can you believe it?”
“What camp?”
“They don’t know yet. Who cares? Camp? Yuck! A whole summer bunking with a bunch of strange kids and a million mosquitoes. Yippee. I’d rather stay home and play video games the whole time.” Then he fell silent, lost in thought.
“What?” Tim prodded him.
“I was just thinking …” — Billy’s face brightened — “maybe I could go where you’re going!”
“Huh?”
“Wicka-whatsits.”
“Saukee.”
“Yeah. Wickasaukee. I mean, I like basketball … pretty much. I can’t play for beans, but at least I’m tall. I can rebound and block shots and stuff.”
“You never even play basketball.”
“I do in gym class. You just never see me because you have Gym A and I have Gym B.”
“Okay, but I mean, this camp is all about basketball.”
“Don’t they have other stuff there? Arts and crafts? Swimming?”
“Uh, yeah.” Tim was stumped. He couldn’t think of any good reason Billy shouldn’t come with him to Wickasaukee. Still, he wasn’t sure he liked the idea. Billy Futterman and basketball camp were an odd combination. Kind of like fish and ice cream, or peanut butter and nails. In fact, just the thought of it gave Tim a queasy feeling.
That night, Tim, his mom and dad, and his sister, Tara — who was ten years old and unbelievably obnoxious — were sitting in the kitchen having dessert when the phone rang. His mom went and picked up the receiver. “Hello?” She turned to the rest of them and whispered, “It’s Elaine Futterman!” Then she listened a lot, nodded a lot, and said, “Uh-huh,” “Why not?,” and “Great!” a lot, all in her perky, happy voice.
After she hung up, she returned to the table. “Well, guess what?”
Tim took a wild guess. “Billy’s coming with me to Wickasaukee?”
“How did you know?” She looked totally amazed. Then she got it. “You two boys talked about it already?”
“Kind of.”
“Well, isn’t this just fantastic?” his mom said.
Tara silently mimicked her mother with an open mouth full of food. Tim gave his sister a threatening look, and she cut it out.
“Sounds just about ideal,” his dad agreed, smiling broadly. “First time at camp for both of you, isn’t it?”
“It sure is,” his mom confirmed.
“Yep,” said his dad. “Just about ideal.”
Tim munched on his apple crumb cake and wondered how ideal it was really going to be — making his grand entrance at basketball camp with Billy Futter-man, non-basketball player, attached to his hip. It had the potential to fall way short of ideal.
He forced himself to look on the bright side. At least he wouldn’t feel homesick. He’d have a close friend at camp right off the bat.
Yeah, he was probably worried about nothing. Camp Wickasaukee was going to be a blast, with or without Billy Futterman … he hoped.
2
The day they drove up to Camp Wickasaukee, they stopped first to pick up Billy, whose mom and dad were leaving for Europe that afternoon. Billy’s mom kept fussing over him, asking him if he’d remembered to bring his asthma inhaler, and his allergy medicine, and the special insoles for his shoes because he was flat-footed. Tim felt sorry for his friend, listening to her go on like that. Not because of Billy’s asthma or allergies or anything like that, but because his mom just wouldn’t quit.
“Did you pack the pepperoni sausage I got for you? What about your shower slippers? You don’t want to get athlete’s foot.”
“Would you leave him alone, Elaine?” Mr. Futterman pleaded to no avail. Mrs. Futterman kept it up until Tim’s dad beeped the car horn. That seemed to snap her out of it long enough for Billy to make his escape.
“I’m surprised they didn’t take you to Europe with them if your mom’s so worried about you,” Tim said as Billy slid into the backseat, semisquashing him.
“My dad thinks she needs a vacation from me,” Billy said.
“Your dad’s right,” Tim’s dad said flatly. “It’ll do you both good.”
“Now, Peter!” Tim’s mom said in a hushed voice. “Keep your opinions to yourself.”
“Sorry.”
The three-hour ride was peaceful and even pleasant. Billy and Tim spent most of the time playing with Billy’s handheld video game system. They found the camp without getting lost, and Billy and Tim started unloading their gear while the grown-ups went inside to sign the paperwork.
While Billy sat on the steps playing his video game, Tim took his first look around at Camp Wickasaukee. It was laid out on a hillside above a long, blue lake. Near the office was the beach, with the swimming areas roped off. Unbroken woods climbed the slopes on the far side of the lake. To the left were softball, soccer, and football fields.
Up the hill and to the right of the office, where the slope flattened out, were dozens of cabins. The larger ones were for the staff. The smaller, more basic ones were for the campers. Nobody had to tell Tim any of this. It was obvious, even to a kid who’d never been to sleep-away camp. As Tim well knew, kids were always on the bottom of the totem pole.
Off to the right, beyond the cabins, were several large, hangarlike buildings. Tim figured this was where they ate and did indoor activities. Up the hill from the ball fields was a huge gym with a Plexiglas roof. Tim could hear dozens of basketballs being dribbled.
A middle-aged, bald-headed man in a blue CAMP WICKASAUKEE T-shirt came over to the
m. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Coach Gabe, the head counselor. And who might you be?”
Tim and Billy introduced themselves and shook hands. “Great, great!” Coach Gabe said. Turning to Billy, he added, “Um, you’re going to have to send that home with Mom and Dad. We don’t play video games up here — too much good stuff to do!”
Billy looked like he’d just been hit with a sledge-hammer. “What do you mean?” he asked, as if Coach Gabe had been speaking Chinese. “It’s mine!”
“And it’ll be yours again when you get back home,” Coach Gabe assured him. “Don’t worry — you’ll never miss it.”
Billy shot Tim a dubious look. “I can’t believe this,” he said, his shoulders slumping. “No video? Sheesh.”
But Coach Gabe had moved on, to greet Tim’s parents as they came down the steps. With a deep sigh, Billy placed the video system gently in Tim’s mother’s hands. He looked like he was about to cry as the car drove off with his electronic security blanket. Now what am I gonna do? he wondered.
“Come on,” Tim said, hoisting his duffel bag, “let’s go find our bunk.”
The building that housed the thirteen-year-old campers was larger than most of the other cabins. In front of the building hung a sign that said EAGLES NEST — Eagles being the name of their age group here. The fourteen-to-fifteen-year-olds lived in Condors Roost, an even larger house higher up the hill. Other cabins — the ones for the younger campers — were farther down the slope and had signs that said CUBS, COLTS, and SPARROWS. Tim wondered what names the girls’ bunks had. Probably KITTENS, FAWNS, and BUTTER-FLIES. Sheesh.
Sitting on the steps in front of Eagles Nest was a muscular guy with a blond buzz cut and an orange T-shirt that said HOFSTRA on it. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Jody, your counselor. You guys first-timers, huh?”
“How’d you know?” Billy asked.
“I’ve been here every summer since I was five,” Jody answered, flashing them a brilliant smile. “You’re gonna love it. It’s the best.”
“Yo, Jody!”
They all turned to see a group of four boys approaching, duffel bags slung over their shoulders.
Nothin But Net Page 1
