A Whole New Ballgame--A Rip and Red Book

by Phil Bildner

  “First day of school last year,” she said softly. “I got a flat the first day last year.”

  “The first day?”

  “The first friggin’ day.” She squeezed her brakes. “I got thumb-tacked and had to spend the whole morning in the AP’s office.”

  “Ms. Forest’s? With the sock puppets?”

  Avery nodded.

  Ms. Forest had been the assistant principal at RJE up until this year. Her office had shelves and shelves of these creepy sock puppets. Some of them had eyes that seemed to follow you. Whenever Red walked past her office, he always covered his eyes and moved to the far side of the hallway … even when her door was closed!

  “Those dolls freaked me out,” I said.

  “Dude, you and me both. I still get nightmares.”

  We both laughed.

  I let out another puff. “So what’s the nastiest thing you’ve ever run over?”

  “Huh?” She curled her lip again.

  I pointed with my chin to her casters. “What’s the grossest, most disgusting thing you’ve ever run over?” But before she could answer I said, “No, wait. Don’t tell me.” I held up my hand. “Just think about it.”

  “Whatever, dude.”

  “Tell me tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow

  Avery rolled up to my table and opened her journal.

  “You wrote them down?” I said, surprised and relieved. I shifted closer. “Can I—”

  “Dude!” She yanked away the notebook. “Why are you always looking in my journal? It’s called privacy.”

  I held up my hands and backed away.

  She shot me a stare and then slid the notebook onto her lap. “Gas stations are nasty. I never get out of the car at gas stations.”

  “Why not?”

  “Are you going to let me finish?” She curled her lip. “Even if I have to go, I never get out of the car at gas stations because one time when I did, I rolled in gas and oil. Everything stunk forever. The fumes made you want to puke all the time.”

  “Gas and oil?” I opened my journal. “Can I write this down?”

  “Whatever.” She turned the page. “Tar is nasty. Tar melts. In the city over the summer, on hot days, I can’t cross the street because the tar sticks to my wheels. Then everything sticks to my wheels.”

  I wrote and wrote and wrote. A few minutes later, my journal looked like the board the other day. So many disgusting things can get stuck to the wheels of a wheelchair.

  Who knew?

  Passing and Picking

  The last practice before the start of the season was all about passing and picking.

  “In order to play as a team,” Coach Acevedo said as we huddled at midcourt, “we need to know how to pass the ball, and we need to know how to catch the ball.”

  First, we worked on chest passes and bounce passes. We focused on the basics—gripping the ball, aiming for a spot, stepping toward the target, and moving toward the ball. Then we ran some drills and played Monkey in the Middle and Bull in the Ring (which is really the same thing as Monkey in the Middle, just with a few more rules).

  “We need to know what to do on the court when we don’t have the ball,” Coach Acevedo said after a water break. “That’s all about setting screens.”

  Coach Acevedo explained what a screen was—a blocking move that helped a teammate get open. Next he showed us how to set a screen—by standing up straight and perfectly still with our feet a little more than shoulder-width apart and our arms crossed in front. Then he showed us what the person receiving the screen did—waited for the screen, faked in the opposite direction, and then ran shoulder-to-shoulder off the screen.

  “That’s the key,” Coach Acevedo said. “Brush your teammate’s shoulder. Your defender shouldn’t have any room to get around it. Explode off that screen!”

  “Explode?” Red said.

  “It’s an expression,” I said. “It means run real hard.”

  “Got it. Run real hard.”

  We ran through a few pick drills, but by this point, all anyone could think about was the last part of practice:

  Uniforms.

  24 and 32

  Coach Acevedo gave out the jerseys while everyone was taking foul shots. I was shooting with Red, and he was on the line when, with my basketball eyes, I spotted Coach Acevedo heading our way.

  “How’s it going over here?” he asked.

  “Red’s on fire again,” I said. “He’s made eight in a row.”

  At the stripe, Red was midroutine. He took three low dribbles, spun the ball, looked at the rim, extended his arms, and took the underhanded shot.

  Swish.

  “Nine!” I gave him a pound.

  “Nine in a row and twenty-two for twenty-five.” Red grinned. “That’s eighty-eight percent. Last time, I shot twenty for twenty-five. That’s eighty percent. The time before that, I shot twenty-three for twenty-five. That’s ninety-two percent.”

  “Blake Daniels is Clifton United’s free-throw-shooting machine,” Coach Acevedo said.

  “Mason Irving’s a good free-throw shooter, too,” Red said. “So far, he’s thirteen for twenty. That’s sixty-five percent. He has five more shots to go. Last time, he shot fourteen for twenty-five. That’s fifty-six percent. The time before that, he shot—”

  “You two want your uniforms?” Coach Acevedo interrupted.

  “Oh, yeah!” Red charged over. “Did I get number twenty-four?” He hopped from foot to foot. “Rick Barry wore number twenty-four. Rick Barry shot free throws underhanded. He shot eighty-nine percent from the free-throw line. He made—”

  “Here you go,” Coach Acevedo said.

  He reached into the duffel on his shoulder, pulled out a shirt, and handed it to Red.

  Red stared at the navy tee. He traced the words Clifton United written in gold cursive on the front. Then he turned the shirt over and traced DANIELS written in gold block letters across the top. Then he traced the number twenty-four beneath it.

  “Wow,” Red whispered. “Thank you, Coach Acevedo.”

  “You’re welcome, Red.”

  Red showed me the shirt.

  “Boo-yah!” I hammer-fisted the air.

  “What uniform number did Mason Irving get?”

  Coach Acevedo reached into the bag and pulled out my shirt.

  “Number thirty-two!” Red raised both arms. “You got Rip Hamilton’s number!”

  Coach Acevedo tossed me the shirt.

  “Thanks, Coach,” I said.

  The Games Begin

  Just three days later, we were putting on our uniforms for real.

  “Let’s get this season started,” Coach Acevedo said.

  I checked the gym. Edgemont’s gym looked nothing like RJE’s. Banners and pennants for volleyball titles and track and field records and soccer championships and basketball victories covered the walls. A scoreboard hung above the bleachers, and there were fans in those bleachers, too. Yeah, Edgemont had actual fans, at least thirty or forty, all sitting directly across from the home team’s bench.

  For us, only Emily’s dad and Mehdi’s parents had made the trip.

  “Bring it in, United.” Coach Acevedo waved his iPad. We huddled up in front of the first row of bleachers, our bench. “I see the way some of you are looking around the gym and sizing up the other team. Let’s relax. On game days, I’m a big believer in body language. If you’re hanging your head and slumping your shoulders, your opponent’s going to see that and take advantage of it.” He pointed to the court. “No matter what happens out there, no hanging heads and no slumping shoulders.”

  Everyone clapped.

  “I couldn’t care less about the score today. I only want to see Clifton United playing hard and having fun. We play defense, we rebound the basketball, we have fun.” He kicked up the ball from under his foot. “I’m super pumped for our season. You should be, too.”

  “Oh, yeah!” Red said, doing his hop. “Let’s go, Clifton United!”

  “Wh
en that whistle blows and that ball goes up,” Coach Acevedo said, “we show this league just how tight Clifton United is. Whether you’re on the floor or on the bench, everyone contributes. Everyone.”

  * * *

  The game didn’t start out so hot. Actually, it was a total disaster.

  After the first quarter, we trailed 10–0.

  “We’re getting shut out,” Red said. “Has there ever been a shutout in basketball?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, “but that could change.”

  “What if we get shut out?” He pinky-thumbed his leg.

  “We still have three quarters left, Red. We won’t.”

  “What if we do?” He hunched forward and swayed. “What if we get shut out, Mason Irving?”

  I put my hand on his leg. “We won’t.”

  We didn’t.

  A few minutes into the second quarter, Jason boxed out his man and grabbed the rebound. He passed to Keith, who dribbled by his defender and drove the length of the court for a layup.

  “Time-out! Time-out!” Coach Acevedo raced onto the floor. He jumping-body-bumped the players in the game and high-fived everyone on the bench. “That’s what I’m talking about! Rebounds lead to baskets.”

  Red was as fired up as Coach Acevedo. He gave everyone double-fisted pounds, and then we busted out our handshake:

  “Right hand, left hand, elbow, elbow.” We said the steps. “Fist, fist, knuckles, blow it up. Spin, jump, bump …

  “Boo-yah!”

  But Keith’s basket was pretty much our only highlight for the next two quarters. We trailed 25–4 at the half and 34–6 after three.

  Still, Coach Acevedo was true to his word. He said he couldn’t care less about the score, and he meant it. Even though Edgemont was running us out of their gym, he never stopped cheering. To be perfectly honest, at times he sounded delusional. I’d looked up what delusional meant. It means totally unrealistic.

  Red cheered us on, too. Whenever we scored a basket or made a stop, he stomped the bleachers, waved his towel, and cheered harder than anyone.

  But that wasn’t very often. Most of the time, he snapped his towel or covered his face with it.

  * * *

  I ran the point to start the fourth quarter. On our first possession, I passed to Wil on the wing. On the release, Maya popped out and screened my man. I brushed Maya’s shoulder and exploded to the hoop. Wil hit me with the pass. I put up a floater.

  Swish!

  “Mason Irving scores!” Red shouted. “Your first points!” He waved his towel like a lasso. “Way to go, Mason Irving!”

  I pumped my fist at Red and sprinted back on defense.

  Believe it or not, for the rest of the game, we played decent. Yeah, Edgemont was playing their second- and third-stringers, but we were getting stops and coming through on offense. Maya scored her first basket, Keith sank a pair of free throws, and I hit a shot from the baseline.

  * * *

  “Here’s how we’re going to look at today’s game,” Coach Acevedo said in the huddle after the postgame handshake. “Yeah, we’ve got our work cut out for us. There’s no two ways about that. But each and every one of you showed me something in that fourth quarter.” He held up the iPad. “Now I know I said I couldn’t care less about the score, but I want you to see this anyway. Check out the quarter-by-quarter breakdown of the scoring.”

  “10–0 in the first quarter,” Red said. “15–4 in the second quarter, 9–2 in the third quarter, 8–8 in the fourth quarter.” He rattled off the scores even before Coach Acevedo swiped the screen.

  “That’s right, Red,” Coach Acevedo said. “We tied in the fourth quarter. That means we’re capable of holding our own in this league. We will put together four good quarters. We will win this season. I guarantee it.”

  Bulldozed and Blitzed

  Our next game was against O’Malley. We got bulldozed, 36–19. Then we got blitzed by Crystal Lake, 32–14. Just like that, we were 0–3.

  Still, Coach Acevedo stayed positive as ever, and after the Crystal Lake game, he singled out Red.

  “Every team needs a Blake Daniels,” he said. “I love the energy you bring to our bench. I love your attitude. You never stop cheering. You embody what it means to be a teammate, and if any of you don’t know what embody means, look it up when you get home.”

  I think embody meant to show.

  But the thing is, Red did stop cheering. A lot. Most of the time, he had his clasped hands behind his neck and his arms pressed to his head. For the last quarter of the O’Malley game, he draped his towel over his head. And during the second half of the Crystal Lake game, he wore his old-man face.

  I hated seeing the old-man face at basketball.

  After singling out Red, Coach Acevedo repeated what he had said after the Edgemont game:

  “We will win this season,” he said. “I guarantee it.”

  Guarantee?

  We’d dropped our first three games by a combined score of 110–47, and our next game was against Millwood, the best team in the league.

  Nasty Notecards

  That same week we were getting our butts handed to us on the basketball court, it was a whole new ballgame for Avery and me. Believe it or not, things were looking up.

  We were working on our project. Yeah, that’s right, working on our project. Together. We were calling it “The Nasty Nine,” about the nine grossest things that have ever gotten stuck to Avery’s chair.

  We spent most of the week researching them, putting the information on notecards, and creating our outline, just like Mr. Acevedo showed us at the conference. At first, we didn’t find much, but Mr. Acevedo insisted we keep digging around and “amp up the nasty.”

  We did.

  The grossest thing we learned about had to do with movie theaters: Fecal matter is everywhere, and by fecal matter, I mean poop. Yeah, poop. But it’s not on the floor. You’re not stepping on it or rolling through it. You’re sitting in it!

  Here’s how it happens: When some people use the bathroom, they don’t wash their hands. Then when they go back to their seats, they touch the armrests, cup holders, and cushions … none of which are ever washed or cleaned.

  Nasty!

  Back-to-School Night

  Back-to-School Night was on Thursday that week, but Mom couldn’t make it because it was on the same night as Back-to-School Night at her school, which is how it is every year.

  Mom’s fine about missing Back-to-School Night because it’s usually crowded, and there’s never really an opportunity to talk with the teacher. The night is more for those parents who want to hear the teacher go over the class expectations, which my mom already knows.

  “He’s going to have a long night,” Mom said that morning. “Some of those parents are going to give him quite the earful about test prep.”

  Mom’s not fine about missing family conferences. That’s what we call parent conferences at RJE. They’re called family conferences because kids are encouraged to attend, and in Lesley Irving’s world, encouraged to attend means expected to attend. They’re not for another couple months, but Mom’s already made it known just how much she’s looking forward to sitting down one-on-one with Mr. Acevedo.

  “One-on-one?” I said, the last time she brought it up. “Me, you, and Mr. Acevedo—that’s three of us. How can that be one-on-one? Does that mean I don’t have to go?”

  Her look was her answer. I still had to go.

  Singled Out

  “For CC today,” Mr. Acevedo said on Friday morning, “I want to acknowledge some of the project work I’ve seen this week.”

  He sat cross-legged in his spot on the carpet. I sat on the couch between Red and Sebi.

  “Are we dazzling you, Teach?” Declan asked.

  “You most certainly are, and I want to single a few of you out, but before I do, I want to say a few words about last night’s Back-to-School Night.” He chuckled. “It was standing room only in here.”

  “Did you walk
on the tables and read to the parents?” Diego asked, swinging the strings on his hat.

  “Not exactly.” Mr. Acevedo shook his head. “Your parents had lots of questions and ideas. Lots of them. They like to have a say about what goes on in the classroom.” He chuckled again. “I’m going to see what I can do about meeting some of their expectations. Now let me single a few of you out. I’m starting with Gavin.”

  “What did I do?” Gavin asked.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Mr. Acevedo said. “You’re making some outstanding real-world connections. I’m super pumped you and Mariam are researching MREs.”

  “What are MREs?” Lana and Jordan asked at the same time.

  Mr. Acevedo motioned to Gavin.

  “Meals Ready-to-Eat,” he said. “MREs. That’s what people in the military eat. They can be pretty disgusting.”

  Gavin’s father served in Afghanistan. Each year, he leads the Veterans’ Day ceremony at RJE. Gavin’s notebooks are covered with photographs of his father and other soldiers. Sometimes Gavin wears a dog-tag necklace.

  Mr. Acevedo turned to Hunter. “Would you say a few words about your topic?”

  “I’m working with Attie,” he said. “Our topic is musical instruments.”

  “They’re covered in germs,” Attie said. “It’s so gross.”

  “We’re still deciding which instruments we’re going to write about,” Hunter said. “Definitely the piano and guitar.”

  Hunter plays the piano and guitar. He’s amazing at both.

  “I had no idea instruments were so filthy.” Mr. Acevedo recrossed his legs and grabbed his ankles. “Their topic is fascinating.” He turned to Avery. “So is yours. Will you share a little?”

  “Do I have to?”

  “I’d like you to. With whom are you working?”