A Whole New Ballgame--A Rip and Red Book
Page 11
“It’s called ‘Tired’ because of these,” Avery said.
I touched each of her tires with the yardstick.
Using the remote, she pressed Play.
The word TIRED appeared on the board. Then slowly, a wheelchair rolled across and bumped into the word, knocking it higher.
Avery’s a whiz. Editing, transitions, graphics, effects—she can do it all.
Avery put together the computer presentation.
I wrote the script.
Showtime:
(The words Nasty Nine appear on the board.)
Dr. Poo-Poo: The Nasty Nine? What’s the Nasty Nine, Dr. Icky-Icky?
Dr. Icky-Icky: I’m glad you asked, Dr. Poo-Poo. The Nasty Nine has to do with my tires. My tires are magnets.
Dr. Poo-Poo: Magnets?
Dr. Icky-Icky: Magnets. They attract everything. Everything sticks to them.
Dr. Poo-Poo: I know exactly what you mean.
Dr. Icky-Icky: Really, Dr. Poo-Poo? You know exactly what I mean? You know what it’s like to get mud stuck in your tires?
(Scrolling images of trucks driving through mud, Woodstock 1969, Spartan races, mud wrestling)
Dr. Poo-Poo: Stepping in mud is the worst. I have to pick it out of my sneakers with a popsicle stick. My mom bugs out when I track up the house.
Dr. Icky-Icky: You still live with your mom, Dr. Poo-Poo? Sad. Just plain sad. (Roll neck, wag finger) At least you can take off your shoes, Dr. Poo-Poo. I don’t exactly ride around with spare tires.
Dr. Poo-Poo: Stepping in gum is even worse. (Blow bubble, spit gum out) It takes forever to get it all out. Other things stick to it.
Dr. Icky-Icky: Did you not hear what I said, Dr. Poo-Poo? Were you not listening? (Roll neck, wag finger) You can take off your sneakers, Dr. Poo-Poo. You can put on another pair. I don’t push around with spare tires, and when I get gum in my tires, it also gets in my hair. (Flip hair)
Dr. Poo-Poo: When I got gum in my locks, my mom bugged out. She had to redo my hair.
Dr. Icky-Icky: Your mom still does your hair, Dr. Poo-Poo? Sad. Just plain sad.
Dr. Poo-Poo: You know what’s even worse than mud and gum?
Dr. Icky-Icky: Yes.
Dr. Poo-Poo: You do?
Dr. Icky-Icky: Of course I do, Dr. Poo-Poo.
Dr. Poo-Poo: Stepping in poop is the worst.
(Scrolling images of dogs pooping, horses pooping, pigeons pooping, elephants pooping)
Dr. Icky-Icky: Try wheeling through it. No matter how hard you try, you never get it all out. It smells terrible everywhere you go.
Dr. Poo-Poo: (Scratch head) I’m beginning to think wheeling through nasty things may be worse than stepping in them.
Dr. Icky-Icky: You think?
Dr. Poo-Poo: I do.
Dr. Icky-Icky: You still haven’t even heard the Nasty Nine.
Dr. Poo-Poo: I haven’t?
Dr. Icky-Icky: You haven’t. Except for poop. Poop makes the Nasty Nine.
Dr. Poo-Poo: What is the Nasty Nine?
Dr. Icky-Icky: The Nasty Nine are the nine grossest, most disgusting things that get in my tires. You want to hear what they are?
Dr. Poo-Poo: I do.
Dr. Icky-Icky: Step aside, Dr. Poo-Poo. Watch and try not to puke.
(Move to side. Play presentation)
You know how on SportsCenter they count down the top plays? Well, that’s what we did for our Nasty Nine.
“Nine!” I shouted.
Avery—Dr. Icky-Icky—read it. “The School Cafeteria: Or as I like to call it, the obstacle course. Do you have any idea what kids drop on the floor? Do you have any idea what I have to push through? Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Tater Tots, applesauce, and worst of all, spilled milk. Whoever said ‘Don’t cry over spilled milk’ never had to wheel through it.”
“Eight!” everyone shouted with me.
“Winter: My least favorite season. Every trip outdoors is an adventure. Slush puddles are always deeper than you think. Always. Sand and salt always get stuck in your tread. Always. When you bring sand and salt indoors, it always scratches the floors. Always. The most important thing about winter—whatever you do, avoid yellow snow.”
“Seven!”
“Movie Theaters: Sticky soda is everywhere. Sticky popcorn butter is everywhere. Don’t believe me? The next time you go to the movies, put your palm on the floor. That’s what I’m parked in.”
“Six!”
“School Bathrooms: You think walking in the school bathroom is gross? Try rolling through it. Getting toilet paper stuck to my tires is the least of my worries. Just check out the color of the tiles by the toilets. There’s a reason I never go in there without my canister of disinfecting wipes.”
“Five!”
“Tar: On hot summer days when I’m in the city, I don’t cross the street. Why? Tar melts. That means the city street melts. That means the city street sticks to my tires. That means everything sticks to my tires. That means I’m a hot mess.”
“Four!”
“Poop and Crap: Poop and crap, poop and crap, poop and crap, poop and crap. It’s everywhere, and until you’re a wheeler, you have no clue how everywhere it is. People don’t pick up after their dogs. Bird droppings are all over. But nothing—absolutely nothing—compares to human baby poop. Trust me on this one, it’s worse than all other poop put together.”
“Three!”
“The Dead: We live among the dead. Sidewalks are cemeteries. Worms, especially on rainy days. Cockroaches, especially when it’s dark. Baby birds, especially in the spring. Yes, baby birds. Baby bird guts, baby bird heads. Chew on that.”
“Two!”
“Gas Stations: I never get out of the car at a gas station. Never. Why? One time, I pushed through oil and gasoline. That was all it took. One time. When I got back in the car, the car reeked. When I got home, the house reeked. For days. No, I never get out of the car at gas stations. Never.”
“One!”
“Glass: Why is glass number one? Not because of flat tires. Not because it gets stuck in the tread and scratches everything. But because when it gets stuck in the tread and I don’t know it’s there, I slice open my hand. Trust me, when there’s a deep cut across your palm, it’s impossible to push a wheelchair.”
The word TIRED appeared on the board again. Then our names faded. Just like that, we were done. We were finished with the project.
We did it.
As I started back to my desk, the most amazing thing of all happened: everyone in Room 208 stood and cheered.
“Way to go, Mason Irving!” Red raced up, hands raised.
We broke out our handshake: “High-five, high-five. Elbow, elbow,” we chanted. “Right, right. Left, left. Fist, fist, knuckles, blow it up. Turn, jump, bump…”
“Boo-yah!” the whole class shouted.
Red spun to Avery. “Way to go, Avery Goodman,” he said. He hugged her.
I held out my fist.
She gave me a pound. “Way to go, dude.”
Rematch
Everyone’s parents were here for the rematch against Millwood, but they weren’t on the stage like for the game against Voigt. They were on the sideline across from our bench.
Millwood’s fans had the stage. Millwood’s fans filled the stage. Millwood had something to play for. After they beat us last time, they had lost a second game. Today they needed a win to qualify for the playoffs.
That’s what Coach Crazy was yelling about: “This is a playoff game!” he shouted. “We need today. We’re taking it to this team. Just like last time. As soon as that ball goes up…”
With my basketball eyes, I spotted Avery wheeling into the gym. A second later, Red saw her, too.
“Avery Goodman!” He waved. “Avery Goodman’s here.”
She didn’t park next to the parents. Instead, she rolled across the court to our bench.
“This is for players only,” I said. “You can’t be here.” I pointed to the far sideline. “Our fans sit—”
/>
“Fans?” Avery laughed. “Dude, those aren’t fans. Those are parents. You have one fan here, and your one fan is watching her first basketball game from right here.”
I knew better than to argue.
Across the gym, Suzanne and my mom stood by the door. Suzanne had to be here today. If Red was going to be on the bench down the sideline from Coach Crazy, Coach Acevedo insisted she be here.
I checked Red. His earplugs were in. His back was to Coach Crazy.
“Let’s bring it in, United,” Coach Acevedo said.
We hustled into a huddle in front of our bench.
“Excellent to see you here, Avery,” Coach Acevedo said. “We could use a good-luck charm today.” He winked at Red standing behind her and then thumbed the court. “I don’t have to tell you who we’re up against today, but we play the game because anything’s possible. Anything. And I have a good feeling about today.”
“I have a good feeling about today, too, Coach Acevedo,” Red said.
“Every team needs a Blake Daniels.” Coach Acevedo slide-stepped to Red, gave him a quick pound, and then hopped back to the middle. “That’s our attitude today. That’s our body language. That’s how we play.” He patted his chest. “We play like we all have a good feeling about today.” He checked the iPad. “Rip, Keith, Wil, Maya, Jason—you’re our first five.”
“Let’s do this,” Keith said. He held out his fist.
I gave him a pound.
“Hands in, Clifton United,” Coach Acevedo said.
He waited for every hand.
“On three,” he said, “we say ‘team.’ One, two, three…”
“Team!”
* * *
Millwood’s Mega-Man batted the opening tip out of bounds, so we got the ball first. I took the inbounds from Maya in the backcourt. I expected a suffocating, full-court press, but no. My man hung back by the three-point circle. I crossed half-court, faked to Wil, and then hit Keith with a pass as he rolled off Maya’s pick.
Stop. Set. Pop. Shoot.
Swish!
“Clifton United’s winning!” Red shouted. “Go, Keith Krebs!”
I turned to sprint back on defense, but before my first foot landed, I spotted the inbounds pass. A lazy, lollipop pass. I changed direction, Rip Hamilton–style, plucked the ball out of the air, and shot the layup.
Swish!
“Go, Clifton United!” a few parents cheered.
“Great hustle, number thirty-two,” shouted Keith’s dad.
Coach Crazy was shouting, too.
“What kind of pass was that? What are you doing out there? Use your heads.” He jabbed his fingers into his temple. “How could you let that gnat steal the ball?”
Gnat.
Coach Crazy called me Gnat. It was the first time all season anyone had called me Gnat.
Millwood was careful inbounding the ball this time, but I still acted the gnat in their backcourt. It took them four passes to get over half-court.
My man had the ball in the frontcourt. With my basketball eyes, I checked Maya on my right. Suddenly, she bolted from her man, and we swarmed the point guard, four arms waving. He tried dribbling through us, but instead, he dribbled off his knee.
Tweet!
“Blue ball going down,” the ref called.
Maya scooped up the rock, flipped it to the ref, and then raced out of bounds.
“Ball’s in.” The ref handed the ball to Maya.
She whipped it inbounds and hit Keith streaking down the court.
A breakaway layup.
“Time-out!” Coach Crazy exploded. “Time-out!”
Tweet!
“Time-out, Orange.” The ref pointed to the Millwood bench.
Coach Acevedo charged onto the court.
“That’s how we get things going!” He gave pounds all around. “That’s how we’re playing today. We’re keeping this body language all game.” He turned to me. “Rip, heads-up basketball out there. Way to catch them sleeping. Maya and Keith—great pass, great finish. That was a thing of beauty.” He clapped hard. “Let’s keep playing Clifton United basketball.”
* * *
We kept playing Clifton United basketball, and at the end of the first, we led by ten.
But in the second, Millwood chipped away at our lead, and by late in the quarter, they trimmed it to two. With eight seconds left, I drew a foul and sank both ends of a one-and-one.
At the half, we led 24–20.
“Get ready for them to start using their bodies,” Coach Acevedo said at halftime.
“They aren’t already?” Keith said.
“That big kid with the glasses needs to cut his nails,” Emily added. She held out her arm, which was covered in scratches.
“They’re going to get even more physical,” Coach Acevedo said. “When they do, we don’t get caught up in it. We keep our body language. We keep playing like we have a good feeling about today. We keep playing Clifton United basketball.”
* * *
In the third quarter, Millwood came out on fire. They scored the first eight points and jumped in front, 28–24.
“Take it to them!” Coach Crazy shouted. “Take it to them!”
Their fans were raging, too.
“Mill-wood!” they cheered and clapped every time they had the ball. “Mill-wood!”
“Dee-fense!” they cheered and clapped every time we had the ball. “Dee-fense!”
Now at any other point this season, I would’ve said we were done. No way were we digging ourselves out of this hole.
But not today.
Today, that doubt didn’t creep in. Not even for less than a nanosecond. Not only was I playing like I had a good feeling about today, I did have a good feeling about today.
Midway through the third, Coach Acevedo brought in Mehdi, Emily, and Jeffrey. It was the burst of energy off the bench that we needed. They played in-your-grille defense and outmuscled Millwood’s monsters under the boards.
Then Keith got hot, blistering hot: A jumper from the corner. A three-pointer from the top of the key. A running one-hander across the lane.
Our parents erupted:
“Keith Krebs!” they cheered. “Keith Krebs!”
Everyone on our bench—Avery included—waved towels and banged chairs.
Heading to the final quarter: Millwood 37, Clifton 36.
* * *
“We’re throwing a curve to start the fourth,” Coach Acevedo said in the huddle. “We’re going small. Rip, Mikey, Maya, Keith, Wil—you’re our five.” He drew a circle in the air. “I want everyone running around like Rip out there. Make them chase after you. We’re going to beat them with speed and mismatches. Let’s go, hands in.”
He waited for every hand.
“On three, ‘team.’ One, two, three…”
“Team!”
* * *
On the opening play, we whipped that ball around. Millwood’s monsters tried to keep up with our passing, but they couldn’t. When the rock came back to me for the third time, I fired from the elbow.
Swish!
“Clifton takes the lead!” Red leaped off his chair. “Way to go, Mason Irving!”
“Dee-fense!” our parents cheered.
“Dee-fense!” Our bench pounded the floor.
But Millwood answered right back. They buried a jumper and retook the lead.
That’s how it went all quarter long:
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
With twenty-three seconds left, we clung to a one-point lead.
My man had the ball. He brought the ball upcourt and looked inside, but no way was I letting him make that pass. So he fed Super-Size on the wing. Super-Size took the shot.
Swish.
“Time-out!” we all shouted.
Tweet!
“Time-out, Blue!” the ref called.
Eleven seconds to go.
“Plenty of time,” Coach Acevedo said, dropping to a knee in the center of our huddle. “Eleven se
conds is plenty of time.” He tapped my high-tops. “Rip, you’re taking the ball out under the basket. Here’s what we’re running.”
Coach Acevedo diagrammed the play and held up the screen. I needed to get the ball to Jason between half-court and the top of the key. Once Jason had the ball, he had two options—hit Maya in the corner or find Keith cutting toward the hoop on the far side.
“You played your hearts out this afternoon,” Coach Acevedo said after going over everyone’s assignments. “I am so proud of all of you. This is what it means to be a team. On three, ‘team.’ One, two, three…”
“Team!”
* * *
Jason, Mehdi, Keith, Maya, and I took the floor.
On the bench, Clifton United linked arms.
“U-ni-ted!” our parents cheered. “U-ni-ted!”
“Dee-fense!” the Millwood fans screamed. “Dee-fense!”
Coach Acevedo pointed to Keith and waved him closer to the three-point circle. He motioned for Jason to hold his spot.
“Three feet,” the ref said to the Millwood player defending me. He waited for the player to take a half-step back and then handed me the ball. “Ball’s in.”
I bolted down the end line. Since I was taking the ball out after a basket, I was allowed to run out of bounds. But Millwood’s defender didn’t know I could. It bought me the space I needed. I fired a baseball pass to Jason. He caught the ball over his head, turned toward the hoop, and looked to Maya. Maya ran off Mehdi’s screen, but she couldn’t shake her man. So Jason pivoted to Keith. Keith had a step on his defender, so Jason led him with a pass.
“Go! Go!” Coach Acevedo waved. “Five seconds!”
Lowering his shoulder, Keith dribbled across the three-point arc and headed for the hoop. As he left his feet, Mega-Man shifted over and leaped into the air.
The two collided.
Mega-Man’s elbow whacked Keith in the head.
Tweet! Tweet!
“Good if it goes!” the referee called. He raised his arm.