A Whole New Ballgame--A Rip and Red Book

by Phil Bildner

  The buzzer sounded.

  Keith crumpled to the floor.

  The shot hit the side of the backboard and bounded away.

  “Foul’s on number thirty-three, Orange,” the referee said, pointing at Mega-Man. “Blue is shooting two.” He held up two fingers and faced the coaches. “Let’s have all players off the floor. There’s no time remaining. Only the shooter…”

  Under the hoop, as Keith sat up, blood poured over his fingers, which were covering his eye.

  “Can I get some towels here?” The referee raced over. “Hold still, son.” He gripped Keith’s shoulder.

  Coach Acevedo charged onto the court. So did Keith’s mom and dad. So did Suzanne. Within a few seconds, Suzanne was holding a towel over Keith’s eye as they all walked Keith to the boys’ bathroom.

  Coach Acevedo came back out a moment later.

  “Keith’s okay,” he said, jogging to our bench. “He has a cut over his eye, but it looks worse than it is. Heads bleed a lot.” He held up a finger. “Give me a sec. I need to talk to the ref and find out the situation. Keith’s out of the game.”

  Keith’s out of the game.

  I knew the situation. I knew the rule. If a player was unable to shoot free throws because of an injury, the opposing coach was allowed to choose any player to shoot the free throws.

  Any player.

  The ref, Coach Acevedo, and Coach Crazy stood at center court. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I knew exactly what they were saying.

  Then Coach Acevedo trotted our way.

  “Rip,” he said, waving me up.

  I hustled to him.

  “I need you to talk to Red,” he said. “Their coach is allowed to choose anyone from our bench to shoot the free throws. He’s choosing Red.”

  “Red’s not allowed to play. Suzanne—”

  “I know,” he cut me off. “I said something to her in the locker room. I had a feeling this would happen. She understands the situation.” He pulled back his hair. “He knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s a terrible thing.”

  “You should tell Red he’s in,” I said.

  “I think it would be better coming from you.”

  I shook my head. “You should tell him.”

  Coach Acevedo paused. “Okay. But I want you standing right next to me when I do.”

  We headed for Red.

  “Are your earplugs in?” Coach Acevedo asked, walking up.

  Red pressed a finger to each ear. “They are, Coach Acevedo.”

  “Good.” He nodded to the court. “You’re in the game, Red.”

  “Me?” Red pointed to his number and then looked at me.

  “You,” Coach Acevedo said. “You’re in for Keith.”

  “I’m playing?” Red hunched his shoulders.

  “You’re playing,” I said, nodding. “You can do it.”

  “I don’t know, Mason Irving.” Red started to sway.

  Old-man face.

  “You can do it, Red.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I do!”

  We all turned.

  Avery rolled up and hockey-stopped beside me.

  “You can do it, Red,” she said. “I know you can.”

  “You’re shooting Keith’s free throws,” Coach Acevedo said.

  “Free throws.” Red stopped swaying. “Really?”

  “Really. Their coach is allowed to pick anyone to shoot the free throws. He’s picking you.”

  “I’m shooting free throws in a game?” Red basketball-smiled. “My mom said I could?” He hopped from foot to foot.

  “She did.”

  “Did you hear that, Mason Irving?” Red’s basketball grin grew as wide as I’d ever seen it. “I’m shooting Keith Krebs’s free throws. I’m shooting free throws in a game.”

  “You ready?” I said.

  “Oh, yeah! Ready as I’ll ever be, Mason Irving.”

  I patted his chest. “Their fans are going to get loud.”

  “I’m shooting Keith Krebs’s free throws,” he said again, hopping faster.

  “Don’t listen to their fans,” Avery said. “No matter what they say, don’t listen.”

  “You sure you’re up for this, Red?” Coach Acevedo said. “You don’t have to—”

  “I’m your free-throw-shooting machine, Coach Acevedo.”

  “You sure are.” He shook Red’s hair. It was the first time I’d ever seen Red let anyone touch his hair that way. “Every team needs a Blake Daniels.”

  “Handshake for good luck?” I said.

  “Handshake for good luck!”

  We went right into it: “High-five, high-five. Elbow, elbow. Right, right. Left, left. Fist, fist, knuckles, blow it up. Turn, jump, bump…”

  “Boo-yah!” everyone on Clifton United cheered.

  Red pressed his earplugs and then bounded for the scorer’s table.

  “Blake Daniels, number twenty-four, checking in.”

  The referee smiled and pointed to the court.

  Red took the floor.

  By himself.

  I checked the gym. Down the court, Coach Crazy was smiling, laughing. On the stage, all the Millwood fans were standing and shouting and waving their arms.

  I clasped my hands and pressed my thumb and knuckles to my lips.

  C’mon, Red. You got this. Make it. Make it. Make it.

  “You can do it, Red!” Avery sat on the edge of her chair and gripped her brakes. “You got this, dude.”

  “Go, number twenty-four!” Suzanne shouted. She was back on the sidelines with the parents. “Go, Red!”

  All Clifton United—including Coach Acevedo—joined arms.

  Red was locked in.

  “Two shots,” the ref said, handing him the ball. “Good luck, son.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Referee.”

  Red dropped the ball and trapped it underfoot soccer-style. He placed a finger over each ear and took several breaths. He picked up the ball with both hands, squared his shoulders, and stared at the front rim. Then he dribbled the ball three quick times low to the ground and stood back up. He rotated the ball until his fingers gripped it around the word SPALDING, looked at the rim again, extended his arms, and shot the ball.

  Underhanded.

  Swish!

  Clifton 56, Millwood 56.

  We leaped.

  “Boo-yah!” I hammer-fisted the air.

  “Dude!” Avery cheered, waving her arms.

  All our parents jumped around.

  The team joined arms again. I joined one arm in Alex’s, the other in Avery’s.

  “One shot,” the referee said, smiling. He handed the basketball to Red. “Good luck, son.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Referee.”

  Red dropped the ball and trapped it soccer-style under his foot.

  “It all comes down to this,” I play-by-played softly. “No time on the clock. Knotted at fifty-six. Clifton United’s free-throw-shooting machine is on the line. He takes his dribbles, spins the ball, and stares at the rim. For the W. For Clifton United’s first win of the season. The underhanded free throw…”

  Swish!

  “It’s good! It’s good!” I announced. “Clifton United has pulled off the upset of the year. Clifton 57, Millwood 56. Go crazy, folks! Go crazy!”

  We stormed the court.

  The Benchmark

  “Good luck,” Mr. Acevedo said. “You may begin.”

  You may begin.

  As soon as a teacher says those three words at the start of a test, I begin to sweat and shake and bug out. Then when I try to read the first question, the information bounces off my brain. It’s as if my brain suddenly turns into one of those nonstick pots my mom cooks with. Then I start to sweat and shake and bug even more because I’m losing time. When I’m finally able to focus, I have to read even slower than usual because that’s the only way the information sticks, but because I’m reading in super slow-mo, I’m buggin’ even more because I’m wasting even more time.

  No
t today.

  Today, I went with Mr. Acevedo’s suggestion. When he said, “You may begin,” I put down my pencil.

  I let out a puff and checked the room. Room 208 didn’t look like Room 208: All the walls were covered with brown paper. The couch, bathtub, and beanbags were pushed against the cubbies. Mr. Acevedo’s desk was in front by the board. Our desks were in rows.

  I sat at the desk in back of Grace and in front of Lana, the one with the notecard with my name on it taped to the front. Avery sat by the windows, near where Red usually sits. Red was off with Ms. Yvonne.

  I let out another puff, picked up my pencil, and scanned the test. The first part was the editing part. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There was only one question: A concerned citizen had written a letter to the editor of a newspaper requesting that a stop sign be installed at a busy intersection. The letter was filled with errors. We had to correct it and rewrite it.

  That was it.

  * * *

  The second part of the benchmark was the listening part.

  Mr. Acevedo read us a passage. Twice. He read like he read during T3.

  It was a story about a family sitting around a breakfast table preparing for a big day. But the story didn’t say what the big day was.

  When he finished reading, I scanned the questions:

  • How does the setting …

  • When the grandmother’s character …

  • What predictions can you make based on …

  • Which character best …

  • How does the mood of the passage change from …

  • Where is the family …

  Every question stuck to my brain like glue.

  * * *

  We took the third part of the benchmark—the writing part—in the afternoon.

  “There’s only one question,” Mr. Acevedo said. “You have plenty of time. You’re going to do great. I guarantee it. You may begin.”

  I put down my pencil and scanned the question:

  Describe a situation in which you have been asked to do something you didn’t want to do. Your response should include the following: A detailed description of the situation. A detailed explanation of why you didn’t want to do the requested task. A detailed explanation of the process. A detailed explanation of the results of the process.

  Under the desk, I pumped my fist. It was as if the question didn’t say, Describe a situation in which you have been asked to do something you didn’t want to do, but rather, Describe your experience working on the “That’s Nasty” project.

  I had this one, too.

  Guaranteed

  The next morning, I met Red at the end of his driveway at 7:25, and we walked our usual route to RJE. At the schoolyard, I tossed my bag over the fence, and he caught it by the straps.

  We zigzagged through the portables, shared the oatmeal-raisin granola bar, and headed for the playground. We obstacle-coursed the jungle gym, tapped our wooden posts, and headed for the front entrance, turning onto the circular driveway sidewalk just as the first buses …

  I stopped dead in my tracks.

  Avery and Mr. Acevedo were by the front doors.

  “Let’s go have a conversation,” Mr. Acevedo said, smiling. He gave Red a pound. “Let’s head to the Amp.”

  * * *

  “Let me start with you, Red,” Mr. Acevedo said.

  He sat cross-legged on the end of the front-row bench with a folder on his lap. Avery sat beside him. Red and I sat in the second row facing him.

  “Ms. Yvonne said that was the first time you took one of those without extended time.”

  “Yes, Mr. Acevedo.”

  “I don’t have your results yet, but Ms. Yvonne said that was the best you ever did. By far.”

  “Bam!” Red raised his arms.

  Mr. Acevedo turned to Avery. “Same thing goes for you, Ms. Goodman.”

  “Don’t play, Mr. Acevedo,” she said.

  “I’m not playing. I have your results.” He tapped the folder. “Let’s talk about the writing portion first. What did you write about?”

  “Working with Rip,” she said.

  “Seriously?” I said.

  “You two haven’t talked about this yet?” Mr. Acevedo opened the folder.

  We both shook our heads.

  “You wrote about each other. She wrote about working with you. You wrote about working with her.”

  I twisted a lock by my forehead and smiled.

  “That was the best I ever did in writing?” Avery asked.

  “Not just writing, Ms. Goodman. Editing, listening, and writing.

  “That goes for both of you. In fact, every student in Room 208 showed improvement.”

  “Just like you guaranteed.”

  I sprang to my feet and spun to Red. “Handshake!”

  Red leaped into it.

  “High-five, high-five. Elbow, elbow,” we cheered together. “Right, right. Left, left. Fist, fist, knuckles, blow it up. Turn, jump, bump…”

  “Boo-yah!” the four of us shouted.

  Acknowledgments

  I loved every part of working on this book. Except for this part. I avoided writing these acknowledgments for as long as I possibly could. Why? I know I’m going to leave someone out. It will hit me as soon as I see this in print.

  With that said, thanks and love to …

  Erin Murphy, my agent. I’m listening to the music of the moment. Our name is our virtue.

  Wes Adams, my editor. You pushed me as a writer like no one before. You challenged me on every page. Boo-yah!

  Farrar Straus Giroux and the whole Macmillan Children’s Publishing Group. You rallied behind this project. You poured your hearts into this project. You are this project.

  Illustrator Tim Probert, whose pictures capture the energy and essence of the story.

  Elizabeth Acevedo, my student, my friend. Whenever I visit schools, I’m often asked what inspires me. I always talk about the relentless passion of Elizabeth Acevedo.

  Eva Ruiz, my Spanish expert and supernova friend who dreams in larger-than-life.

  Anna Rekate, the best educator I’ve ever worked for. Your values and vision belong in every school around the globe. You’re getting there.

  Yvonne Salgado, the best educator I ever worked with. Empathy comes first. You modeled that every day in our classroom.

  Owa Brandstein, my basketball guru, who made sure my hoops sequences were close enough to real and who puts up with my borderline-delusional Brooklyn Nets fandom.

  Teddy Bailey and Evan Bailey, my gamer gurus, who made sure I didn’t embarrass myself too much writing video-game scenes.

  Helen Leonard, founder of the Paragon School in Orlando, Florida, who gave me the strength and tools to develop the character of Rip. Every student matters.

  Christine Carter, Julia Garstecki, Jane Jergensen, and Jennifer Lucas, who read through early drafts, answered all my questions, and reinforced the notion that every student matters.

  April Coughlin, for spending hours and hours with me on the character of Avery. You opened my eyes.

  Cree and Robin Mitchell, for embodying perseverance.

  Tracey Appelbaum and Cindy Leff, who helped me design an eleven-year-old boy’s bedroom.

  Tony Sinanis and Ami Uselman, who helped me design Reese Jones Elementary School.

  Lindsay Jones, who gave the world the beautiful Reese.

  Jackie Woodson, for sitting with me at DuJour and explaining the finer points of black hair care, and for sitting with my sixth graders on the auditorium stage at the West Farms School in the Tremont section of the Bronx way back in nineteen ninety-something and discussing Mel, Sean, Ralph, and Angie.

  Stephanie Lurie and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, who gave me the kick in the butt I didn’t know I needed to write this book.

  Kate Messner, your Real Revision should be on every writer’s bookshelf. Wendy Mass, your contribution to Real Revision should be used by every writing teacher.

  Kevin and Katniss, my family. Than
k you for the constant distractions. Thank you for your patience and kindness. Thank you for the love.

  —P.B.

  About the Author

  Phil Bildner is a former New York City public school teacher who lives in Brooklyn. The author of many books, he travels to over sixty schools a year. philbildner.com. You can sign up for email updates here.

  Tim Probert has illustrated children’s books, advertisements, promotional material, and worked in animation production. He lives in New York City. timprobert.com. You can sign up for email updates here.

  Also by Phil Bildner

  The Sluggers Series

  with Loren Long

  Magic in the Outfield

  Horsin’ Around

  Great Balls of Fire

  Water, Water Everywhere

  Blastin’ the Blues

  Home of the Brave

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Fifth Grade!

  Mr. Acevedo

  Rip and Red

  Slammed!

  Ready to Ball

  Huh?

  Handshake

  Coach Acevedo

  Hoops Madness

  A Free-Throw-Shooting Machine!

  Lesley Irving

  Community Circle

  Teacher’s Theater Time

  Up

  The T-Word

  H-O-R-S-E

  Clifton United

  Teammates!

  That’s Nasty!

  Slammed Again

  Avery

  All Ball

  Soup’s On

  Happy Reading Day!

  Crashing the Boards

  Fix-It Friday

  Full-Court Press