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Friday at 6:16 pm
Austin Carter I appreciate that
But whatever
I just gotta learn to live with it
And now I’m signing off and like I said everyone can stop talking about it
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ALFIE
I stare at Austin’s words, not quite understanding, then totally understanding.
I messed up, big time.
I’m supposed to find the truth, and instead, I guessed the truth.
And I guessed wrong.
I turn my phone off, turn my computer off, and bury my face in my hands.
I’m embarrassed and ashamed.
And I vow never to make the same mistake again.
AUSTIN
As if laying it all out there online isn’t stressful enough, now it’s time for Friday family dinner.
Friday family dinner is a big deal in my house.
During the week, my dad is either traveling for work or gets home late, and on Saturdays and Sundays we usually have sports or other activities or my parents go out, but on Friday nights we eat together at 7:30 sharp.
Liv and I alternate nights setting the table, and tonight it’s my night. As I’m putting the forks down, Liv shows me something on her phone. It’s a meme she found online, a picture of Clay lying on the ground and screaming in pain and me leaning over him to see if he’s okay.
And on the picture someone has written, DUDE! PRACTICE TOMORROW, 9 AM SHARP!
I wave Liv away. “Get that thing out of my face.”
We all sit down. For the first few minutes, as usual, no one says anything except stuff like Pass the steak and Do you have enough water? and Make sure to take some broccoli. Then there’s a few minutes of quiet eating, while we wait for my dad to start a conversation about basketball.
I eat, and wait.
The first thing we talk about is Liv’s travel league game from the night before. She was the leading scorer, as usual.
“I played okay, I guess,” Liv says, even though she knows she played great.
“That’s an understatement,” my mom says.
My dad nods. “You’re looking really strong out there, Liv. Really strong. Maybe work on your free throws a bit, but otherwise, no complaints.”
No complaints from my dad is like You’re the greatest thing since sliced bread from anyone else.
Liv beams. “I worked on my foul shooting today, Dad. I went 39 for 50.”
“Good for you, kiddo.”
I have an urge to roll my eyes, but I manage not to.
My dad’s phone buzzes. He glances at it and reads something quickly. Then he looks up, right at me.
“This is the third text I’ve gotten tonight from a parent asking how you’re doing. What’s this about?”
I hold his gaze for a few seconds, then look down at my plate. “I told some people that I was the one who talked Clay into playing even though he was hurt.”
My dad scoffs. “Yeah well, his injury has nothing to do with you. It’s a freak thing that happened. Nobody’s fault. Certainly not yours.”
He says it in a way that means we’re done with that topic. But for some reason, I decide I’m not done. “Actually, Dad, it kind of was somebody’s fault.”
Silverware stops clinking.
“Is that right?” my dad asks. “Whose fault was it then?”
“Uh, mine. Like I said, I made Clay play, knowing he was already hurt.”
“You didn’t make him play. It was his decision.”
“I’m the captain.”
My dad takes a long sip of water. “The coach would have held him out if he thought Clay was in danger of further injury. Not your call.”
It’s obvious we’re not getting anywhere, so I stop talking.
“It’s a complicated situation, Austin,” my mom chimes in. She’s trying to make peace, as usual. “I mean, you can’t be expected to have the judgment of an adult. I understand that you might feel bad, but saying that you are responsible for Clay’s injury is just ridiculous.”
I feel more comfortable with my mom, so I direct my answer to her. “It’s not that complicated, actually. I wanted to win, and the best chance we had to win was by me talking Clay into playing. Now he’s hurt, so obviously that was a dumb idea, because we’re not going to win nearly as many games with him out.”
“Well, at least you’ll get the ball a lot more,” my dad says. “Like I said at Currier’s, I’ll be shocked if your scoring average doesn’t go way up, since you’re going to be seeing a lot more of the ball.”
“I guess,” I say, trying not to feel guilty about it. “My shooting percentage should go way up, too.”
“Exactly!” My dad nods, satisfied that we can agree on something. Which is my mom’s cue to change the subject.
“Do you guys want to talk about our spring break plans?” she asks.
“SWEEEET!” says Liv, grinning from ear to ear.
“Well, this year we thought we’d try something different,” my mom says. “I mean, no one loves lying in the sun more than me, but we don’t always need to be so lazy. And besides, there’s so much great stuff to see in our very own amazing country, right you guys?”
I notice my sister’s grin has faded a little bit.
My mom gives us her biggest, happiest smile—maybe a little too big and happy. “So, your dad and I decided we’re all going to go to Wyoming to do some camping, and some hiking and fishing, and see all the amazing wildlife at Yellowstone National Park. Bears and moose and wolves! How’s that sound?”
“We’re still working out the details, depending on when the league playoffs end,” my dad adds.
My sister starts playing with her hair, which she always does when she decides to pout about something. “So wait, are we gonna, like, sleep in a tent and stuff?”
“For a few nights, yes,” says my dad. “We’ll also be in a lodge. But if you’re expecting pancake breakfasts and video games and hair salons, well, it’s not that kind of vacation. We’re going to be roughing it a little bit, for a change.”
“Okay, yeah, sounds amazing,” Liv says, sounding unamazed. “But . . . can we go back to the Caribbean at Christmas?”
My dad sighs, then finally looks at me. “What about you, Austin? You think it sounds fun?”
I don’t answer right away. Instead, my mind flashes back to the chain from the night before, when Eric made that gross “free lunch” joke about the guys at South, and Chase turned it into a hashtag. Then I think of Carter Haswell telling me to hang in there. I wonder what he would think about going to Wyoming and “roughing it.”
I look at my dad.
“It sounds fantastic,” I say. “May I be excused?”
CARTER
While I wait for my mom to get home from work and drive me over to Dad’s, I have my usual argument with myself: Should I practice guitar or basketball? The truth is, I’d rather play guitar, but I feel guilty if I don’t work on my game.
So I decide to do both.
I go out to the hoop behind my apartment building and start working on my left hand. Everyone has a strong side, and I’m a natural rightie, but if you’re going to be good at any sport, you have to learn how to use both hands or both feet. I’m lucky because I’m kind of ambidextrous to begin with, and I invented this little game where I throw the ball up against the backboard and rebound it and put it back up with my left hand. I tell myself that once I make fifty shots in a row, I can go inside and turn on Patty Strums. She just released a video called “The Four Chords That Will Make You a Guitar God,” and I really want to check it out.
Unfortunately, I’m only up to thirty-two in a row by the time my mom drives up. Becoming a guitar god will have to wait.
“MA!” I whine. “You’re early!”
She looks at her watch. “Not according to mama time I’m not. I’ve gotta drop you off and be back at work by six, so let’s get a move on.”
My mom’s
car kind of sounds like a hippopotamus with asthma, so we have to shout at each other while she’s driving.
“I GOT AN INTERESTING PHONE CALL TODAY,” she shouts.
“FROM WHO?”
“FROM SOME COACH. HE SAID COACH BENNY GAVE HIM MY NUMBER, AND HE’S STARTING A FANCY BASKETBALL TEAM AND HE WANTS YOU TO BE ON IT. THE FIRST PRACTICE IS NEXT TUESDAY. PRETTY COOL, HUH?”
“WHAT KIND OF TEAM?”
“I FORGET EXACTLY. UAA? AUU?”
“AAU?”
“YUP THAT’S THE ONE!”
Whoa. I’ve heard about AAU. That’s where the real basketball is played.
“HOLY MOLY.”
“I KNOW!”
We don’t talk much after that, partly because I’m suddenly in my own world thinking about real basketball, and partly because it gets tiring shouting in the car.
My mom drops me off at some house my dad is painting. “HAVE FUN!” she hollers. “DON’T LET HIM MAKE YOU DO ALL THE WORK AS USUAL.”
I find my dad around the back, up on a ladder, doing some window trim work. He sees me and backs down the ladder slowly and carefully, which he’s done ever since he had a bad spill and hurt his back a few years ago.
“Cartman,” he says. “Ready to work?”
“Mom says you’re not supposed to ask me that.”
My dad laughs. “Still telling me what to do.”
He hands me four paint brushes and a bucket of water, and I do what I always do, which is rinse them out and dry them. My dad would never let me do any actual painting, of course. He just has me do the stuff he doesn’t want to do. Can’t say that I blame him.
After about twenty minutes, I ask my dad my favorite question: “Break time?”
“Sure. I’m a little bit ahead on this job, anyway.”
As we sit on the back of my dad’s truck, my dad turns his body away from me, then takes a little bottle of something and pours it into his coffee. He doesn’t think I see this, but I do. I’ve seen him do it for years, and I know exactly what’s happening. But I’ve never asked him about it.
Instead, I take a sip of juice, then tell him the news: “So Dad, some guy called mom today, and asked if I would join this AAU basketball team. I guess it starts next week.”
My dad raises an eyebrow. “AAU? What’s that stand for?”
“I’m not sure, but it’s, like, this league that only takes the best players.”
“Whoa,” my dad says. “Sounds expensive.”
I’m not surprised by his response. With my dad, everything comes down to money. Probably because he’s never had any.
“I don’t know about that.”
He takes a swig of his special coffee. “So you don’t know how much it costs?”
“No, Dad. I don’t even know who the guy is. Mom talked to him.”
“Aha. Well, anything for her little boy, even if it means spending money we don’t got.”
And that pretty much explains why my parents aren’t married anymore.
“You don’t even know that it costs money, Dad.”
“Everything costs money.”
I check the time on my phone. I have a sudden urge to be anywhere else.
“Listen,” my dad says. “I know how the world works. There are a lot of people out there who are happy to pay a lot of money to make sure little Johnny or little Jenny gets the best of everything. Especially when it comes to sports.”
“So you’re saying I can’t play?”
“Not saying that at all.” He finishes the last of his drink. “You’re a real good player, Cartman. You got something special, and people want kids with something special. So you join this team, and you show them how badly they need you. You play so well that they wouldn’t dream of making you pay. You make sure you’re the best player on the team. And then you keep making sure you’re the best, right through high school, all the way ’til the day some college coach says, ‘How’d you like a free college education? All you have to do is shoot that ball in that basket for a few years.’ And then who knows, if you work hard enough, you might even make it to the NBA, and I can stop falling off ladders, and your mom can stop doing double shifts all week. All you have to do is be the very best, every step of the way, starting with this AAU thing.” He winks at me. “Easy peasy, right?”
“Ha,” I say, squinting up into the sunshine.
My dad jumps off the truck. “And speaking of being the best,” he says, “I’m the best housepainter in this whole town, and I start on a new job next week, so I need to finish this up today.”
As I watch him paint, one thought keeps going through my head.
I guess I start a new job next week, too.
AUSTIN
Clay’s not answering any of my texts, so over the weekend I decide to just show up at his house.
His mom answers the door. “Austin! Hello.” She looks surprised to see me. And not necessarily in a good way.
“Hi, Ms. Elkind. Is Clay home?”
“He’s in his room, go ahead up.”
I take the stairs two at a time and knock on Clay’s door.
“Who is it?”
“Austin.”
Five-second pause.
“Come in.”
Clay is lying on his bed, staring at his phone, his left leg up on a few pillows.
“What’s up,” he says.
“Not much. I’ve been texting you.”
“Yeah, sorry, got a lot going on.”
I’m not sure what that could be since he’s laid up in bed, but I’m not going to say that out loud. “So, how’s it going? What’d the doctor say?”
“Some ligament damage, but not torn. Out for six to eight weeks at least. But there’s a chance I can play again this season.”
“That’s great news!”
“Yeah, fantastic.”
I take a deep breath and stare out the window at his pool, which is covered up for the season. “Listen, dude. I don’t know what to say. I messed up. I’m sorry.”
He’s still staring at his phone. “Yeah, no, it’s cool.” But it doesn’t seem cool.
“We’re gonna really miss you out there, Clay. You’re our best player and everyone knows it.”
“Not anymore. Order has been restored to the universe.”
“What does that mean?”
He looks up at me for the first time. “It means that for a long time, you were the best player. Then I grew tall and developed my game, and all of a sudden I was really good. Maybe even better than you. But now that I’m hurt, you’re the man again. Like I said, order has been restored to the universe.”
“Bro, you’re being ridiculous. I don’t care about being ‘the man.’ I just want to win.”
“Come on, PJ.” Clay adjusts one of the pillows under his leg. “Isn’t there some small part of you that’s psyched to be the leading scorer again? I mean, think about it—you’re part of the most famous basketball family in Walthorne. Now your parents won’t freak out that their son is the second-best player.”
I shake my head. “Seriously? Come on.”
Clay hesitates, like he’s not sure he wants to say what he’s about to say, but he says it, anyway. “Listen, I hate to say this, man, and I don’t believe it myself, but I’ve heard some people talking about how, like, maybe you wanted me to get injured, so you could take over the team again.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “What? Are you for real right now? Like who?”
“I mean, you did kind of pressure me to play hurt, right?”
My skin starts to prickle, like it’s on fire. “Listen, Clay. I feel really bad that you got hurt, but it’s not like I ordered you to play the other night, I just asked you to.” I hear how mad I sound, and I don’t like it, but I can’t help it. “The coach could have told you not to. Your mom and dad could have told you not to. And also, you might have gotten that injury at the end of the game even if you hadn’t been hurt before. Injuries happen all the time in sports, remember? That’s part of th
e deal. So whatever you’re hearing is bull, and you know it. Whatever. I’m gonna go.”
I start to walk out of his room, then turn around and poke my head back in. “I hope you feel better,” I say.
Then I run down the stairs and out the front door without saying goodbye to his mom.
WWMS
WALTHORNE SOUTH RADIO
ALFIE:
Hello, and welcome to Talking Sports on WWMS. My name is Alfie Jenks. My guest today is Mr. Rashad, who works as a counselor in the Walthorne School System. Mr. Rashad, thank you very much for joining us today.
MR. RASHAD:
Wow, Alfie, you sound very professional.
ALFIE:
I’m not, trust me.
MR. RASHAD:
Well, I’m impressed.
ALFIE:
Thank you! I have asked Mr. Rashad to join us today to discuss youth sports and the situation regarding the blog post I wrote, when I mistakenly suggested that the coach of Walthorne North told one of his players, Clay Elkind, to play hurt.
MR. RASHAD:
Yes, I heard about that.
ALFIE:
I feel horrible and I promise to never make a mistake like that again, but what do you think about the fact that Clay was playing in the game?
MR. RASHAD:
I think it’s good that you’re going to be more careful about your reporting from now on. As for that young man who was playing hurt, I wish I could say I was surprised, but I’m not. I’ve seen all sorts of things happen on the field of play—or the court, in this instance—that make me wonder if the whole business of youth sports hasn’t gotten a little cockeyed.
ALFIE:
Cockeyed? How so?
MR. RASHAD:
Well, for one thing, I know that another player on Clay’s team took responsibility for urging Clay to play when he was injured. But when it comes to these kinds of decisions, it’s not the player’s fault. It’s never the player’s fault.
ALFIE:
I’m not sure what you mean, Mr. Rashad. Can you explain?
MR. RASHAD:
Sure, Alfie. The young man at Walthorne North who was encouraging his teammate to play through an injury may not have been using his best judgment. But in these types of situations, it’s always up to the adults to make sure the very best judgment is used, and in this case they failed. That is my concern, Alfie: It’s those very adults that get so caught up in the need to win, and being the best, that sometimes they forget their main responsibility, which is to protect the youngsters and allow them to grow.
Rivals Page 5
