How Lamar's Bad Prank Won a Bubba-Sized Trophy

by Crystal Allen

  “It’s a’ight I guess.”

  “Scooter and my dad think X will get drafted, maybe straight out of high school.”

  I stuff my hands into my pocket. “Your brother’s pretty good, too, Billy. Xavier says Scooter’s the best center on the team.”

  “Scooter’s okay, but not as good as X. Even if your brother doesn’t get drafted, he’ll get a full ride to some major college. How about you, Washington? You going to college?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe, if I can get a bowling scholarship.”

  Billy laughs. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Uh, no.”

  Billy opens an exit door and I follow him outside, where he pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and extends them to me.

  “Want one?”

  I take a step back. “No. I have asthma.”

  “Oh, then I won’t light up. You know, having money in your pocket opens up a world of opportunity for you, Washington. I mean, what if that bowling scholarship thing doesn’t happen? You can make your own scholarship, know what I’m saying? Pay your own way through school. And how about new gear? Or you can buy Christmas gifts for your dad and something nice on Mother’s Day for your mom.”

  “My mom’s dead.”

  Billy stares at me. “No way. My mom’s dead, too. That’s crazy weird.”

  He searches the grass and opens up about life with his mom. I talk about mine and he listens.

  “If Mom were still here, tomorrow morning, actually every Saturday, I’d get banana pancakes for breakfast soaked with hot maple syrup. You ever had syrup on your bacon?”

  Billy nods. “Heck yeah, that’s good stuff.”

  I stare at the grass and relive thousands of things I could tell him about her. Fun and food, hugs and help, smiles and tears revisit my memory to give me options. I tell Billy as much as I can without getting all emotional.

  “She sounds pretty awesome,” he says.

  I don’t look up. “She was way cool.”

  Billy snatches a handful of grass out of the ground. “I don’t think anybody really understands guys like us. How can they? Take Sergio, for example. He gets everything handed to him on a silver platter.”

  “Sergio’s cool, Billy. He’s my best friend.”

  “Hey, nothing wrong with that. I’m just saying, with Mom gone, I became a man a lot faster than some of these rich kids. I know I’m making my mom proud, taking care of myself the way I do. I bet your mom is proud, too, Washington.”

  I can barely hear Billy. I’m still enjoying the mental motion picture of times I spent with Mom curled up on the couch watching episodes of crime shows. Sometimes she even joined me to watch bowling tournaments that Bubba bowled in.

  “Earth to Washington.”

  I look up and smile. “My bad.”

  Billy gives a half grin. “No apology necessary. I get lost in my thoughts all the time. I understand. I really do. Listen, I’ve got a match set up at Striker’s tomorrow at noon. It’s a small bet. We won’t make enough money to buy a rally towel, but it’s good practice. I want to get this smoke in before the game is over. See you later.”

  Billy walks around the corner to the back of the building. I smell cigarette smoke and move farther away. Maybe I’ve been wrong about this guy. I’ve only heard rumors about his drama. I’ve never seen him in juvie, boot camp, or under arrest. It could all be a pack of lies.

  People get labeled for stuff. Maybe that’s what’s happened to Billy. Or maybe he’s changed; Makeda’s a perfect example. She’s changed. I think I have too.

  Since my girl likes poetry, I’m going to write her an unforgettable poem. I’ve got all kinds of talent, and I want her to understand I’m not just a bowling stud with a handsome face.

  Cheers erupt from inside the Y and I sprint back to the gym. Ten seconds left and the game is tied. Xavier calls time-out. It’s standing room only on Coffin’s side. I rush to the visiting team’s bleachers and sit with the Bedford fans.

  The buzzer sounds, the bleachers rattle, and the noise levels are out of control. X dribbles over the half-court line. Fans stomp to raise the noise level. This is it. Winner plays in next Wednesday’s championship game; loser buys a ticket and watches with the rest of us.

  Coffin fans chant X’s nickname as if they’re casting an evil spell.

  “Xavier, Xavier, the Basketball Savior! Xavier, Xavier, the Basketball Savior!”

  Dad chants, too. Mr. Jenks screams and points at Scooter. Hundreds of Bedford fans lead a charge of their own.

  “Dee-fense!” Clap-clap! “Dee-fense!” Clap-clap!

  Between my teeth I chant with the Bedford fans and tap my foot when they clap.

  Xavier passes the ball to Scooter, then dashes to the left corner. A Bedford player tries to keep up with X. Rubber soles screech on the court as picks are set, cuts are made, and players scramble to beat the buzzer. Five seconds, four…

  Scooter screams something to Xavier and throws the ball to a spot near the three-point line. Xavier spins away from his defender and catches the ball before it bounces. The Bedford player rushes to catch up, but it’s too late. Three, two…

  Xavier leaps high in the air, higher than his defender, and releases the ball off his fingertips toward the basket. Mouths close, eyes bulge, fans freeze. It’s eerily quiet as the ball arcs and spins in the air. One…

  Swish!

  BEEEEEEEEEP!

  Dad jumps off the bleachers and beats the coach to Xavier. He lifts X in the air, making my brother resemble one of those gold dudes on his trophies at home. My heart hurts as I rewind my thoughts to earlier in the day when I daydreamed about Dad lifting me up in the exact same way.

  Coffin fans rush the court. Bedford fans clog the exit.

  A man with a microphone stands at midcourt to announce Coffin as the team that will play Scottsburg for the Indiana YMCA championship next Wednesday. Then it gets worse.

  “Attention, please! The committee has posted the All-Y team, and we’re proud to announce Coffin’s own Scooter Jenks and Xavier Washington as First Team All-Y members. And, no surprise to most of us, Xavier has been named MVP of the game.”

  It’s time to go. It doesn’t matter how long they celebrate on the court. I’m not celebrating. If I have to, I’ll stand at the car and wait all night.

  Chapter Nine

  I sit on the front bumper of Dad’s car, content to chill until he and X come out of the Y. My legs feel funny. I stand to stretch and drop face-first in the grass. My legs tingle and tickle at the same time. I’m sprawled out like a chalk outline at a murder scene when Makeda appears. She giggles and holds out her hand.

  “Need some help?”

  I take the offer. “Either my legs fell asleep or this is what happens when you’re bored to death. You heading back to Striker’s?”

  I purposely don’t let go of her. She doesn’t try to pull free, so I keep holding on and she blushes.

  “I was on my way over to sit with you, but you left with Billy.”

  Dang. “Yeah, we were just bored, that’s all.”

  Her dad calls her. She smiles at me. “I’ve got to go. Bye, Lamar.”

  She slides her hand out of mine and sashays away. I’m not ready for her to leave, so I scramble for something to say.

  “I’ll have something for you tomorrow.”

  She turns to me and walks backward. “I’m helping my grandma wash her clothes tomorrow. It’ll be after one before I get to Striker’s. What do you have for me?”

  “It’s a surprise. You’ll see. You’re going to love it. And anyway, I’ve got a doctor’s appointment at one, so two is cool, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Soon, Makeda and her dad drive off. Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting on the lone car left in the parking lot when X and Dad come out. They’re laughing and talking about that unbelievably lucky buzzer beater X threw up in the air. Dad unlocks the car with his remote and I take the backseat. As Dad starts the car, he catches my eye i
n his rearview mirror.

  “Wasn’t that an awesome game, Lamar?”

  “Awesome.”

  “Your brother wants a big fat juicy steak, and I think he deserves one, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Dad, he deserves it,” I say while thinking about my girl.

  At the Wabash Steak and Seafood House, Xavier orders the biggest and most expensive steak on the menu. Dad joins him. I order catfish and think about Sergio. Dad yanks a pen out of his shirt pocket and clicks it several times, then pulls his napkin closer.

  “Okay, X, look at this. When Coach calls for the one-three-one offense, he wants you to feed your big dog in the middle. Hit Scooter with a soft lob and he’ll roll right to the bucket for an easy two. Then when you get the urge to pop a three from the top of the key, he’ll set a pick on your guy strong enough to hold back Niagara Falls.”

  I get an idea. “Hey Dad, got another pen on you?”

  He finds one and gives it to me. I grab my napkin and go to work while he and X are going back and forth on strategy. After a while I notice that their conversation has stopped. I break off a piece of catfish with my fingers and toss it in my mouth. Dad grins.

  “How’s your fish?”

  “Crunchy. Hey, can you think of anything that rhymes with Makeda?”

  “Wow, that’s a tough one. Not offhand. Did you do your breathing exercises today?”

  “Yes, sir. I also stopped by Dr. Avery’s office and made an appointment for tomorrow. Will you call and tell them it’s okay for you to not be there?”

  Dad raises an eyebrow. “I can be there. What time? Is something wrong?”

  “No, sir, nothing. I’m thirteen now and it’s just going to be the same old ‘Breathe in, breathe out’ routine. You know Dr. Avery never flips the script.”

  Dad winks at me. “I get it. You’re almost a man now. Can handle your own business.”

  Xavier opens his big mouth. “You should take him, Dad. Lamar’s a baby. His breath still smells like Gerber.”

  “Shut up, X! Dad, it’s time. You’re absolutely right. I’m old enough.”

  He reaches into his wallet and hands me a twenty. “This is for the insurance co-pay. I’ll call tomorrow and give my consent.”

  I stuff the cash in my pocket. “Thanks, Dad. Did I tell you I’ve beat Sergio in eleven straight games of bowling?”

  Dad chuckles. “No kidding?”

  “He can’t handle me, Dad. I’m the bowling king at Striker’s.”

  He nods as he chews, then gets this oh-I-meant-to-tell-you look on his face.

  “I did some research on that bowling scholarship thing we were talking about a few days ago. Nada. Zilch. Couldn’t find one school willing to fork over a bowling scholarship. I guess things haven’t changed.”

  If Xavier’s grin gets any bigger, his head’s going to explode.

  I scoop a big chunk of potato salad into my mouth. Then, out of nowhere, Dad taps on the table.

  “You know, bowling on a team is one of my happiest high school memories.”

  I stop chewing. So does X. Dad’s eyeballs bounce back and forth between us.

  That’s just as good as pulling the clip on a grenade and dropping it in on Xavier’s head. My mouth opens. Potato salad falls out and splats on my plate. Did I hear what I think I heard?

  “Did you say you bowled on a team?”

  His head tilts. “I told you that, didn’t I?”

  Dad keeps chewing and reloads his mouth with steak. “Mm-hmm. Yep, I was nasty good. Bowled cleanup, you know, anchor. My teammates called me Clutch. Clutch Washington. I won a trophy. It’s somewhere in the closet at home.”

  I’ve got clumps of drooled potato salad on top of my catfish. I drape my napkin across my plate. The catfish was good, but not nearly as good as this bit of news.

  “I knew you bowled, but I thought it was just for fun,” I say.

  He gobbles more steak. “Boy, I loved to bowl as much as you do now. It’s too bad they don’t have bowling teams in schools anymore.”

  “Yeah, that would be way cool. I’d roll lights out for my school.”

  Dad chuckles again. Xavier tries to break in, but I’m not having it.

  “Hey Dad, when you find that trophy, I want to see it.”

  “Really? Okay, I’ll look for it. Anything exciting happening at Striker’s?”

  I quickly glance at Xavier. He thinks the conversation is over, but it’s not.

  “Bubba Sanders is coming on the Fourth of July.”

  Dad’s fork stops halfway between his plate and his mouth. “Is he really?”

  “And he’s giving away four of his brand-new Pro Thunders with the matching bags.”

  Xavier breaks in. “What’s he going to do, chuck the bowling balls out in the crowd and whoever doesn’t get knocked out gets to keep ’em?”

  Dad laughs at that one but then gets serious. “Really, what’s the catch?”

  “You have to write a five-hundred-word essay to Bubba by June thirtieth, explaining why you should be one of the four lucky winners.”

  Dad’s eyebrows rise, “Oooh. That’s brutal. Have you finished your essay? You did enter the contest, didn’t you?”

  I’ve got enough money in my Bank of Lamar to buy half of a Pro Thunder right now. But that information is top secret.

  “I haven’t entered it yet. I hate essays. I may have to pass on this.”

  Dad wipes his mouth. “I don’t know, Lamar. You aced every essay you wrote in school this year. Winning should be a cakewalk for you. Plus, it’s Bubba Sanders!”

  I give Dad a high five. “I know, right?”

  There’s a goofy grin spreading across my face. It feels awesome. For the first time ever, I think Dad understands me.

  “So Dad, just how good were you on the lanes?”

  He pokes another piece of steak. “How good? Try a two-oh-two average. Imagine that. After all these years I can still remember.”

  Xavier laughs and points at me, “Even if you tried out for some bumper bowling squad, you’ll never top Dad’s old scores. I can’t believe Mom thought you’d ever be a superstar. Superloser maybe. Now there’s a trophy that already has your name on it.”

  I point my fork at him. “Leave Mom out of this! And Dad was talking to me.”

  Dad holds up a hand. “Hey, hey, okay, settle down, you two.”

  X rolls his eyes and restarts another basketball conversation with Dad. My brain flips the switch, too. I work on my girl’s poem.

  What rhymes with Makeda?

  Chapter Ten

  Early Saturday morning I crank through my chores like a walking energy drink. I take extra time for my breathing exercises. Standing in front of the mirror, I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth. My lungs need to sound excellent today.

  When Dr. Avery puts that stethoscope on my chest, he needs to hear nothing. No wheezing, no weird stuff. In through my nose, out through my mouth. I check my watch: eleven o’clock. I’ve got two whole hours to roll a game or two at Striker’s before my appointment.

  I make a quick sandwich and burn off. It’s perfect weather outside today. That’s got to be a sign. It’s going to be a yes day for me. I feel it.

  Once inside the bowling alley, I head straight to the snack bar. There’s Sergio. Tasha’s not with him. Being the man that I am, I strut over to my boy.

  “What’s up, Sergio.”

  He shrugs. “Nothing much, just waiting for Tasha to get back.”

  “Where’d she go?”

  “To some fashion store. I gave her thirty bucks to buy a pair of jeans she saw in the window.”

  I smile at him. “Sergio, the way you give that girl money should be against the law.”

  He raises a brow. “Don’t worry about what I give my girl. You need to worry about what your girl is giving you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s ruining your rep. Don’t you get it? People are going to talk about you and Fivehead. Aw, man, you’re on your
way to a really bad crash and burn.”

  Something has just crashed and burned all right, and it may have been our friendship. I’m tired of him talking bad about Makeda when his girl’s middle name is ATM.

  “Tasha’s not perfect, Sergio. And today, I’m going to ask Makeda to be my girl. If you don’t like it, too bad. And don’t call her Fivehead when you’re around me.”

  “I’m just trying to help you out, Lamar. I told you what girls look for in a guy. I didn’t know I needed to tell you what guys look for in a girl.”

  I bang the table. “You’re supposed to be my best friend. You should be happy I’ve got a honey. Thanks for the support, Sergio.”

  The conversation freezes. Sergio takes a sip of his drink, and I take a puff of my inhaler. I bob and sway to the song playing through the speakers. Finally, he holds out his fist to me.

  “You’re right, bro. I won’t say anything else about her. Let’s not talk about our girls anymore. Let’s just flip the switch on that conversation, okay?”

  I scoot closer to the table and we bump fists. Sergio leans back in his chair. Something’s still bothering him. It’s all over his face. So I call him out.

  “Spill it, Sergio. What now?”

  “I want to talk to you about something.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “About those gutter balls yesterday.”

  I cross my arms and tilt my head. “What about ’em? It wasn’t my fault.”

  “And I guess you’re going to tell me you didn’t know Billy was going to throw ’em?”

  I tap the table with my fingers. “Billy was trying something new with his game.”

  “Come on, Lamar. It’s bad enough that you’re hanging with Billy. What’s next?”

  I lean back hard in my chair. “What’s up with you, Sergio? If you don’t want to hang out with me, just say it! But all this extra drama…I’m just not down, bro.”

  Sergio won’t look at me. But he won’t say those friend-killing words either. So I let him off the hook.

  “Have you finished your essay for Bubba?”

  His head snaps back to face me. “Almost.”

  I search my brain for conversation. “What’s going on with the Holiday World trip?”