“I guess,” I said. “But what if —”
Dad waved me off. “All that other stuff, it’s a question of mind over matter. If you don’t mind” — we said the next part together — “they don’t matter.”
I smiled. It felt good to have someone in my corner like that. I looked down at the crinkled permission slip, and he went on: “This is your call, STAT. The question is: Do you want to join the team? Forget about who’s there and who’s not and what people might think one way or another. Just you: Do you want to join the Bears or not?”
I leaned back in my chair. I looked at him and he looked at me. And just like that, I knew the answer.
“You know what?” I said. “I do. Yeah, I can be a Bear. I know I can hang with those guys on the court. And even if my friends aren’t there, it’s still kind of like I’m representing them. Those jerseys say ‘Bears,’ not ‘Eighth Grade.’”
“Well, all right,” said Dad. “But …”
“But what?”
“But you know you’re going to have to put in a lot of hours. There are going to be practices, away games, slow buses, and heavy traffic.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. I’d thought about that already.
“And you know you still need to get all your homework done, every day,” he said.
“Oh, I knoooow that!” I said.
“And you know it doesn’t let you off the hook for all your other responsibilities? Helping out around here, pushing a mower now and then …”
“I got that,” I said.
He gave me a serious look, just to double-check. I gave him a serious nod back.
“Well, that’s it, then,” he said, satisfied. “Show ’em why I call you STAT.”
Dad had been calling me that for years. Standing Tall and Talented wasn’t just a nickname; it was a reminder, too. He expected me to live up to it, and I intended to.
He pulled out a pen, reached over, and signed the form. Just like that, I had a tryout to think about. A big one.
It was Tuesday morning, and I had no idea what to do with my permission slip. I tried to hand it in to Ms. Bourne in homeroom, but she didn’t know what to do with it.
Deuce was sitting behind me, and he leaned forward to look. “That the form?” he said.
I nodded.
After my conversation with Dad last night, I called up Deuce and Mike to see what they thought. I should have known my boys would have my back. Mike said he and Deuce were planning to try out next year, anyway, and that I could scout out the team for them.
“Aww, yeah,” Deuce said, even more excited than the last time we spoke. He held up a hand and I high-fived him over my shoulder.
“Think I should drop it off at the office?” I asked.
“Why don’t you give it to Coach B during gym?”
“It’s Tuesday, man. We don’t have gym.” Deuce was smart, but it sometimes took his brain a few periods to activate in the mornings.
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Well, you should just find him, anyways. If you spend too much time down at the office, people are going to start talking.”
“All right,” I said. “But you come with me.”
We got our chance before lunch. Mike went on ahead to get us our usual table in the cafeteria, and Deuce and I headed for the gym. Coach B’s office was right next to it.
When we got there, the door was open but the coach wasn’t there. Deuce and I looked around the office. It was kind of a cool place. There were stopwatches and whistles hanging from pegs on the wall, a bookshelf that had only trophies on it, and another one that had actual books.
“Maybe I should just leave it on his desk?” I said, pulling out the form.
“Look at that mess,” said Deuce. “He wouldn’t find it for like ten years —” But before he finished the sentence, Coach B appeared in the door. He was a big man in a small doorway, so we were trapped inside.
“There you are,” he said. “I was looking for you. You have your form?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, handing it over.
I thought he might be mad about how wrinkled it was. But he just took a quick look at the bottom to make sure it was signed, and then tossed it onto his desk. It blended in perfectly with the rest of the rumpled papers.
Deuce gave Coach B a little wave, and Coach B nodded back. They knew each other from gym class. Then the coach turned back to me.
“You ready for the tryout?” he said.
“Yeah, I think so,” I said.
“Good, I’ll see you here after school,” he said.
“Wait, what? Today?” I said. I hadn’t expected it to happen right away. He hadn’t mentioned anything about it yesterday.
“No time like the present,” said Coach B. “You have your stuff?”
“Not really,” I said. I looked down at my outfit: long-sleeve shirt, jeans, and some fresh new low-top kicks. They weren’t really ball sneakers, and I didn’t have the goggles I wore for hoops, either.
“Well, that’s no problem,” said the coach. “We have plenty of spare gear here.” He looked around the little office for a second, then plucked something off a chair. It was a pair of small gray polyester shorts that looked straight out of the Charles Barkley era.
“Great,” I said.
“Well, I’ll see you then,” he said. “I’m sure the guys will be happy to meet you.”
He stepped aside to let Deuce and me out of his office.
“Deuce here’s a really good point guard,” I said. I was hoping maybe he’d let him try out with me.
Coach gave Deuce a closer look as he walked past. He started at his shoes and worked his way up. He didn’t have to go too far: Deuce was pretty short.
“Well, I look forward to seeing him next year,” said Coach.
So much for that, I thought as we headed toward the cafeteria. I’d be doing this alone. And I’d be doing it in polyester short-shorts.
“Who are you?” said a tall kid standing just inside the gym door.
“Amar’e,” I said.
“What are you doing here?”
“Tryin’ out.”
He pushed a little hiss of a laugh out through his teeth. “Tryouts are over,” he said.
I looked around the gym. There were groups of kids bunched up near the baskets at both ends of the court. I’d seen them all before, but I didn’t know any of them. Seventh and eighth graders. The sound of a dozen bouncing basketballs echoed off the walls.
“What’s he doing here?” I heard.
I turned and saw a second kid talking to the first one, who hadn’t even bothered to tell me his name. “He’s here for tryouts — only he’s about three weeks late!”
The other kid laughed and looked me over. “Nice shorts,” he said. Then they both headed over to the nearest basket, laughing their heads off.
I looked down at the tight gray shorts, then at the colorful, flashy low-tops. It definitely wasn’t my style to be this mismatched. Coach had given me the too-small shorts and a too-big blueberry-blue T-shirt and told me to get changed. Then he’d disappeared back into his office.
He finally reappeared at the gym door. The whistle was already in his mouth.
TWEEEEEEEEEEET!
Everyone turned to look. A few of them looked at me and laughed.
“Everyone on that end!” he shouted, pointing to one basket. “We’re using the other one for a tryout. Kurt, Gerry, get the cones and head on down to this end.”
The first guy from before was one of the two kids who broke off from the group.
“We’ll start off with a dribbling drill,” said Coach B as we walked toward the end of the gym.
“Okay,” I said. That didn’t sound so bad.
Kurt and Gerry — I had no idea which one was which — sprinted on ahead of us. They were each carrying a stack of orange rubber cones, like the kind you see after an accident on the highway or when some kid pukes in the hall. I hope that wasn’t a bad sign.
They began to set them up under t
he basket. They positioned the cones along the lanes, like they were lining up to rebound a free throw. Then they added the last few along the top of the key.
“What are those for?” I said.
“You dribble in between them,” said Coach B. “I’ll call out instructions: crossover and between the legs mostly.”
“Okay,” I said. I could do those moves.
“And then you just touch the top of each cone with your other hand as you pass it.”
“You touch the what with what, now?” I said.
But he didn’t answer, just pointed to a few cones and told Kurt/Gerry to “even those out.”
“All right,” he said, turning back to me. “Line up at the start, there.”
I lined up in front of the first cone on the left side.
“Give him the ball, Kurt,” said Coach B.
The first kid bounced a ball to me. He bounced it harder than he needed to, but at least I finally knew his name.
“Right hand first,” said Coach B. Then he stuck the whistle in his mouth and reached down to pick up his digital stopwatch. Both were hanging from long cords around his neck. He had half a sporting goods store there.
As I waited for him to blow the whistle, I looked at the other end of the court. They were doing some sort of drill over there, but not really. Mostly, they were watching me. I had an audience, and I wasn’t even sure what I was supposed to do!
TWEEEEEEET!
I took off dribbling with my right hand and slid between the first and second cone with no problem.
TWEET TWEET!
I looked up and saw the coach pull the whistle from his mouth and yell, “Touch the cone! With your left!”
I was almost past the next cone and looking over at the coach. I reached behind me with my left and swatted for the top of the orange cone. I found it on the second swipe but lost the ball in the process.
TWEET TWEET!
Down at the other end, I heard laughter. What the heck was this drill supposed to prove, anyway, that we could pet dogs while we played hoops? I went back to the starting line.
TWEEEEET!
I slid between the first and second cones. I went a little slower this time, but I swatted the cone right on its pointy head. I sped up a little between the second and third: dribble-dribble-pat-dribble-dribble.
“Good,” called Coach B. “Now cross it over!”
I got the dribble and the pat but I ran out of space on the crossover move and bumped the cone.
TWEET TWEET!
Ugh. I think I just got called for charging a cone.
“Kurt,” called Coach. “Show him what he’s supposed to do.”
Kurt walked over to the first cone with a big smirk on his face and put his hands out for the ball. I tossed it to him. Then he lined up and TWEEEEET!
He zipped around the cones, patting them on the tops as he went. Coach called out crossover and he did. Coach called out between the legs, and he did that, too.
Congratulations, I thought. This is probably the two-hundredth time you’ve done this drill. It was the first for me. We didn’t waste time on these at tournaments.
Kurt crossed the line after the last cone. There was some clapping from the other end of the court as Coach checked his stopwatch and called out the time. “Like that,” he said to me.
I took the ball and got ready. I did a lot better, too. I made it almost all the way around the key before losing the ball again on my second or third crossover.
“All right, that’s enough of that,” said Coach. I didn’t know if he was satisfied with my improvement or just thought I was hopeless. “Let’s do some one-on-one.”
Finally! I thought. It was about time there was some basketball at this basketball tryout.
“Kurt, you’re on defense,” said Coach. “Amar’e, you take the ball out up top.”
We both headed up to the top of the key. Kurt leaned in and whispered, “This isn’t full speed. Nice and easy, so don’t sweat it.”
That seemed pretty cool of him. Maybe he wasn’t such a jerk after all. He checked the ball to me, and I took a few easy dribbles to my right. He came up on me and I ducked my left shoulder toward him, nice and easy, to create a little space. I gave him a quick jab step, and he kind of bit on it. I headed toward the hoop at like 80 percent of my top speed. At that speed, he caught up with me in a few steps. I was thinking of maybe spinning or putting up a hook shot, but right then he shot forward at full speed. He shouldered me aside and grabbed the ball.
“I’ll take that,” said Kurt, but I noticed he didn’t say it loud enough for the coach to hear him.
“What the?” I said. I didn’t know if that was a foul, but it definitely wasn’t “nice and easy.”
“All right, Amar’e,” said Coach. “You’re on D.”
I checked Kurt the ball, and he started out with a few slow, lazy dribbles. I thought about shooting out and stealing the ball myself, but now it seemed like it really was “nice and easy.” I kept my guard up, though. I didn’t want to be a jerk, but I didn’t want to be a chump, either.
Suddenly, Kurt took off at full speed toward the hoop. I managed to stay with him. As soon as he realized he wasn’t getting by me, he turned and started backing in toward the hoop. I was pretty sure he was an eighth grader, a full two years older than me, but I hung tough. He took the kind of time he never would’ve had in a real game and finally put up a hook shot from five feet out. It bounced around and in.
TWEEEET!
“So much for nice and easy,” I said.
He walked past me so close that his shoulder brushed against mine. As he did, he whispered something: “You got schooled.”
That snake, I thought, but I didn’t have time for anything more. Gerry already had the ball, and I was on D first this time.
“This is full speed, right?” I asked as I checked the ball back to Gerry.
He gave me a weird look. “Of course,” he said.
Gerry wasn’t as tall as Kurt, but he was still pretty big. At least we were both playing at the same speed. He put up a contested shot and it rimmed in. When it was my turn, I did the same thing. I was glad to be on the board.
“Nice shot,” said Gerry as it dropped through.
“Thanks, you too,” I said.
Coach blew his whistle again, and I wondered what was up next. The answer was nothing, at least not today.
“All right, I’ve seen enough,” he said.
That was it? I thought. I wanted a do-over, but it turned out I didn’t need one.
“Welcome to the team, Amar’e,” said Coach B. “We’ll see you here tomorrow for practice.”
I looked over at Kurt, already down at the other end getting high fives from his friends. What did I just sign up for?
Junior was home by the time I got back from practice. “How’d it go?” he asked.
“All right,” I said. “Took out about half a dozen orange cones, but I made the team.”
“What’d they do, give you a driver’s test?”
“More like a dribbler’s test.”
“Oh, yeah, those things are tough the first few times,” he said. “Least you made it. That’s cool.”
“I guess,” I said.
“Come on,” he said. “You’re a baller, STAT. Sixth grade and already on the team …”
He gave me a big, toothy smile.
“A baller like my brotha,” I said, and I smiled, too.
Dad came home a little later, and Junior was like, “Watch out, Pops. There’s a Bear in here!”
Dad jumped back like he was scared. Suddenly, they had me feeling pretty good about things. Mike had said I was representing our grade, all the kids like him who’d be trying out next year. But looking around my house, all three of us smiling now, I knew I was representing my family, too. When my first practice started the next day, I’d be ready.
After dinner, I went out in the driveway, set up some flowerpots, and practiced dribbling. I had been practicing out here for
years. Learning how to play with Mike and Deuce, messing around for fun. But now I was on a top school team and I’d be playing indoors.
I caught up with Mike and Deuce the next morning to let them know I’d made the team.
“Cool,” said Mike.
“Never had a doubt,” said Deuce.
“Hey, you guys want to check out that new ice cream place today?” said Mike. “I’m thinking it’ll take ten minutes by bike, tops.”
I was halfway through saying “definitely” when it hit me. “I can’t today,” I said.
“Oh yeah,” said Mike. “Forgot about that.”
This was definitely going to take some getting used to. As my best friends headed home to grab their bikes at the end of the day, I headed to the gym. The first thing I did was check in with Coach B. He gave me a lock and a practice jersey. I’d seen how everyone was dressed the day before, so I knew to bring my own stuff and throw the practice jersey on over the top. It was definitely a relief to pull on shorts from the right decade, lace up my good high-tops, and throw on my goggles.
I didn’t really know anyone when I got to the gym, but at least I looked the part. I had the jersey and the height. Even though I was a year or two younger than the others, I was at least as tall as most of them.
I saw Kurt in one group of kids and Gerry in another. I sort of edged over toward that second group. I figured I’d just try to blend in until I figured things out a little better. Unfortunately, Coach B had other ideas.
TWEEEEEEET!
The whistle got everyone’s attention.
“Listen up, everyone,” called Coach as he walked toward the middle of the gym. “I want to introduce you to your newest teammate. This is Amar’e.”
Everyone was already looking at me. I was the only new guy here, and they’d noticed. I lifted my chin and gave them a quick nod.
“As you know, we fell a game short of our goal last season,” the coach continued. “I have no intention of falling short again. Amar’e is young, but he has a lot of experience playing in the weekend tournaments around here. I think he can help put us over the top for that championship.”
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