Airball

by L. D. Harkrader

  And Mrs. Zimmer was more upset about it than anybody at the beauty parlor realized.

  Fourteen

  The Wichita paper ran a small story about the “Forgotten Armpit” column on its inside pages, and a morning disc jockey at one of the radio stations over in Hutch kept playing a recording of a big armpit fart over and over all week long.

  But other than that, the hubbub pretty much died down.

  We thought.

  Friday we bounded into the gym—the Stuckey seventh-grade Prairie Dogs, decked out in our practice duds. The hairs on my arms stood up as we milled around the ball cart waiting for Coach.

  Because we were not alone.

  Mrs. Zimmer and Mr. Dobbs were once again seated in the first row of bleachers. Mr. Dobbs leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the toes of his work boots. Mrs. Zimmer sat up straight and tall, her laser eyes burning holes in the team.

  “What are they doing here?” Bragger whispered.

  I shrugged.

  The locker room door banged open. Coach marched into the gym and stopped in front of us, clipboard in one fist, whistle in the other. He studied Mrs. Zimmer. He shook his head, glared at the team, and barked, “Is this a tea party, or are you people here to play basketball?”

  Coach led us through stretches and wind sprints, pivots and passing drills. Then we faced off in a scrimmage.

  And I didn’t think we did too bad, considering that we were, well, us. Bragger made two baskets. So did Eddie. Russell sank one. I even hit the rim a couple of times. We got only two balls stuck behind the backboard, and we kept our nosebleed total down to one.

  Mine.

  It was Duncan’s sweat glands that finally did us in.

  Duncan is a sweaty kid. No way around it. When he gets to running up and down a basketball court, he turns into a regular fountain. And he didn’t even have a T-shirt on to sop up the excess. We were playing shirts and skins, and Duncan, regrettably, was a skin.

  Eddie rebounded one of Bragger’s missed three-pointers and passed to Russell. At that same moment, Duncan tripped and, purely by accident, picked off the pass.

  After snagging the basketball like that, Duncan wasn’t taking any chances. He hugged the ball tight to his bare, lathered-up belly and wrapped both arms around it so Russell couldn’t slap it away. Then, in what could’ve been an amazing move, Duncan faked to his left, broke to his right, and drove in for the easy basket.

  Easy. Right. In somebody else’s universe.

  You could tell right away Duncan was headed for trouble. Direct contact with his armpits hadn’t helped the ball any, plus Duncan’s stomach is not as lean and firm as it could be.

  He bounded toward the basket. His right hand flew out, ready to dribble.

  But the ball stayed put.

  Duncan’s sweat had caused such a suction between his skin and the leather of the basketball that for a split second, the ball remained stuck to his belly button. Just long enough for Duncan to take two steps and look really confused. Then the ball tore loose with a big slurp and bounced out of bounds.

  Coach blew his whistle and called Duncan for traveling.

  Mrs. Zimmer slammed her notebook shut and stood up.

  I was still standing on the sidelines with toilet paper up my nose, so I saw her first. She marched across the gym, her sturdy brown shoes squeaking against the wood floor. Mr. Dobbs clomped along behind. They stopped in front of Coach.

  Coach glared. Mrs. Zimmer glared back. Like two gunslingers facing off at high noon.

  Mrs. Zimmer drew first. Her weapon: the black notebook. She whipped it open. “Mr. Armstrong, I believe you know why we’re here. We need to determine whether your trip to the University of Kansas should, in fact, be canceled.”

  I think she was trying to whisper, but Mrs. Zimmer has a voice that can split atoms. The word “canceled” sliced right through the gym. The players stopped scrambling around the court and turned their full huffing-and-puffing attention to Mrs. Zimmer, Mr. Dobbs, and Coach.

  The basketball rolled toward the sidelines. I grabbed it before it rolled into the wrestling mats.

  “Despite what that sports column implied,” Mrs. Zimmer was saying, “Stuckey is a basketball town. We have a strong basketball tradition. And you, Mr. Armstrong, are simply not keeping up the tradition.”

  “Tradition?” Coach’s cheek muscles were clenched so tight they were quivering. “Tradition? Let me tell you something about tradition, Mrs. Zimmer. I was on the—”

  “No,” said Mrs. Zimmer. “Let me tell you, Mr. Armstrong. We hired you because you assured us you could turn this basketball team around. You promised you could develop a winning strategy. And you convinced us, against our better judgment, to send the seventh graders to Lawrence. But from what I’ve just seen, you haven’t developed a winning strategy. You have no strategy at all. These boys can’t shoot, they can’t rebound, they can’t even line up properly for a free throw.” She ran her finger down the row of scribbles in her notebook. “They do seem to know which players are on their own team, which is an improvement over last year. But it’s not enough to win games.”

  Mr. Dobbs shook his head. “It’s not enough for Brett McGrew.” He pointed at the big orange sign. “Coach, that boy put Stuckey on the map. He broke every record in the history of Kansas basketball and led this town to the state championship three years running. He’s out there now, still doing us proud, breaking NBA records in Phoenix, Arizona.”

  Mr. Dobbs pulled off his John Deere hat and held it over his heart. I thought for a minute he was going to break into a chorus of “America the Beautiful.” But he just took a deep breath and ran his hand through his hair.

  Mrs. Zimmer wasn’t quite as emotional. “In February, we will be going to Lawrence to be on a national television broadcast. I’m told that Brett McGrew himself will announce our team record. I do not want our town’s hero telling the entire country that we haven’t won a seventh-grade game in three years.” She clicked her pen and dropped it into her purse. “We’ll allow you to play your opening game against Whipple. The alumni association already bought pop and hot dogs for the concession stand. Afterward, we’ll review your program.”

  “Review our program,” Coach snorted. “So if we don’t beat Whipple, we’re history.”

  “If you embarrass us in front of Whipple,” said Mrs. Zimmer, “you’ll give us no other choice. I will not look foolish on national television.”

  “You won’t be on national television, Mrs. Zimmer. The team will.”

  “You know what I mean, Mr. Armstrong. If you beat Whipple, we’ll allow you to continue to play. But you will not go to Lawrence with a losing record.”

  She tucked her notebook under her arm and strode out of the gym. Mr. Dobbs settled his John Deere hat back on his head and followed. The door clanked shut.

  I stared after them. Canceled? Canceled? I’d signed up for basketball, risking such untold humiliation that I might actually have to move to another town once the season ended. And I’d allowed myself to be elected team captain, risking such untold physical injury from Coach that I might have to live at the hospital in my new town. And why was I doing this? For one thing, and one thing only: Brett McGrew. I was finally going to meet him. It might be the only opportunity I ever had.

  And Mrs. Zimmer was trying to cancel that opportunity? Because of some stupid sports column in a newspaper two hundred miles away?

  I was still holding the basketball, and I thudded it against the floor. “New strategy?” Thud. “New strategy?” Thud, thud. “How’s this for new strategy?”

  I leaned back on one foot, like a major-league pitcher in a windup, and hurled the ball at the basket. It hit the rim, bounced over the backboard, and slammed into Brett McGrew’s sign. Right between the two Ts of Brett’s first name.

  Coach wasn’t paying attention. He was still staring at the door. When that ball ricocheted off the sign, I swear it picked up speed. It shot through the air like a line drive and sm
acked Coach upside the head.

  Coach stumbled.

  I groaned.

  The ball sailed back over the court in a perfect arc. Over the team. Toward the basket.

  Swish. Through the net.

  Coach righted himself. Rubbed the red blotch on his cheek as he watched the ball drop. “Huh. Three-pointer.” He shook his head. “Probably the only one we’ll make all year.”

  He closed his eyes and stood there for a long time, rubbing his eyelids with his thumb and forefinger.

  We stood there, too, afraid to move. The guys looked at me. For leadership, I guess. They were clearly looking in the wrong place. I was still waiting for Coach to crunch me like an empty pop can for walloping him with the basketball.

  Finally, Coach stopped digging at his eyeballs. He opened his eyes, rubbed his hand down his face, and gave us a good, long stare.

  “You’re playing scared.”

  His voice was a thin rasp, so soft we had to lean forward to hear him. Which, somehow, was more frightening than when he growled so loud it bounced off the bleachers.

  “What are you all so afraid of?” He narrowed his eyes. “Of making mistakes? Of looking stupid? Because if that’s the case, you all look pretty stupid the way you’re tiptoeing around the court, scared to pass, scared to shoot, scared to move out of your positions. You’d look less stupid if—if—”

  He stopped. Gave us a funny look. Then he shook his head. Waved a hand toward the locker room.

  “Go. Shower. Dress. Do whatever it is seventh graders do at night. We’re done.”

  He tucked the clipboard under his arm and stalked across the court to the lobby door. We stared after him.

  And then a voice echoed through the gym. Mine, as it turned out. I have no idea why it chose that moment to assert itself, but there it was: “Coach?”

  He stopped, his hand on the door handle. He didn’t turn around. “Yeah.”

  “Well, practice isn’t over. We’ve got practically an hour left, and I really think we need as much court time as we can get. You don’t want us to just stop, do you?”

  “Stop?” Coach shook his head. Still didn’t turn around. “Son, you never started.”

  He pulled the door open and disappeared into the lobby.

  Fifteen

  The other guys headed for the showers. I headed toward the supply closet. Turns out cleanliness was a bigger part of this captain business than courage after all. I reached for the mop.

  Then stopped. Turned around.

  And started thinking.

  Here was the thing: Mrs. Zimmer wasn’t kidding. We’re talking about a woman with zero sense of humor here. When she said we had to beat Whipple or we were finished, she meant it.

  But here was the other thing: We couldn’t beat Whipple. I didn’t know what kind of team they had, but I definitely knew what kind we had.

  I hadn’t figured on that being a problem. I figured all I had to do was go to practice, try to stay out of the way, and, come February, meet Brett McGrew. That’s the deal I signed up for. If I’d known our klutzy bunch had to actually win games, I’d have given this project a whole lot more thought.

  I stood there a minute, squinting at the steam that had fogged out of the showers. The guys were still slopping around barefoot, banging locker doors, and slapping their towels onto the floor. I dragged my backpack out of my locker and lugged it to a bench in the far corner. I pulled out my notebook and a freshly sharpened pencil, settled back against the mildew-ridden concrete, and opened my notebook to a fresh page. I wrote Step Four of The Plan at the top.

  Because Mrs. Zimmer was right. We needed a strategy. There probably wasn’t enough strategy in the world to turn this team around. To transform us into actual basketball players. But so far all I’d managed to do was beat my coach senseless with a basketball. Anything I came up with next was bound to be better than that. I drummed my pencil against the page and focused on strategy.

  First off, we needed to play to our strengths and minimize our weaknesses. Of course, if we minimized all our weaknesses, we wouldn’t be playing at all. It would probably be best to concentrate on strengths.

  I scribbled down each player’s name, then I started listing any known basketball strengths under each one.

  First player: Manning Reece. Manning was one of our tallest guys. In fact, he was our only tall guy. He wasn’t quick. He couldn’t dribble. He got called for traveling almost every time he touched the ball, because he just couldn’t get the hang of pivoting. But if he was standing right under the basket and didn’t have anybody in his face, he could put it in. Not always. Maybe 50 percent of the time.

  If he had somebody guarding him, he’d get so nervous he’d fire the ball right over the backboard. Still, if he was by himself, facing no pressure, he could score some points. That was a strength. We could do something with that. And as tall as he was, if we could get him to actually jump instead of standing there flat-footed like a tree trunk, he might even pull down a couple of rebounds.

  I drew a little star by Manning’s name.

  Second player: Eddie Poggemeyer. Eddie was quick. Fearless. You could count on Eddie to go for the steal or the loose ball or the rebound. You could count on him to relentlessly dog the guy he was defending.

  Unfortunately, you could also count on him to foul out in two minutes flat. He wasn’t real careful about how he reached in for that steal or loose ball or rebound. He was also a little fuzzy on some of the finer points of the game, like, for instance, how sacking the quarterback is a big achievement in football, but it tends to get you thrown out of basketball games. Plus, he was a complete and total ball hog.

  Still, if we could get Eddie to make moves on the perimeter and draw all the defenders away from the basket, then convince him to lob a high pass to Manning (who’d be set up in the low post all by himself, because seriously, who’d be guarding a guy with no obvious basketball skills?), Manning could put it in. We could sneak in a few points that way. At least till the other team caught on.

  I put two stars by Eddie’s name and another one beside Manning. And made a little note: Make sure Manning knows he can’t just stand in the paint till Eddie throws the pass. We were going to be making enough mistakes through sheer athletic incompetence. We didn’t need to add a three-second violation every time we got the ball.

  Next player: Duncan Webber. Short. Slow. No game to speak of. Surprisingly, though, Duncan was our most consistent free-throw shooter. If we could get him to the line, he might actually score some points. Which meant, of course, that he’d have to take a lot of shots in order to get to the line. Not something we’d encourage under ordinary circumstances, since Duncan’s maybe a worse field-goal shooter than I am.

  But what if Duncan was allowed to shoot only at certain times? Say he’s surrounded by defenders, guys coming at him from all sides, arms everywhere. Duncan could go ahead and shoot, no matter how little chance he had of actually making the bucket. A foul would almost be guaranteed. He’d get a couple of free throws. And Stuckey would get a point or two.

  I put a star by Duncan’s name.

  Next up: Bragger. I thumped my eraser against the page, trying to think of something Bragger did on the court that could be classified as a strength.

  “Hey.” A wadded sweat sock skidded across the page. “The reason they call it homework is because you’re supposed to do it at home.”

  I looked up, startled. Except for Bragger and me and about fifty soggy gym towels, the locker room was empty. I’d been so focused on strategy, I hadn’t even noticed the other guys had left.

  Bragger ambled over to pick up his sock. “Think maybe you could wash the stink off your body and get dressed so we can go home?”

  I slid my notebook and pencil into my backpack and headed for the showers.

  * * *

  When Bragger and I tromped into the kitchen, Grandma was going through the mail. She didn’t look up. Just handed me another newspaper clipping. This one was a lot smalle
r. And folded only once.

  “Cousin Mildred?” I said.

  Grandma nodded. “Lucille Zimmer’s letter to the editor made the paper.”

  “Mrs. Zimmer? Wow.” Bragger dumped his backpack by the door. “Stuckey’s gotten more press this week than it has in all the years since Brett McGrew graduated.”

  I dropped my backpack, too, and unfolded the clipping. Bragger crowded in behind me so he could read over my shoulder.

  Mrs. Zimmer started off exactly the way she said she would: demanding a full apology. Her rage crackled right off the page. I could imagine her scrawling that letter in her big black notebook, her stern school-board face pinched into a grim pucker.

  And even though she’d threatened to cancel seventh-grade basketball, I was in full agreement with her, thinking, Go, Mrs. Zimmer.

  Till I got to the end of the letter:

  Furthermore, although your reporter stated that the Stuckey team will watch the University of Kansas retire Brett McGrew’s jersey, I assure you, we will not be there merely to watch. We have been invited to participate. Our boys will take part in a scrimmage with Brett McGrew at halftime. The seventh-grade Stuckey Prairie Dogs will be playing basketball on the court at Allen Fieldhouse.

  “Scrimmage?” I stared at the clipping. “Scrimmage? We have to scrimmage?”

  “Cool,” said Bragger.

  “Cool?” I looked at him. “Do you have any idea what this means? It means we have to play basketball. In the fieldhouse. With fans and reporters and the Stuckey school board watching. With TV cameras recording our every pathetic move. What part of that could possibly be cool?” I scanned Mrs. Zimmer’s letter. It had to be a mistake. “Why didn’t Coach ever mention this? Why wasn’t it on the permission slip? It should’ve been on the permission slip. Everything is supposed to be right there, in writing, on the permission slip. I’m sure it’s a school regulation.”

  Bragger shrugged, obviously not comprehending the seriousness of violating school regulations. “Maybe it was supposed to be a surprise.”