“A surprise?”
“And you know,” said Bragger, “I don’t mean to burst Mrs. Zimmer’s bubble, but that sports column guy was kinda right. Except for Brett McGrew and that other player with all those steals, Stuckey hasn’t made a dent in the game of basketball. I hate to say it, but without Brett McGrew, Stuckey really would be a big, smelly armpit.”
“Exactly!” I said, trying to steer the conversation back on track. “Which everyone will see for themselves when the seventh-grade team—of which I am a member—humiliates itself on national television during this scrimmage.”
“I think you’re getting yourself all worked up over nothing, Kirby.” Grandma shuffled the mail into a pile and set it on the counter. “I imagine it’ll just be a short little exhibition thing. Nobody’s going to be paying much attention to you boys, anyway. They’ll be too busy watching Brett McGrew.”
“Yeah.” Bragger’s eyes locked onto mine. “Remember him? Brett McGrew? The whole reason we’re going? Don’t think of it as a scrimmage, Kirby. Think of it as an opportunity to get closer to Brett McGrew.”
Oh, yeah, it was an opportunity, all right. An opportunity to show Brett McGrew once and for all I had no business being his son.
Sixteen
Maybe it was Mrs. Zimmer. Maybe it was the bump on the head. Whatever it was, Coach started acting strange, even for Coach.
I really didn’t have time to think about Coach. Not at first. I was too busy thinking about the scrimmage. I thought about it all weekend, and by Monday morning, I’d come up with an amazingly brilliant Step Five: Take a Dive.
Literally.
During practice, sometime before we went to Lawrence, I’d make a maniac dive to keep the ball in bounds, or a wild leap to bring down a rebound, or an insane lunge for a steal, and presto: a sprained ankle, a pulled hamstring, a mangled tendon. That’s all it would take to keep me on the bench during the KU scrimmage. I’d get to meet Brett McGrew, but I wouldn’t frighten him by actually trying to play basketball.
It was the perfect plan. I couldn’t fail. Falling down was maybe my best talent. All I had to do was take that talent to the next level. Fall down harder, faster, and with a little more rotation.
The injury itself was pretty ingenious, but here was the brilliant part: With all that adhesive tape plus an Ace bandage and maybe an ice pack or two wrapped around the damaged body part, I’d look athletic. More athletic than I’d ever looked in my life. Shoot, wearing that much medical gear, I’d look positively All-American.
And to top it all off, when we got to the fieldhouse, I’d make a big show of trying to get into the game. But of course, my injury would be too serious to allow me any playing time, so I’d grimace in pain and hobble back to the bench. Acting all disappointed, of course. Any uncoordination on my part (and there would be uncoordination—we’re talking about me, after all) would be blamed on the injury, not on my own personal lack of motor skills.
Amazing how much a sprained ankle could cheer me up. I actually started to feel All-American. Not in the athletic sense, of course. I wasn’t completely delusional. But in the figuring-things-out sense. The sense that no matter what Coach or Mrs. Zimmer or anybody else threw at me, I’d figure out how to deal with it.
I was feeling so All-American, in fact, that I’d actually talked myself into showing Coach my list of team strengths and possible plays. It was good strategy. And it could work. It could totally work.
Of course, it could totally fail, too. We weren’t dealing with a real talent pool here.
But if we picked out the things we were good at and concentrated on them, we might just win some games. If nothing else, we’d confuse the other team for a while. They’d probably never seen anybody do the things we were good at. Not on purpose, anyway.
Monday after school, armed with my list and pumped up with temporary courage, I trotted into practice with Bragger. We found all the windows in the gym taped over with black bulletin-board paper. Which all by itself should’ve tipped us off that something was up. Something we didn’t want any part of.
And, just in case we didn’t catch on right away, Coach was waiting by the locker room door. Behind a big stack of boxes. Bright red with a big swirl and the words STEALTH SPORTSWEAR in gold. The blotch on the side of his face had turned into an angry purple bruise.
Final clue: when Coach stepped out from behind the boxes, he was naked.
Okay, not naked naked. But close enough. Closer than I ever wanted to see. He stood there, right in the middle of the gym, wearing nothing but his undershorts and whistle. Hands on his hips. Hairy chest puffed up. Knobby chicken legs poking out beneath his boxers.
By this time, the other guys had all traipsed into the gym. And stopped cold. We stood in a startled huddle, all twelve of us, trying not to stare at Coach. It was like a train wreck—so horrible you didn’t want to look, and at the same time, so horrible you couldn’t tear your eyes away.
“Everybody at the beauty parlor was laying bets on what Coach would do next,” Duncan whispered. “Boy, are they all going to lose.”
Coach flipped his clipboard under his arm and paced over to stand directly in front of us.
“Listen up,” he barked. “This”—he pointed at his bare stomach—“is highly advanced technology.”
We glanced at each other out of the corners of our eyes.
Coach pulled out an official-looking document with a gold seal on the cover. “You’re looking at a Stealth Warm-up Suit, gentlemen. Developed by the Marine Corps.” He tapped the document. “Completely undetectable by radar.”
We stared at him.
“Lightweight. Aerodynamic.” Coach flexed his shoulders. “Fits like your own skin.” He flipped the document open and ran his finger down the page. “Forty-two percent less wind resistance.” He looked up at us. “Thirty-eight percent less gravity.”
“Less gravity?” Eddie whispered. “You can’t get less gravity. Unless you go to the moon.”
Russell shook his head. “I think that’s where Coach is.”
“And tough.” Coach punched himself in the chest. “Like wearing full-body armor.” He slapped the document shut and looked at us for a long moment. “This technology is powerful, gentlemen. In the wrong hands, frankly, it could be dangerous. Which is why the Defense Department included a built-in fail-safe. If I couldn’t handle this technology, you wouldn’t be able to see this.”
He held out his arms and turned slowly, so we could get a good look. Turns out his back was as hairy as his front. Information I truly didn’t need.
“Because for those who aren’t winners, for those who don’t have what it takes to control the technology, the uniforms are”—Coach stopped turning and squinted from player to player—“invisible.”
We stood there, mouths open.
“Did he say what I think he said?” Bragger hissed.
Eddie nodded. “He must be using a Stealth Brain.”
Coach paced over to the stack of boxes. “Stealth technology enhances all your physical skills. Helps you run faster. Jump higher. Play longer.” He thumped the top box. “Stealth technology is going to help us beat Whipple.” He held the box out to Duncan, who had no choice but to take it. “These are Stealth Uniforms, gentlemen.” He handed a box to Manning. “It takes time to get used to the new speed and agility, to get the uniforms functioning fully with your body’s natural current, so starting today, we’ll wear them at every practice.”
We froze. Every. Practice.
As Coach passed out the boxes, he grunted a few things about the science behind the uniforms. When he reached the bottom of the stack, he gave us a long, hard look. “Remember.” He narrowed his eyes. A vein pulsed in the purple bruise. “Only true winners have what it takes to control Stealth power. So if you got a problem with your uniform, if you can’t handle it, you got no business on my team. Do I make myself clear?”
We stood there, all twelve of us, holding our suspiciously lightweight boxes, and nodded like bobbleheads.
The bobbleheads bobbled.
“Good. Now suit up. Let’s see how they fit.”
Seventeen
Well, they fit like skin, just like Coach promised.
We milled around the locker room in our underwear, shaking our heads, empty boxes scattered on the floor around us. Of course, they’d been empty before we ever opened them.
I stared at the boxes. I couldn’t believe it. I’d spent all this time doing everything I could to get the team to Lawrence, and the whole world, including my coach, was working against me. Every time I got it figured out, every time I came up with a new strategy, something worse happened. All weekend, while I worked out Step Five, I kept telling myself that if we could get past this—past the school board, past a losing season, past the KU scrimmage—we were home free. Because nothing could be worse than me playing basketball in front of my father.
Ha.
I felt like hitting something. Of course, last time I felt that way, I’d ended up smacking Coach into a stupor with a basketball.
“I don’t get it.” Duncan sat huddled at the end of a bench, clutching a red box lid over his bare belly, trying his best not to be naked. “Coach is loud. And tough. And sometimes he’s just plain mean. But he’s not stupid. Why would he give us invisible jerseys?”
Eddie rolled his eyes. “They’re not invisible, Duncan. They don’t exist.” He ripped the lid from Duncan’s hands and waved it above his head. “Coach handed you a box of air.”
“I know that.” Duncan snatched his lid back. “I’m not stupid, either. I just don’t know what else to call”—he waved the lid at his pasty white goose-bumpy self—“this.”
We all looked at Duncan’s nakedness. I don’t think any of us knew what to call it.
“Here’s what I don’t get,” said Russell. “Does Coach really believe all that stuff he told us? Or is this some kind of trick? I mean, how dumb does he think we are?”
“Yeah.” Eddie nodded. “What was that business about electrical impulses?”
“According to Coach,” said Manning, “if you’ve got the right charge, you’re okay. If you don’t—”
“—you’re naked,” said Russell.
Eddie shook his head. “Right. Like we’re really supposed to believe we’ve got electricity zapping around inside us.”
“Actually,” I said, “we do.”
The guys all turned to stare at me.
I swallowed. “Really. We do. You know brain waves? They’re electrical currents that flow through our brain cells all the time.”
Eddie narrowed his eyes. “So … what? You’re saying all that junk Coach told us is true?”
“No. No way.” I held up my hands. “I’m just saying that, you know, we do have inner electrical currents. It’s possible that someday—maybe—in the future, somebody could harness their power. In some way. But not for this. Not for basketball uniforms.”
“Yeah,” said Bragger. “And even if that electrical impulse stuff was true, you’ve still got that business about antigravity and invisibility. Which we all know is demented.” He punched my arm, obviously trying to ride to my rescue. “Right, Kirb?”
“Well…,” I said.
Eddie narrowed his eyes again. “Well what?”
“Well.” I swallowed. “Some people have theories. It’s all pretty complicated, involving electromagnetic fields, refracted light rays, and centrifugal force, but someday—maybe—in the future—”
“Man.” Eddie shook his head. “You must spend all your free time memorizing the Science Channel or something.”
“Well, I don’t care what might be possible someday. Or on what planet.” Russell pointed at his red-and-white striped briefs. “I can’t go out there like this.”
“You? How do you think I feel?” Manning snapped his Spiderman undershorts. “My grandma gave me ten pairs of these for my birthday. I got nothing but superheroes in my underwear drawer.”
I looked down at my gray boxer briefs. They weren’t as humiliating as Spidey-pants, but I sure didn’t want to parade them around the gym. Still—
I took a deep breath. “We have to.”
The guys stared at me.
“What?”
“You heard Coach,” I said. “If we don’t wear his uniforms, we’re off the team.”
Eddie snorted. “News flash, Nickel. Once Mrs. Zimmer gets wind of this, there won’t be a team.”
“No kidding,” said Russell. “If she thought losing was embarrassing, wait till she finds out Coach wants us to lose in our underwear.”
“Then she can’t find out.” I looked at them. “Coach said it himself: ‘What we do in the gym, stays in the gym.’ And Coach isn’t talking. So as long as we don’t talk, nobody’ll know.”
“So what are you saying?” Duncan hugged the lid close to his belly. “You’re saying we just march out there in our underwear and act like it’s normal?”
The guys looked at me.
“Yeah.” Bragger nodded. “That’s exactly what he’s saying. The windows in the gym are all taped over, so it’s not really any different than being in the locker room. We see each other’s underwear in here every day. Now we’ll see them a little bit more. That’s all.” The jack-o’-lantern grin spread across his face. “Besides, none of you guys has to go first. Kirby’s our team captain. He’ll lead the way.”
Gee, thanks, Bragger.
“And if Kirby can strut out there wearing next to nothing…” Bragger looked directly at Eddie.
Who narrowed his eyes. “Hey, I can do it, too.” He shot a glance at me. No way Eddie was going to let anybody else, especially not a scrawny wimp like Kirby Nickel, look more fearless than he did.
“Good.” Bragger turned to the other guys. “Russell?”
Russell glared at him. “If they can take it, I can take it.”
“Manning?”
Manning swallowed. And nodded.
One by one, all the guys agreed. Reluctantly. But they agreed. Nobody wanted to be the sissy who couldn’t take it.
“Wait a minute,” said Duncan. “Let’s say we practice in our underwear. We’re still forgetting one thing: Someday practice is going to end, and we’ll have to play a real game. Against another team. With our parents and the whole rest of the school and Mrs. Zimmer watching. What then? Huh?”
Yeah. What then?
Eighteen
Grandma says whatever doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. Which told me that when this whole thing was over, I’d either be dead or Arnold Schwarzenegger. Either one sounded better than nearly naked captain of a seventh-grade basketball team.
But there we were: twelve guys and their coach, standing in a middle school gymnasium, trying not to stare at each other’s underwear. Wind rattled the papered-over windows behind us, sending a goose-bumpy shiver through my whole body.
Coach watched us for a long moment. Trying to figure out, I guess, whether we were having any trouble with our new uniforms. Whether he’d have to cut anybody from the team.
But we weren’t admitting anything. We hunkered down behind each other, our hands and arms wrapped around as much of our bare selves as we could cover. But we didn’t say a word.
Finally, Coach tucked his clipboard under his hairy armpit. “All right, we’ve wasted enough practice time. Let’s get warmed up. And I want to see some hustle.”
Oh, we hustled, all right. You’ve never seen how low the game of basketball can sink till you’ve seen a bunch of no-talent seventh graders hustling through a full-court press in their underpants. And one of those seventh graders—me—diving for every loose ball like a bird dog on steroids.
And, sadly, coming through it with all his body parts intac
t.
Because naked or not, I had an ankle to twist and a limited amount of time to twist it in. Unfortunately, it turns out I have frighteningly strong ankles. My legs are knobby and scrawny and look like they might snap in two just from trying to hold up my Jammers, but I have the sturdiest ankles in recorded history. I couldn’t get one of those suckers to twist no matter how funny I came down on it or how hard I landed. Or how many other guys landed on top of me.
Coach watched me all through practice, his face knotted into a frown. Every time I peeled myself off the floor, I’d look up, and there’d be Coach. Watching. I felt like a bug in a jar. A hopelessly uncoordinated bug. With ankles of steel.
But there was a reason I noticed him watching me. I was watching him, too. Secretly. Between crashing to the floor and heaving myself back up. Because Russell had made a good point. Did Coach really believe this Stealth Uniform business? Did he seriously think the uniforms existed? That they’d make us run faster and jump higher? And turn invisible if we didn’t?
Or was he messing with our heads?
I studied Coach as he pressed us through an inbounding drill. Was he using some kind of sports psychology on us? Some bizarro kind of sports psychology? I’d heard of coaches making their team practice without a ball. But without clothes?
We ran through the drill a few more times, then finished with some free throws. As we filed toward the locker room, coach blew out a big breath, shook his head, and strode from the gym.
The other guys showered and dressed. I hauled my backpack to the bench in the far corner. The bench I was starting to think of as my office. I pulled out my notebook, opened it to a fresh page, and drew a line down the middle to make two columns. At the top of the first column, I printed: Coach Believes They Exist. Under it, I wrote down the evidence I’d gathered so far:
1. Coach keeps observing us—me, especially. Maybe he’s trying to figure out who he has to cut from the team. Maybe he’s decided I’m first.
2. Coach didn’t mention the loser factor. Not once, even though we didn’t run faster, jump higher, or demonstrate any of the new skills Stealth technology is supposed to give us. Even though we were obviously naked. Maybe he’s giving our electrical currents time to kick in.
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