Airball

by L. D. Harkrader

  I thumped the eraser against my bottom lip and studied the list. Then I printed Coach Is Psyching Us Out at the top of the second column. I thought about it for a moment, then scribbled down all the evidence I’d gathered in that category:

  1. Coach keeps observing us—me, especially. Maybe he’s trying to figure out if his psychology experiment is working. Maybe I’m his chief guinea pig.

  2. He didn’t mentioned the loser factor. Not once, even though we didn’t run faster or jump higher. Even though we were all obviously naked. Maybe he’s giving his psychology experiment time to kick in.

  I looked at the page. So far it didn’t add up to much. Coach was acting funny, yeah. But he hadn’t done anything that definitely pointed one way or the other. Anything that proved he’d either lost his mind or was messing with ours. I closed my notebook and slipped it back into my backpack. I’d have to keep watching him.

  Nineteen

  Practice the next day started out pretty much the same: Coach watched the team, I secretly watched Coach, the other guys tiptoed around, all hunched over, trying to make their naked bodies as small as possible while I did my best to pop one of my bones from its socket.

  Coach really watched during a rebound drill in which I slashed to the basket at approximately 110 miles per hour and fired a layup. Which didn’t go in, of course. In my defense, since this was a rebounding drill, it wasn’t supposed to go in, which meant that, for the first time in my life, my substandard shooting ability really came in handy.

  But I wasn’t finished. I spun across the paint, in front of Duncan, who was supposed to be doing the rebounding, pulled down my own offensive board, and vaulted toward the basket to lay the ball in.

  And, unfortunately, landed square on both feet. No torn muscles. No popping joints. No excruciating pain. The ball even went through the hoop.

  I was so disappointed.

  Coach wasn’t. He blew his whistle. “Looks like Nickel’s been taking his vitamins.” He grunted, Coach’s version of a compliment. “He’s obviously got this Stealth technology down pat. You other guys need to watch and learn.”

  Oh, brother. That was the wrong thing to say in front of Eddie. We were probably the most athletically challenged class to ever pass through the Stuckey unified school system, but even a klutzy bunch like ours has to have a best athlete, a kid who’s clearly less uncoordinated than the others. For us, that kid was Eddie Poggemeyer.

  And Eddie wasn’t about to learn anything sports related from an all-elbows math geek like Kirby Nickel. He wasn’t about to let Kirby Nickel—or anybody else, for that matter—master Stealth technology before he did. He certainly wasn’t going to stand by and do nothing while Coach informed an entire team of basketball players that Kirby Nickel could do something in a gymnasium better than Eddie himself could.

  Personally, I didn’t care who was the best athlete. I’d figured out a long time ago it would never be me, which was the whole reason I was trying to inflict bodily injury on myself in the first place. I didn’t want to impress anybody. I just wanted to strain a major muscle group.

  But to Eddie’s mind, Coach had issued a personal challenge.

  I could see that mind working. Could see Eddie eye-balling me. Then eyeballing his own bare skin. Could practically see the gears cranking in his head as he tried to figure out which one was worse.

  Finally he stepped out from behind Russell, stood up straight and tall in his ratty green jockey shorts, and said, “Give me the ball.”

  I passed the basketball. Eddie caught it in one hand, dribbled between his legs, then stormed the basket. He banged the ball off the backboard, caught it at the top of his leap, and fired it back up before his feet touched the ground. The ball dropped through the hoop.

  Eddie turned and glared at me. “Offensive rebound and two points. Would’ve been an alley-oop if I was a little taller. Unassisted.” He fired the ball into my chest.

  And from that moment on, basketball practice officially became a competition.

  I leaped for a rebound. Eddie leaped higher. I slashed for the basket. Eddie slashed harder. I dove for a loose ball. Eddie hurtled over me, leaped toward the bleachers, and slapped the ball back in bounds before crashing to the floor. Whatever I did, Eddie did, too, only bigger, stronger, faster.

  Well. Bragger wasn’t going to let two other guys steal all the glory. Bragger wasn’t what you’d call athletically gifted, but lack of ability had never stopped him before.

  And nakedness wasn’t going to stop him now.

  He decided three-point land was his. He fired shot after shot from beyond the arc. Some of them actually went in. The ones that didn’t? No problem. Because as soon as Bragger shot, he stormed the basket to bang down the rebound.

  Russell watched. Russell, who, despite a miserable scoring percentage, liked to think of himself as king of the three-point bucket. He watched Bragger shoot. And rebound. And shoot again.

  Finally he peeled his arms from around his body, glanced down at his red-and-white striped briefs, and marched out to center court.

  He bagged a couple of three pointers and pulled down a few boards of his own. And blocked a couple of Manning’s shots under the basket, which woke Manning up and taught him the value of the pump fake.

  One by one, each player stopped worrying about his underwear and started worrying about running faster and jumping higher. By the end of practice, the whole team seemed to be making a run for Best Athlete—lunging for steals, exploding toward the basket, guarding their man like he was an escaped convict.

  Duncan even got in on the action. He actually started jogging down the court during the scrimmage instead of trudging along at his usual out-of-breath pace. He was still moving slowly compared to your average kid, but for Duncan, it was warp speed.

  When practice was over, we filed into the locker room, sweaty and out of breath. Coach shook his head. “Stealth Uniforms are paying off sooner than I thought.”

  Twenty

  I pulled my notebook from my backpack and opened it to the right page. I set it on the chipped tabletop, smoothed my hand across the paper, and scribbled:

  3. Coach says Stealth Uniforms are paying off sooner than he thought.

  I sighed. One more for the Coach Believes They Exist column. I thumped my pencil eraser on the sad excuse for a lunch table we called The Hulk, trying to dredge up more evidence for our side.

  Bragger shoveled a forkful of toxic waste—chicken and noodles this time—into his mouth. “Good guys losing?”

  “Not yet.” I studied my list. “I haven’t been able to collect enough data to support either theory. But it isn’t looking good. Coach sure acts like he believes in Stealth technology.”

  I sighed again. Closed the notebook, tucked my pencil inside, and slid it into my backpack.

  And looked up just in time to see Eddie headed our way, lunch tray in hand. Russell and Manning followed close behind, like ducklings trailing their mother duck.

  Eddie scootched his way around to the other side of The Hulk. He set his tray down across from me and slid into the chair. The ducklings sat down beside him.

  Bragger and I looked at each other.

  “Hey, Eddie,” said Bragger. “Glad you could join us.”

  “Uh-huh.” Eddie shot a sideways glance at Russell. “We thought we should talk. You know, like a team meeting.”

  I shrugged. “Okay.”

  I noticed Duncan making his way across the lunchroom. He reached The Hulk. Saw Eddie and Russell sitting there. And stopped short.

  Eddie saw him, too. “Grab a seat,” he said. “This involves you.”

  Duncan blinked. Glanced behind him to see who Eddie was talking to. Didn’t find anybody and turned back around. “Are you sure?”

  “It’s okay, Duncan.” Bragger motioned his head toward the seat next to him. “Sit down.”

  Duncan nodded and slid into his seat, taking great care not to bump the napkin wad.

  Eddie took a bite of chicken and n
oodles. He chewed and swallowed. Gave me a squinty-eyed look. “I don’t like wearing my underwear in public.”

  “Me, neither,” said Russell.

  “Yeah,” said Manning.

  I cut a look at Bragger. Who shrugged.

  “Nobody thinks you do,” I said.

  Eddie glanced from Duncan to Bragger to me. “Because yesterday in practice, when I was, you know, shooting and stuff? In my underwear? I didn’t enjoy it. I just didn’t want Coach getting mad at me. Thinking I couldn’t play. That’s all.”

  “That’s all,” said Russell.

  “Yeah,” said Manning.

  Eddie slurped up another mouthful of noodles. “’Cause here’s the thing.” He chewed while he thought about it. “If Coach really believes these stupid uniforms exist, then he really believes they’ll make us play better. So if we don’t play better, he’s going to get suspicious. He’s going to think we don’t have what it takes.”

  “To wear the uniforms,” said Russell.

  “Yeah,” said Manning.

  Bragger nodded. “You’ve got a point.”

  “So all I’m saying is, I’m going to keep playing hard. In my underwear. But that doesn’t mean I like it.” Eddie sucked up the last of his milk, then crushed the carton. “That’s all I’m saying.” He scooted his chair back and stood up. Glanced around the table. “So we’re cool, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “We’re cool. I mean, who likes playing in their underwear?”

  Eddie nodded, then carried his tray over to the dump bin. The ducklings waddled along in his wake. Bragger rolled his eyes, picked up his tray, and followed them.

  “I do.”

  Duncan’s voice was soft.

  I looked at him. “You do what?”

  He swallowed. “Like playing in my underwear. You asked who liked it, and, well, I do.” He twirled his fork in his noodles. “At first it was weird, but once we got going, I—I didn’t mind. I mean, you know, not in a twisted way.” He sneaked a glance at me. “But the way it made us all kind of the same? That’s what I liked.” His already slumpy shoulders slumped even lower. “I guess I just get tired of being the dorkiest kid in the gym.”

  I looked at him. Sure, he leaned toward the dork side. But I always thought I was the dorkiest.

  Duncan stabbed his noodles. “No matter where I go or what I do, you can count on me to look stupider than anyone else. But yesterday, when we were all in our underwear, everybody looked stupid. Just as stupid as me. It’s almost like I fit in.” He shrugged. “As well as I’m ever going to, anyway.” He glanced up. Frowned. “You won’t tell anybody, will you? I mean, it’s not like a team captain duty or something, is it? To tell about stuff like this?”

  I shook my head. “Don’t worry, Duncan. Your secret’s safe.”

  Duncan nodded. “Okay. Good.” He mustered a weak smile. “Thanks, Kirby.”

  He picked up his tray and scuffled off to the dump bin.

  I watched him. And thought, well yeah, his secret’s safe. I couldn’t possibly tell anybody. Because then I’d have to tell them Duncan was right. That I totally understood how he felt.

  Twenty-one

  Eddie wasn’t kidding. He said he was going to play hard, no matter what he had to wear or not wear, and he meant it. He was a maniac at practice. Dribbling. Shooting. Rebounding. Not passing, of course. He was a ball hog to begin with, plus how could he show Coach what Stealth technology was doing for him if he didn’t have the ball? But stealing? Oh, yeah. He was a klepto in gym shoes.

  The whole team acted like they’d overdosed on sports drinks. They didn’t show any improvement in skill. Or teamwork. But they really latched onto that running-faster, jumping-higher business. I’d never seen so many guys running in so many directions before. Into the bleachers. Into the wrestling mats. Into each other. It was a miracle, really, that nobody got hurt.

  But nobody did. Not even the one guy who was trying to. My ankles came through, strong as ever. Maybe even stronger. All that jumping around seemed to build up my ankle muscles.

  Coach watched with a stunned look on his face. Rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I’ve created a monster,” he mumbled. “Twelve of them.”

  I thought about that. About what it could mean. Seemed to me like something a guy would say about a science project that had gone horribly wrong. So that’s where I put it, in the science experiment column. After practice, while the other guys showered and changed, I scuffed across the damp concrete to the bench in the corner and pulled out my notebook. Under column two, Coach Is Psyching Us Out, I wrote:

  3. Coach says he’s created a monster. Like Dr. Frankenstein.

  I studied the two columns. Tied at three apiece. I thumped my pencil against the page. There had to be something more. Something I’d overlooked. I thought back to everything that had happened since Coach passed out those empty boxes. And remembered what Duncan said in the locker room.

  In Column #2 I scribbled:

  4. Coach might be mean, but he isn’t stupid.

  That made it four to three. I shut my notebook. And decided it was time to implement Step Six of The Plan. Or was it Step Seven? I’d lost count.

  I waited till most of the guys had changed and gone home, then knocked on Coach’s door. I heard a grunt, which could’ve been either “Come in” or “Get lost.” With Coach, it was hard to tell. I glanced back at Bragger, the only guy left in the locker room. He nodded and gave me a thumbs-up.

  I took a deep breath, turned the knob, and poked my head inside. My spiral notebook rattled in my hand.

  “Uh, Coach?”

  He’d already showered and changed. Attempting to give the guy coaching tips was scary enough. I sure didn’t need to stare at his hairy chest muscles while I did it. But Coach was back in his regular clothes, hunched over his desk, studying a newspaper. A newspaper that looked oddly familiar.

  He ran a hand over his chin. “You know who this player is, Nickel?” he said without looking up.

  I squinted at the paper upside down. It was the Kansas City Star. The sports page. The one with the Armpit column.

  I frowned. “You mean Brett McGrew?”

  Coach snorted. “Good guess. Usually somebody says ‘player,’ you can pretty much bet they mean Brett McGrew. But I’m talking about this other guy.” He thumped his finger on the paper. “This guy with all the steals. You know his name?”

  I shook my head. “No, sir.”

  “Didn’t think so. Can’t find anybody who does.” He leaned forward, fists folded together, elbows on the paper. “So. What can I do for you, Nickel?”

  I was still standing in the doorway, one shoulder in his office, the other still in the locker room, in case I found it necessary to back out in a hurry.

  “Well.” I pulled my notebook around to the office side of the doorway. “I know I’m not the coach. I’m just a player. But I’m the team captain, and as such, I feel it’s, well, my duty to be on the lookout for ways to improve our play, to help us, you know, win. So I’ve written down a few things, a few plays that might work—or maybe they won’t, maybe you won’t like them, maybe they’re really bad ideas, and that’s okay because we don’t have to use them—but I just thought I should at least write these down, you know, in case—”

  “Just show me what you got, Nickel.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  With shaky hands, I tore the play pages loose, scuttled into the office, and set them on the desk in front of Coach.

  And waited for him to wad them into a ball. And then wad me up, too. And stuff us both into his trash can.

  He picked up the first page, scanned it, scanned the second page, then went back to the first page and read more carefully.

  “Not bad, Nickel. Pull the defenders off Reece, try to keep Poggemeyer out of foul trouble, get Webber to the line.” He squinted at the sheet for a long moment. Then he looked up. “Mind if I keep this?”

  I shook my head.

  “Good. I’ll study it.” He glanced b
ack at the first page. “This Reece play. You know, this might work. We ran a play something like this one time. The other team was so worried about stopping McGrew that they pretty much forgot about—”

  “McGrew?” I stared at Coach. “Brett McGrew?”

  “You know another McGrew?”

  “You played with him? You played a basketball game with Brett McGrew?”

  Coach narrowed his eyes. Studied me while he ran his tongue over his teeth. “Yeah. I played a basketball game with Brett McGrew.”

  “Wow.” I shook my head in wonder. “So you knew him. You actually met him.” I looked up. “What was he like?”

  “What was he like?” Coach snorted. “Tall guy with a wicked slash to the basket. What’d you think he was like?”

  “What I meant was—” I stopped. I couldn’t tell Coach what I meant. “I mean, not me exactly. I don’t personally want to know. But the other guys, what they’ve been, you know, talking about in the locker room, is what he’s like as a person. You know, is he friendly? To, say, strangers? Does he have any—”

  Any what? Kids? Sons? Offspring he may or may not know about?

  “—pets?”

  “Pets?” Coach leaned back in his chair. “I got a basketball team going to Lawrence to meet a major NBA star, to scrimmage with him, maybe pick up a pointer or two, and what they’re wondering is, does he have pets?”

  “Well, maybe not pets. That wasn’t a good example. I just want—I mean, the team just wants to know what to expect. If he’ll be nice to them. And as team captain, I feel it’s my duty to help out. In this area. Of, you know, whether he’s nice. Or not.”

  “Uh-huh.” Coach studied me. He shook his head, then folded up the newspaper in front of him. “Tell your teammates to relax. Brett McGrew’s a good guy. Fearless. Relentless. Got ice water running through his veins during a game. But he’s a decent person.” He dropped the paper into the wastebasket by his desk. “Hard guy to hate.”