By the end of the third quarter, we’d cut Whipple’s lead in half: Whipple 46, Stuckey 33. Stuckey fans seemed to have forgotten we were playing in our undies. And we did, too. Well, almost. But the fans cheered, and we played.
And kept on playing. With one minute left in the game, we’d sliced Whipple’s lead to two. Just two points. One basket. And sixty seconds left to play.
We traded the next two buckets. Bragger made a sweet little finger roll under the basket to tie. Whipple made a layup to go ahead again. The fans—both Stuckey and Whipple—were on their feet, screaming.
The clock ticked down. Sixteen seconds. And we had the ball. We had to make at least one basket. Two points. And then we’d be tied. We’d be in overtime. We’d have another shot at beating them.
Our best strategy was to get Duncan to the free-throw line, get the ball into Duncan’s hands immediately, and try to get him fouled. So Eddie inbounded, and Duncan took it up the court, a risky move because Duncan had only ten seconds to get it over the line, and he wasn’t what you’d call quick. He was also facing full-court pressure from two big Whipple guys who were determined not to lose this game in the final seconds.
But Big D took a deep breath, jutted his jaw, and kept dribbling. Slow and steady. Those Whipple guys were all over him, but he didn’t cave. Didn’t do anything crazy. Just kept moving up court.
Whipple wasn’t taking any chances, either. They had their hands up, their bodies in Duncan’s way, but they were being careful. They didn’t want to put Duncan on the free-throw line.
Still, they were looking for their chance. And when Duncan wiped the sweat from his eyes with his free hand, they took it. The Whipple point guard swiped at the ball. Didn’t touch Duncan. Didn’t even come close. Just knocked the ball back.
Square into Duncan’s bare, lathered-up belly. Square onto his belly button, where the suction was the greatest. Where, for a split second, the ball stayed stuck.
And I have to give Duncan credit. He didn’t panic. Didn’t move his feet. Didn’t travel, like he did that time in practice. He couldn’t dribble anymore, so he just stopped. Kept his pivot foot firmly planted. And if those two Whipple players would’ve just left him alone, he probably would’ve been called for not getting the ball over the line in time. But when Big D wrapped his arms around the ball and pivoted, trying to yank it loose, it caught the Whipple point guard off balance, and he walloped Duncan in the side with his elbow. The ball tore loose with a big slurp and bounced out of bounds.
The ref whistled the Whipple guard for a foul.
And Duncan was at the free-throw line with seven seconds left. Two shots. One point apiece. If he made them both, we’d be tied.
We lined up on either side of the paint. The ref threw Duncan the basketball. Duncan squared his feet. Bounced the ball. Bounced again. Lined his hands up on the stripes, eyed the basket, and—
—whoosh.
Nothing but net.
Stuckey fans cheered. The green wall went silent.
We all high-fived Big D, then lined up again. Whipple’s lead was down to one.
The ref tossed Duncan the ball. Duncan squared. Bounced. Bounced again. Lined up his hands. Eyed the basket. Shot.
The ball soared over the paint in a perfect arc. Perfect … perfect … perfect …
… until it thudded against the bracket, spun around the rim, and bounced out.
We weren’t ready for that. Weren’t ready for Duncan to miss his first free throw of the half. We moved a split second too late.
The Whipple center rebounded and passed to the Whipple point guard, who dribbled down court.
“No-o-o-o-o!”
I charged after him, after the ball. They weren’t going to play keep-away, let the clock run out, rip this game from our grasp by one measly point. Not while there was time left. Not if I had anything to say about it.
Eddie was already in the guard’s face, hands up, body pressing in, and now I was all over him, too. The guard stopped. Pivoted. Held the ball over his head to pass. Eddie leaped and tipped it loose.
Tipped it over the guard’s head. Tipped it into my chest. I slapped my hands over it. I had it. I had the ball.
“Shoot, Kirby, shoot!” Bragger’s voice echoed through the rafters.
I turned and dribbled. Dribbled and dribbled and dribbled, for miles it seemed, until I couldn’t feel my arm, couldn’t feel my hand pumping up and down, couldn’t feel the nubby roughness of the ball. Somewhere in the outer reaches of my mind I heard the ball bouncing, heard my Jammers pounding over the wood—thonk, thwap, thonk, thwap—as the crowd roared. But my brain, my body, my whole self zeroed in on one thing: the basket. Put the ball in the basket.
I was almost there when I caught a flash of green out of the corner of my eye. The Whipple guard charged past and positioned himself in front of me. Positioned himself to block the shot. I glanced over. Looked for a Stuckey player, Eddie or Bragger, even Duncan, anybody in a Stealth Uniform to pass to. But I was by myself. Just me and the Whipple guard. And one of us had to win.
The Whipple guard was set. If I went in for the layup, I’d plow right into him. I’d get called for a charging foul. I took my last step toward him and pulled the ball up. But instead of going straight in, I pushed off and spun away, my back to the basket. Kept spinning, lifting the ball, till I faced the basket on the other side. And laid it in.
Th-bumpf.
The ball banked off the backboard and fell through the hoop.
The buzzer honked.
The crowd exploded.
The ref threw his arm in the air. The shot was good.
Thirty-two
The Stuckey seventh-grade Prairie Dogs led off the ten o’clock Live-Action News on Channel 7 that night. We were the very first story, beating out a tax increase, a slump in wheat prices, and the weather.
“Wow,” said Bragger. “Underwear basketball is bigger news than we thought.”
The Channel 7 sports guy interviewed Mrs. Zimmer. She sat straight and tall in her school board president’s chair, and the way her nostrils twitched at the camera every time the sports guy mentioned Mike Armstrong, you could tell she was aching to fire Coach on the spot. And send his whole team to reform school. And, while she was at it, cancel seventh-grade basketball till the NBA froze over.
But she could hardly do that right there on Channel 7, with the reporter cheerfully asking her how it felt to be a leading citizen in a town that had produced not one, but two basketball wonders: Brett McGrew and the Armstrong Coaching Method.
At the words “Armstrong Coaching Method,” Mrs. Zimmer’s twitch snapped into a snarl. But she recovered quickly, pulling her lips into what passed as a smile, and said, as graciously as she could through gritted teeth, “Here in Stuckey, we’ve always known how special our basketball program is. What Coach Armstrong did tonight doesn’t surprise me.”
“At least she didn’t cancel us,” said Bragger.
“Not so far,” I said.
We made the paper that weekend, and not just in Hutchinson and Great Bend, either. The Wichita paper ran a story about us, and once again we landed on the front page of the Kansas City Star sports section, which Cousin Mildred thoughtfully clipped out and mailed to us.
The Star called Coach creative and daring. It said that in stripping his players down to their jockey shorts, Coach was literally stripping the game of basketball down to its essentials. That by getting rid of outside distractions, he was allowing his players to focus on the fundamentals. By peeling away everything but their skivvies, he had fused those players into a team. Pretty much the same stuff we’d already read in the other papers. But the end of the article was something new:
Coach Armstrong was Brett McGrew’s teammate on two state champion basketball teams. He graduated the year before McGrew led Stuckey to a remarkable third straight championship. Armstrong still holds the Kansas high school record for most steals in a single season.
“Most steals?” I stared at the a
rticle, then at Bragger, who was scrunched up next to me at the kitchen table, reading over my shoulder. “It was Coach. The guy with the most steals was Coach.”
“Yeah.” Bragger wrinkled his forehead. “But that doesn’t make any sense. I thought Coach asked you who had the most steals. If it was him, why would he go around asking other people about it? Wouldn’t he remember his own record?”
“He remembered. He just wanted to see if anybody else did. And they didn’t.” I shook my head. “Wouldn’t that be awful? To do something great like set a state record, and not have anybody in your own town remember?”
Bragger wrinkled his forehead again. “But see, that doesn’t make sense either. People in the Basketball Capital of Kansas would remember if one of their own players set a state record. Wouldn’t they?”
I considered this. “Not if that player was on the same team as Brett McGrew. Think about it. Everything was focused on McNet, right? Everybody was watching him, waiting to see what kind of amazing shot he’d put up next. Probably nobody even noticed that other guy making all those steals.”
Bragger nodded. “Especially since those steals meant McNet got to put up more shots.”
* * *
We’d beaten Whipple, and Mrs. Zimmer hadn’t canceled our program. Yet. But we still had lots of basketball left to play—and lots of games left to win—if we wanted to go to Lawrence.
So we kept playing. In our underwear. We’d gotten semi-famous for it, so we couldn’t very well stop.
Besides, underwear basketball was working for us. Our tightie whities had helped us beat Whipple, and over the next three weeks, they helped us beat Collison, Woodard, and Pierce City. I can’t say we actually got comfortable waltzing into a crowded gymnasium showing that much skin. Especially during the tournament at St. Agnes Academy, over in Lovellette, where the scorekeeper, one of the refs, and the St. Agnes coach were all nuns. But we took a deep breath, closed our eyes, and marched onto the court anyway.
By the middle of December, we were 6 and 0 and were the reigning St. Agnes Academy tournament champs.
Mrs. Zimmer kept a low profile. We hadn’t seen—or, more importantly, heard—much out of her since we beat Whipple. But word around the beauty shop was that she’d ordered a brand new Jayhawk bleacher cushion.
“And not just a cheapo vinyl pad, either,” Duncan told us. “A real stadium seat, with a reclining back rest and hooks to slide it in place. Not the kind of thing you’d order if you were bent on canceling a basketball program.”
As we racked up wins, we also racked up fame, and not just in Kansas. News stations across the country started reporting on the remarkable success of the Armstrong Coaching Method. We showed up on ESPN, on the cover of Sports Illustrated, and on David Letterman as the number one reason to buy boxers, not briefs.
USA Today reported that teams across the country were trying their luck with underwear basketball. First, a middle school in Montana, then one in Kentucky. Pretty soon, a high school popped up in Vermont. A junior college team from the Oklahoma panhandle drove up to watch us play one night, and the next thing we heard, they were playing skivvy ball, too.
Right before Christmas, Good Morning, America sent their weather guy to Stuckey to do his weather broadcast. The whole town, it seemed, gathered at the Double Dribble that morning.
Grandma made a cake for the occasion. Shaped like a Jayhawk. Enormous, of course. She had to bake it in sections, and each section was lopsided, so the Jayhawk came out flat and crispy in some places, bulging in others. The car ride from our house hadn’t done the frosting any good, so by the time we arrived at the Double Dribble, his yellow beak had glopped down to rest on his buckled shoes.
Manning’s dad brought a Basketball Capital of Kansas cap for the weather guy, compliments of Reece Feed and Grain. Mrs. Snodgrass served the whole TV crew French vanilla cappuccino. On the house. I about fell off my chair. Mrs. Snodgrass never gave away free food. Ever. I’d seen her chase down the street after arthritic old farmers who’d forgotten to leave change on the table for their coffee. But there she was, passing out free cappuccino and smiling so wide, her crayoned eyebrows about popped off her forehead.
Coach, as usual, wasn’t very talkative. “Really, not much to tell,” he said when the weather guy asked how he’d developed the Armstrong Coaching Method. Which was about all Coach ever said.
But the coffee drinkers were happy to weigh in.
“It was bound to happen,” said Lloyd Metcalf. “This is a basketball town, and if somebody’s going to put a new wrinkle in the game, why, we pretty much expect it to happen here. This is where Brett McGrew came up with his most famous move, you know. The spinning layup.”
The weatherman nodded. “Yes, Brett McGrew is quite famous for that move.” He smiled into the camera. “Of course, I should remind viewers that Brett McGrew wasn’t the first player to spin while doing a layup.”
Which pretty much amounted to treason in Stuckey. Nobody ever said Brett McGrew wasn’t the first at anything. Not inside the city limits. Not if they wanted to stick around for any length of time.
But Lloyd Metcalf just chuckled. “No, sir, he wasn’t. He wasn’t the first, and he wasn’t the last. But he sure was the best. Still is.” He pushed his Allis-Chalmers cap back and scratched his head. “Now that I think on it, McNet wasn’t even the first player from Stuckey to use that move.” He turned to the other coffee drinkers. “What was that other kid’s name, one that did the spinning layup before Brett McGrew got ahold of it? Was that the Lamprey kid?”
The other coffee drinkers furrowed their brows and leaned over their coffee cups to ponder the question.
“Now that you mention it, I do seem to remember somebody.…”
“But I thought it was Bert Hager’s boy.”
“Or one of the Doolins.”
“Nah. Weren’t none of them quick enough.”
But America wasn’t interested in some long-ago nobody who maybe did a spinning layup one time in the middle of nowhere, so while the coffee drinkers tried to puzzle out the player’s name, the weather guy drifted over to interview Mrs. Snodgrass about her autographed Brett McGrew menu.
I glanced at Coach. A long-ago somebody who’d set a state record while nobody was looking.
“Are they right?” I said. “Did somebody really do Brett McGrew’s spinning layup first?”
Coach gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Spinning in the air isn’t anything new.”
“So who was it?” I said.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does. I imagine it matters a lot to the person who did it.”
Coach snorted. “Every player who ever put on a Stuckey uniform could’ve done a spinning layup, Nickel. It wouldn’t matter. McNet’s the one who took it places.” He took a sip of coffee. “Nobody else ever went anywhere.”
Thirty-three
Coach, the team, and the whole town spent the winter thinking about nothing but basketball. Me, I had something else to worry about.
I’d gone through all the trophy cases and yearbooks at the middle school and high school, every back issue of the Full Court Press at the library downtown, and every Internet page that showed up on every search engine I’d ever heard of till I couldn’t bend my mouse finger anymore. And I still hadn’t found that little part of Brett McGrew that looked like me. That one piece of visual evidence that would convince Brett McGrew in an instant that he was my father.
“Don’t worry about it,” Bragger told me.
It was a week before the KU game, and we were in the locker room after practice. The other guys were still showering.
Bragger snapped me with his towel. “You’ve still got his old number 5 jersey and the medal you found in the prairie dog. That’ll grab his attention. And then you can tell him who you are. It’ll work out great.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Great.”
I moped past Coach’s office to the big trash can in the corner. Coach had his door open. He was hunkered ov
er his desk, sorting through the mountain of papers stacked in his in-box. He glanced up. Saw me starting to bag up the trash.
“Nickel.” He motioned his head toward the heaped-over wastebasket by his desk. “You mind taking this out? I don’t think I’ve emptied it since school started.”
I scrambled into his office, retrieved his trash can, and dumped it into the big can out in the locker room. I had to shake it a couple of times to get the crunched-up trash in the bottom to fall out, and when I did, a wad of paper tumbled to the floor. I picked it up. Started to toss it into the can with the rest of the trash. But then something caught my eye. A big number 5.
I glanced up at Coach. He was still hunkered over his desk, leafing through a sports catalog, not paying any attention to me. I turned my back to him and unwadded the paper.
It was a picture. Torn haphazardly from a newspaper. Slightly yellowed. I smoothed it out with my hand.
And stared down at Brett McGrew. At a game shot of McNet skidding across the floor on his stomach after a loose ball, his arms outstretched. The word STUCKEY and a big number 5 were stretched across the back of his jersey, and the bottoms of his shorts were hiked up so you could see an obscene amount of bare skin.
And there, on the back of his left leg, right where his thigh met his butt cheek, was a birthmark.
A big, humiliating, heart-shaped birthmark.
“Bragger.” I kept my voice low and even. Motioned for him to follow me.
We strolled—casually—around the end of the lockers, where nobody could see us. I held up the picture.
Bragger looked at it. Then at me.
He smiled. “We finally found that tiny little piece of Brett McGrew that looks like you.” He punched my arm. “Too bad it had to be the most embarrassing part.”
* * *
After practice, we stopped by the drugstore so I could buy another roll of film.
Back home, in the safety of my bedroom, I put on the number 5 Stuckey High School basketball uniform from my mother’s dresser. I had to pull the shorts up practically to my armpits and fix them with a safety pin so they wouldn’t fall down around my ankles. But once Bragger finished fluffing me out and making sure I wasn’t crooked, it didn’t look too bad. Especially not from the back, which is what we were most concerned with.
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