Matt’s dad was sitting pretty high up and off to the side, but Anabel was a few steps higher and could see the stopwatch hidden in his hand. Wyatt’s dad was sitting right next to Matt’s dad, preparing to time the amount of minutes their kids got to play compared to … oh … let’s say … Tyler Bischoff. Anabel was only surprised other fathers hadn’t thought of that before. Clicking away the seconds, documenting the ultimate injustice.
Perfect.
And as always, Jeremy’s grandmother made her way up the bleachers to sit next to Anabel.
“Well, I had a hard time finding this place. I turned left at the stop sign instead of right,” she said. She let out a huff of air as she sat.
Anabel felt guilty immediately. His grandmother would want to know, Anabel thought. She would want to know how Jeremy felt. What he was thinking. What he was planning. All parents, probably grandparents, too, always wanted to know what their kids were thinking. Even when they didn’t care, when they weren’t going to do anything to change anything or fix anything, they still wanted to know.
But even if she hadn’t made that promise (but she had), there was a very strong wall between the world of grown-ups and the world of kids. Nancy Binder was definitely a grown-up.
“He seemed so distant this morning,” Jeremy’s grandmother went on, almost to herself. “Not that he’s been exactly open to me. Not since he’s gotten here. Not since ever, really … but I’m not going to give up. That’s what they say, isn’t it? Keep trying because that way they know you care. Isn’t that what they say?”
There was such sadness in those words. Anabel didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Instead, she looked down at the court. The boys were warming up, looping around in semicircles, dribbling and shooting and passing the ball around like a ritual dance.
START TIME
“So did you tell your dad?” Hank asked Nathan.
Jeremy sat next to him waiting for the answer. Nathan nodded his head and then he said, “Well, not exactly.”
Hank and Jeremy waited for the rest.
“I tried. I mean, I wanted to. But well, then I couldn’t.”
The game was going to start any minute. They were all on the bench together, down at the far end, in a row. One two three.
“You think he’ll notice?” Nathan asked. “That I’m not playing.”
Jeremy looked up into the bleachers where Nathan’s parents and baby sister were sitting.
“Well, he has a camera,” Jeremy said.
“A what? He really brought that camera?” Nathan slid his feet out and slouched down as much as he could.
Hank turned to look. “Yeah, he did.”
“With the telephoto lens?” Nathan asked.
“Looks like it,” Jeremy said.
“Oh, God.”
“Hey, look on the bright side,” Jeremy said to Nathan.
“What’s that?”
“You can keep me company on the bench.” Jeremy laughed.
“That’s not funny,” Hank said. “It sucks. It’s not fair.”
“So are you really going to leave?” Nathan asked Jeremy in a whisper.
Jeremy jingled something metal inside his pocket as an answer. “The extra car keys,” he said.
Hank and Nathan were quiet.
All three of them stared straight ahead at the empty court. There was something wrong with the clock. The two refs and the two coaches were trying to get it sorted out. Random numbers kept flashing on the board, different scores and different times. Every couple of seconds the time-out buzzer would sound, and everyone would cover their ears.
“It’s not right,” Hank said to Jeremy. “You should be playing. It’s not fair.”
“Everything’s like that,” Jeremy said. “Why should this be any different?”
“Because it should be,” Nathan answered.
“Yeah, it should be,” Hank said. “Something’s got to be fair, doesn’t it? Shouldn’t it?”
Jeremy shrugged. “Well, it isn’t. Nothing is.”
Three pairs of bony knees stuck out from blue shorts, banging together nervously, as the assistant coach of the other team walked by, lugging a mesh bag full of basketballs over his shoulder.
“They look big,” Hank said.
The three boys turned to the Hollis bench. They were big. Not only did they have matching uniforms with their last names on the back, they had warm-ups and water bottles with their school insignia. Their matching gym bags were lined up against the wall. The Hollis players were sitting on their bench, waiting. And they were big.
“I think we need to do some birth certificate checks,” Jeremy said. “I think that kid, number fifteen, is growing a beard.”
“Number forty-five has been in sixth grade for three years,” Hank said.
“I think that kid has been buying growth hormones off the Internet,” Nathan added.
Suddenly the buzzer blasted. Everyone startled.
“We almost have it fixed, folks. Thanks for your patience,” Mr. Bischoff called out to the crowd. He stood in the center of the floor.
“If I were a good friend, I’d do something,” Hank said, watching him.
“About what?” Jeremy asked.
“I don’t know. I’d say something. It’s not fair. It just sucks. Mr. Bischoff just wants Tyler to play. He wants Tyler to be the best. And he’s not. Not even close.”
Jeremy answered Hank, “Forget it. It has nothing to do with you. With being a friend or not.”
The buzzer screamed out again, and this time it didn’t stop. Five seconds later it cleared and was silent. All the lights on the board went out and on again, and then off. It was fixed.
The referees walked out onto the court and got ready. Mr. Bischoff called the team into a huddle. The boys stood up. Michael, Julian, Matt, Harrison, Camden, and Sam. Joey, Scott, and Tyler. Hank and Jeremy and Nathan. Mr. Bischoff read off the names of the starting five. No surprise.
“You’re wrong,” Hank said before he went out.
“Wrong about what?” Nathan asked.
“Not you,” Hank said.
The other team was standing, ready for the jump. The referee had the ball held up in the air and a whistle dangling from his lips.
“It is about being a friend,” Hank said, more to himself than anyone in particular, as he walked out onto the court.
THIRTY-SECOND TIME-OUT
Tyler Bischoff’s dad, who had been an only semisane, type A personality, a get-up-wipe-the-blood-off-your-face-and-play kind of coach in practice, suddenly changed when the game started.
He got worse.
Mr. Bischoff scared some of the players. North Bridge was already losing by five points in the first five minutes. Mr. Bischoff’s face had grown a deeper shade of red for every point. He called a time-out. A full-minute time-out.
“Hank, what the hell are you doing out there? That number twelve is getting by you every time. I’ve never seen you play worse! What the hell are you doing?”
The boys were standing in a circle around Mr. Bischoff. Even the boys sitting on the bench were expected to get up and huddle around. Mr. Bischoff was in the center, kneeling down with his clipboard on his bent leg.
“You guys are playing like shit.” His voice was held inside the thick circle of sweaty bodies. “They are beating us on the boards. Can you get one goddamn rebound, Matt. And Hank, what the hell are you doing out there! If twelve gets by you one more time, you’re out. Do you hear me? I’ll pull you right out of there!”
Hank didn’t respond because that was exactly what he hoped would happen.
It was his promise.
Jeremy
Hank was stinking up the place big-time. He had lost the ball five times already. He had let that little guard on the other team get right by him. The kid was faking left. Every time. Hank must see that. Bischoff had just chewed him out real bad. He was furious with Hank and would pull him, Jeremy was sure.
“One two three North Bridge!”
Every
one repeated the shout. “North Bridge. Let’s win!”
Jeremy tried to tell Hank. Get his attention. Go right. He’s faking. He can’t even dribble with his left hand. But Hank turned his head away quickly and ran out onto the court. And that’s when Jeremy figured it out.
Hank was doing it on purpose.
Jeremy forced himself to turn and look into the bleachers. Normally he never did that. He never wanted to see all the other parents. Hank’s dad was there. He had a pained look on his face. Hank was doing a really good job of looking good at playing bad. It must have been killing his father.
Hollis was bringing the ball down fast. Hank was waiting just at the half-court line. He was leaning down, knees bent. He looked ready. He had his eyes on the ball as it got closer and closer.
The kid did it again. He faked left with that same stupid expression on his face. He wasn’t going to go left. He couldn’t. It was the most obvious thing in the world, and Hank went for it just as Jeremy predicted. But it took Jeremy another second or two to figure out why. Why would Hank deliberately get pulled from the game?
Suddenly it was so obvious. Hank was playing like shit so that the coach would pull him. And with Wyatt out sick, there’d only be one guard left.
Jeremy.
He was doing it so Jeremy could play. Bischoff screamed. He called for another timeout.
Hank was finished.
Anabel
“Binder, go in.”
Anabel could see the words on the coach’s lips, even from this far distance.
Jeremy was the only guard left. He was the only kid on the team who could handle the ball. Mr. Bischoff wouldn’t have a choice. How lucky. How wonderful. Anabel watched as Hank came in off the court and Jeremy stood up. Something passed between them. They smiled. Jeremy handed Hank something from his pocket.
Keys. They must be the keys to his grandmother’s car. Anabel stole a look to see if Mrs. Binder had seen. But she was just clapping wildly like she always did.
Then it all came together. It all made sense, like a perfect handshake.
“Look,” Anabel said to Jeremy’s grandmother. “He’s going in.”
Mrs. Binder sat up and strained to look down onto the court.
“Oh, yes. He’s going in to play,” she said. She started clapping louder.
The boys all looked real tired. Anabel saw her brother and recognized the face. Tired. Nervous, and being so nervous makes you more tired. Michael was bent over, with his thumbs hooked in the armholes of his jersey. His arms dangling, trying to rest. Tyler Bischoff looked miserable. The more his father yelled, the more he put up bad outside shots. Air balls.
Anabel looked down at the court again. Jeremy was playing great. He moved the ball around. You could hear him shouting out directions. He was taking control of the team and it was working.
North Bridge scored on their first possession. The whole place cheered even though Hollis was still ahead by ten points. Another cheer went up from the spectators as North Bridge blocked a shot and got the rebound. Jeremy was bringing the ball back down carefully. He set up his players. Suddenly the crowd around them was stamping their feet and shouting. North Bridge had scored two times in a row. They were only down by six. Anabel reached down for Jeremy’s grandmother and took her arm.
“Get up,” she said.
Jeremy’s grandmother looked up. “Why. Is it over?”
“No,” Anabel said. “We’re going to win this time.”
Nathan
Nathan still hadn’t gone in. He made sure to keep his eyes on the game. Maybe his father would notice his great concentration skills. And that would be that.
And then Matt King fouled out. Hank was already out. Jeremy was playing because Hank had set it up to happen that way. The only one who didn’t realize this, of course, was the coach. However, what this meant was that Nathan was the only one on the bench who hadn’t gone in yet.
And then Tyler Bischoff twists his ankle.
They were down by one point and there were five minutes left on the clock. This is not how Nathan had imagined it. The coach of the other team was certainly not his Uncle Troy. He wasn’t black. He was short and bald and very white, pink, in fact. And Nathan’s father had certainly showed no signs of recognition when this Hollis coached strutted across the floor to his side of the gym.
“Thomas, go in for Tyler.”
He almost didn’t hear it. Mr. Bischoff had to say it again. Making Mr. Bischoff say something twice is not a good idea. Hank slapped Nathan on the back.
“Go in,” Hank said. “You’re in.” He gave Nathan a push.
“I can’t,” Nathan said. He stood up.
“You can,” Hank said. “Look, Jeremy’s out there. Just watch for the ball. Get open.”
“Who am I guarding?”
“That kid, number fifteen.” Hank called out. Nathan was almost at the scoring table, checking in.
While he waited to go in, Nathan glanced over to the other bench. Number fifteen was the kid with the mustache. Nathan took one look up into the bleachers just as the timekeeper buzzed him into the game.
“Subs,” the referee called out.
Nathan saw his father about midway up. He was smiling and clapping with one hand against his knee. In his other hand he had his digital camera with the ridiculous long lens, poised like someone from ESPN magazine. Nathan’s mother was holding the baby on her lap and making her hands clap, too. It was like a surreal joke. On him.
After that everything moved in slow motion and it happened all at once.
Nathan’s leg immediately felt like rubber. And he tasted a funny taste in his mouth, like metal. Adrenaline or lactic acid buildup in his muscles.
So fear does have a taste. Nathan made a note of that in his mind as the game resumed play.
Jeremy passed the ball to Nathan. It slammed into his hands hard, but somehow Nathan caught it. All he could see were the kids around him. Moving. Trying to take the ball from him.
Pass it. He had to pass it.
Players were moving all over. Shouting. Calling out.
There. There someone was open. Nathan threw a good hard chest pass. He was relieved. The ball was out of his hands. The kid who caught the ball puts it right up.
Score.
Good. Now move, Nathan thought.
Cut across. Get open.
But suddenly the referee blew the whistle. “Timeout!”
The North Bridge team hurried over to the sideline. Someone from Nathan’s side had called the time-out. What for?
“Nathan! What are you doing? What the hell was that?” Mr. Bischoff screamed.
“Me?” Nathan asked. What was the coach talking about?
“You … you passed the ball to the other team. You just passed the ball….” You could just tell Mr. Bischoff was holding the rest of his sentence inside and it wasn’t going to be pretty. He was controlling himself. Barely.
Nathan looked up, trying to remember what had just happened. How could he have done that? What was he going to do now?
Finally Nathan said, “He was the only one open.”
GAME
Game.
North Bridge @ Hollis. League play-off.
The North Bridge coach has just called for a timeout. Apparently one of their players lost possession by passing the ball to the other team. Hollis scored. North Bridge now has no time-outs remaining. There are three and a half minutes left.
50–47 Hollis.
There now seems to be some general confusion on the court. The North Bridge players appear disheartened by that last turnover. This is understandable, since Nathan Thomas, number three, passed the ball to the other team. Their coach has taken a seat on the bench and is holding his head in his hands. Hollis takes advantage of this moment by stealing the ball from number fifty-four, Harrison Neeley. They make their way down the court. North Bridge seems to have regained some energy under the direction of their point guard, number five, Jeremy Binder. You can hear his voice direct
ing his teammates. His confidence is infectious. All they need are three points to tie up the game. So far North Bridge has been extremely effective in keeping Hollis out of the paint. Hollis is playing a game of catch with each other, unable to get an open shot. Jeremy Binder is running back and forth under the net, forcing the trap and forcing Hollis to pass each time.
The strategy works: Hollis loses the ball on a bounce pass. King throws the ball up court to Binder. Hollis is back on defense in a matter of seconds. They are determined not to give North Bridge this chance to score.
Neeley sets a screen at the three-point line, Binder uses the screen, pumps, fakes, and takes the shot. The ball arches in the air, hits the rim, and bounces in.
It is all tied up. 50–50. Forty-five seconds remaining.
The crowd is on its feet, stomping and shouting.
Hollis has possession. They are wasting the clock hoping to get the last shot off without leaving North Bridge any time to score again. Hollis is passing the ball back and forth at the three-point line. A dangerous crosscourt pass, and suddenly Binder jumps in and steals the ball. Binder throws a baseball pass down the court to Nathan Thomas. There is no one around him. Thomas dribbles the ball twice and turns to the hoop. He has a wide-open shot but he seems to hesitate.
He lifts his arms and then bam!
Number fifteen for Hollis blocks the shot. But wait … with ten seconds left the whistle shrieks and the referee calls a foul. The coach for Hollis is running up and down the court.
“Two shots?” he is yelling. “Are you kidding? He wasn’t shooting. That kid never shoots. He hasn’t made one shot all year.”
The Hollis coach is thrown out of the game. The North Bridge coach has taken his head out of his hands but is attending to one of his players, apparently his son. The player is holding his ankle and is refusing to return to the game. Nathan Thomas is now standing at the foul line.
Basketball (or Something Like It) Page 9