Game Changers--A Benchwarmers Novel

by John Feinstein

  Jeff jumped up and, just to make sure Arlow understood this was a different season and a different team, got right in his face. “Don’t start, Arlow,” he said.

  “Why not?” Arlow sneered. “Or are you going to send Diskin after me?”

  * * *

  Play had stopped because the ball had gone out-of-bounds during the scramble for the rebound. Fortunately, Danny didn’t hear what Arlow said, because if he had he would have put Arlow through the floor. Which would have been deserved.

  Instead, Jeff pointed a finger in Arlow’s face and said, “I don’t need help to handle you.”

  By now, Coach B was stepping between them, and Coach C had blown his whistle to stop play and had come running. Danny came up behind Jeff and pulled him back. Someone else grabbed Arlow, who was clearly pleased that he’d gotten to Jeff so quickly.

  Coach C arrived and angrily pointed at both of them. “I am not going to put up with the kind of garbage that happened during soccer season,” he said. “I swear, I don’t care how good either one of you is, you start this stuff again, I’ll cut you both. If you think I’m kidding, try me.”

  He stared at Jeff. “You got me, Michaels?”

  Jeff knew it took a lot to get Coach C angry. “Got you, Coach,” he said quietly. “Sorry.”

  The coach turned to Arlow. “Arlow, you understand?”

  “But, Coach, I was just boxing out—”

  Coach C’s hand came up. “I don’t care!” he said. “Last chance, Arlow. You got me?”

  “Yes, Coach,” Arlow finally said.

  “Oh, and by the way, you guys continue this in the locker room, I’ll hear about it and you won’t be here tomorrow,” Coach C added. “Okay, let’s play. We’ve wasted enough time.”

  Arlow and Jeff exchanged glares for another moment. So much for the end-of-soccer-season truce, Jeff thought. Then Coach B’s whistle got their attention and Jeff went to inbound the ball.

  His text describing the scene to Andi that night left out most of the details.

  Arlow’s still a bully. Almost got into fight. Coach C threatened to cut us both. Nice start, huh?

  Andi texted back.

  OK. U win. Least I didn’t get in any trouble.

  She paused then sent one last text for the night.

  Yet.

  3

  It wasn’t exactly typical for a sixth-grade boy and girl to be best friends, but that was the way Andi looked at her friendship with Jeff. She suspected that Jeff had a bit of a crush on her, but she just didn’t like him that way.

  The two of them had gone to the school’s Halloween dance together, but Andi had looked at that as a celebration of what they had accomplished as soccer teammates. And, if she was going to go to the dance, Jeff was definitely the person she felt most comfortable with that evening. A number of other boys had asked her, but she knew that Jeff wanted to go with her, and so she held out until she finally more or less told Jeff they were going together.

  Andi was comfortable with Jeff, enjoyed his company, and knew he would never take the friendship any further than she wanted it to go.

  When they’d said good night after the dance, he’d looked around as if afraid he was being watched by somebody, then leaned up to kiss her on the cheek. She’d smiled, said, “Thanks for a fun night,” and went to greet her parents, who had come to pick her up.

  Their friendship was such that after her miserable first day of tryouts—if you could even call it that—Jeff had been the first person she’d thought to contact. There had been very little talk in the locker room about the non-playing.

  The only person who had said anything to her at all, after they’d finally been told to remember they had the early session the next day, was Karen Joyce. As they walked into the locker room, she’d said: “Guess you think you’re already the star in basketball, too, don’t you, Carillo?”

  Andi had been baffled by the comment. How could anyone possibly tell who the star was or would be after that wasted hour?

  “What are you talking about?” she’d answered.

  “You made some free throws. Big deal,” Joyce said before walking away.

  Andi had been one of three girls who had made at least three free throws in both rounds of foul shooting. She’d again made four the second time around and, in truth, was a little annoyed when she missed her third one on the second set.

  Maybe that had shown in her face?

  Or maybe this had nothing to do with making free throws.

  The next day, she sat down at lunch with Jeff and they began trading details of what had gone on the day before.

  “Hey, Michaels, you trying to talk her into trying out for the boys’ team again so she can save your butt?”

  Andi looked up. It was—of course—Ron Arlow.

  Before Jeff could respond, she did. “Arlow, why don’t you go crawl back under your rock.”

  That, she realized, wasn’t exactly an original comment either.

  Arlow—naturally—smirked.

  “One thing I know for sure, Carillo,” he said. “No one will miss your act during basketball season.”

  “We’d have never won conference without her and you know it,” Jeff said, wading in.

  “And we’d have won that city championship game if you hadn’t taken that guy down in the penalty box,” Arlow said, reaching quickly for his trump card.

  It was true. In the city championship game against West Philadelphia Middle, Jeff had lost his balance pursuing one of the West Philly players and piled into him in the box, leading to what turned out to be the game-winning penalty kick. What Arlow didn’t mention was that Jeff was trying to cover for Arlow, who had been faked out of his shoes near midfield by the same guy.

  Andi started to say something, but Jeff reached out and grabbed her arm.

  “Forget it,” he said.

  She took a bite out of her sandwich and said nothing.

  Arlow, feeling as if he’d had the last word, turned and walked away.

  “And I thought basketball season would be a breeze,” Jeff said.

  “Never easy when you’re a benchwarmer,” Andi said.

  They had dubbed themselves that early in soccer season. Neither had any intention of riding the bench during basketball. But things were definitely off to a rocky start.

  * * *

  The girls went first that afternoon.

  Andi was relieved that, once the drills were over, they actually started to play basketball. The three-on-three half-court game was a little frustrating because it seemed as if everyone just wanted to show the coaches that they could shoot the ball. No one seemed interested in playing much defense.

  At one point, when Andi got screened around the foul line, she instinctively yelled, “Switch,” to tell her two teammates that someone needed to get to the shooter she couldn’t reach because of the screen. No one made a move.

  A moment later, it occurred to Andi that there were probably girls on the court who didn’t know what switch meant. She had played age-group basketball for three years, so she knew the term, which is why she’d yelled it out.

  Left open, the shooter made a fifteen-foot jump shot. As luck would have it, Coach Josephson was reffing that end of the court. After the shot went in, she blew her whistle to stop play and walked over to Andi.

  “You’re Carillo, right?” she said.

  “Yes, Coach.”

  “The soccer star.”

  “I played on the soccer team.”

  Coach Josephson nodded.

  “And you are apparently such a basketball maven that you know what it means to switch while playing defense, right?”

  Andi wasn’t completely sure what a maven was, but the coach’s sarcastic tone made it clear she wasn’t using it to compliment her.

  “I’ve played some basketball and—”

  “And have we had any conversations yet about making a switch to get around a pick?”

  “No, ma’am, we haven’t.”

  “It�
�s Coach.”

  “Sorry, Coach.”

  By now, everyone on the floor was standing and staring at the top of the key, where the conversation—lecture, humiliation? Andi thought—was taking place.

  Coach Josephson turned to Carolyn McCormick, who had set the screen, and said, “Nice job with that pick.” Then she added, “Okay, let’s get some water and then we’ll play some full-court.”

  As Andi walked with the others in the direction of the water, Jamie Bronson, the girl Andi had yelled at to switch, walked over next to her. Andi was expecting her to say something like, “Hey, don’t worry about it.”

  Wrong again.

  Quietly, she leaned into Andi and said, “You ever show me up like that again, I don’t care how many goals you scored in soccer or how much the boys all love you, I’ll take you down.”

  Bronson was several inches taller than Andi and several inches wider. There was no doubt she could take Andi down in a heartbeat.

  “I wasn’t trying to show you up,” Andi answered. “It was just a gut reaction when I saw the screen.”

  She was about to apologize, but Bronson cut her off.

  “I don’t care what you were doing,” she said. “Don’t do it again.”

  She walked away, lingering just long enough in front of Andi to make sure Andi was last in line to grab water. Andi actually smiled for a moment. Bronson had just set a pretty good screen.

  * * *

  Jeff’s second day went better than Andi’s.

  Understanding that it was probably better for everybody to keep Jeff and Arlow apart, Coach C kept them at opposite ends of the court once scrimmaging began. When they went full-court, Jeff and Arlow weren’t on the court at the same time—until the last few minutes.

  There was part of Jeff that wanted to take Arlow on, to show the coaches that he was a better player. But he was content to know he was playing well and was going to make the team comfortably. Once the tryouts were over, he would worry about competing with Arlow for playing time.

  In the final segment of the day, Jeff finally got his chance to go head-to-head with Arlow.

  Coach C ordered four minutes put on the clock and selected two teams of five players each, calling out names—telling the first five to put on white, the next five to put on blue.

  Looking around at who had been chosen, Jeff guessed the coaches had decided these were the ten best players and wanted to see what they looked like going against one another.

  He was the point guard for the white team, Arlow for the blues.

  “Team that wins doesn’t run,” Coach C said. “Team that loses runs. The rest of you—he pointed to the nine boys watching forlornly from the sidelines—have the option to run or not run.” Clearly, he was testing the remaining nine, perhaps to help decide who would fill the last two spots on the team.

  They started with a jump ball, like in a real game, and Camden James, playing center for the blues, outjumped the whites’ Tate Matthew for the ball.

  Arlow brought the ball up, passed it to Jonathan Andrews, got it back, and instantly shot—with Jeff in his face.

  He missed and Tate rebounded.

  The coaches didn’t want to call fouls, but they had to call one when Jeff shot-faked Arlow out of his shoes and Arlow almost fell on top of him as Jeff went up to shoot.

  There were no free throws on fouls, just inbounding the ball. Too bad, Jeff thought.

  It was 9–9 when Arlow took a three-point shot with about twenty-five seconds left—and missed again. By Jeff’s mental count, he’d made one of four. Arlow reminded him a little of JJ Redick, who had played for the 76ers. Someone had once said, “He only shoots when he actually has the ball in his hands.”

  That was Arlow.

  Now Jeff came downcourt with the ball, calling out, “One shot.” In a real game, you’d never do that, but the team had no actual plays and everyone knew they were going to hold for one shot anyway.

  Jeff dribbled near midcourt until the clock was under ten seconds. Then he drove at Arlow as Matthew, who Jeff had played a fair amount of pickup ball with, came out to set a screen to the right of the key. Arlow had no idea how to get around the screen, and Jeff was able to pick his dribble up with two seconds left and shoot a wide-open fifteen-foot jumper.

  It swished as the clock hit zero.

  His teammates rushed to high-five him while Arlow whined that Matthew had been moving when he set the screen—which would have been an offensive foul.

  Coach C ignored him and called them all to midcourt. “Okay, I liked what I saw today,” he said. “Game was too close for one team to have to run.”

  A cheer went up from the blues. Jeff wasn’t cheering. Heck, he thought, I just drilled Arlow at the buzzer, I should be able to stand and watch him run. Then again, drilling Arlow the way he had was probably enough satisfaction for one day.

  “One more day of tryouts,” Coach C said. “After tomorrow, Coach B and I will sit down and talk, and we’ll post the twelve names online by eight o’clock tomorrow night so you all don’t have to wait until Monday. We’ll put a link to the final roster on the school website.

  “Michaels, you hit the winning shot today, why don’t you lead the cheer?”

  Jeff had never been asked to do anything like this during soccer season. He thought for a second, walked to the middle of the jump circle, put his hand in the air, and said, “Just win, baby! On three.” That had been the mantra of Al Davis when he had owned the Oakland Raiders. Jeff’s dad like to quote it.

  Everyone walked into the circle, hands in the air, and on Jeff’s three-count said, “Just win, baby!”

  One player, Jeff noticed, had said nothing. Arlow. Figures, Jeff thought, since his theme for the day had been, “Just shoot, baby.”

  Jeff walked in the direction of the locker room with a smile on his face. Arlow had jogged ahead. For once, it seemed, he had nothing to say.

  4

  Andi managed to make it through the third day of tryouts without upsetting her coach or any of her future teammates.

  After Jeff told her that the boys’ team was going to be posted online on Friday night, she figured the same would be true for the girls’ team. She thought wrong.

  “If you go to the gym offices on Monday morning, we’ll have posted the team there,” Coach Josephson said after Friday’s final day of tryouts.

  Andi wasn’t worried. She was pretty convinced that she and Eleanor Dove had been the best players among the twenty, and Eleanor was clearly destined to play center. She was taller and stronger than anyone else and had a real feel for the game. On the couple of occasions when she and Andi were on the same team, they got one easy basket after another, setting each other up.

  At one point, after they had run a pick-and-roll, a play that led to a wide-open layup for Eleanor, she ran over to Andi, high-fived her, and said, “Stockton and Malone!”

  Eleanor clearly knew her hoops. When John Stockton and Karl Malone played together for the Utah Jazz in the 1990s, they had more or less invented the pick-and-roll. It was a simple play: the guard—Stockton—would dribble behind a screen from the big man—Malone. When Malone’s defender came up to defend a possible shot, Malone would roll to the basket, catch the ball wide open, and dunk. It seemed simple to defend, but if the defenders didn’t attack Stockton, he’d have a wide-open three-point shot. It was a pick-your-poison sort of thing. Now every team at every level of basketball ran some form of the pick-and-roll and it was still very difficult to guard.

  Andi and Eleanor ran it without any discussion. It made sense for Eleanor to screen for Andi, and both knew the game well enough to know that if Eleanor’s defender came up at all, she could roll to the basket and look up to see Andi’s pass arriving.

  Andi was prepared for Coach Josephson to tell the two of them to stop showing off, but she said nothing. In fact, both coaches said little—good or bad—during the Friday tryout. Andi sensed they were trying to make final decisions on who to cut and who to keep. In he
r mind there were five players who were automatics.

  Unfortunately, Jamie Bronson was clearly one of them. She could shoot and, next to Eleanor, was probably the best rebounder on the floor. Maybe once they were officially teammates, Bronson would cool her act.

  Andi walked off the court with Eleanor and Maria Medley after Coach Josephson thanked everyone for coming to the tryouts. Eleanor and Maria were the only two African American kids who had come out for the team. Maria was as petite as Eleanor was big and, to Andi’s thinking anyway, would be the team’s point guard.

  They were good friends with each other, and it was clear that they felt none of the resentment toward Andi that Bronson and some of her pals seemed to feel.

  “You know, I gotta say, you’re pretty good for a white girl,” Maria said with a wide smile as they headed for the locker room.

  “And I gotta say you’re pretty good for a shrimp,” Andi answered. If Maria was five foot one, it was a lot.

  All three of them laughed. This was the sort of banter Andi had missed during soccer season. She knew that the boys’ locker room had been infested with cliques, but she also knew that some of them had a healthy give-and-take. It wasn’t so much about talking dirty or using profanities as it was about never missing the chance to get off a good joke at the expense of a teammate.

  Andi’s experience with her brothers and their friends had taught her that much.

  “I’ll tell you what, though,” Eleanor said. “Some of those other white girls need to loosen up on the attitude. There are no Sue Birds out there.”

  “Or Larry Birds, either,” Andi said.

  Sue Bird was the legendary Seattle Storm star who had won two national championships in college, three WNBA championships, and four Olympic gold medals. She was, in many ways, the role model for any aspiring female basketball player. Larry Bird was equally legendary—in fact, his nickname was “Larry Legend”—having revived a moribund Boston Celtics franchise and led the team to three NBA titles.