Game Changers--A Benchwarmers Novel

by John Feinstein

  “Especially Andi Carillo, right?” Coach C said with a smile.

  Jeff flushed a little. “Look, she’s my friend, you know that. But really, in this case I’m talking about all of them. Isn’t there something you can do?”

  Coach C shrugged. “Like what?” he said.

  “Talk to Coach Josephson? I mean, didn’t it help when you talked to Coach Johnston during soccer season?”

  “Maybe a little,” Coach C said. “But that was different. I was his assistant coach and we were friends. If Amy Josephson isn’t going to listen to her assistant, why would she listen to me?”

  Sadly, he had a point. “What about the girls’ varsity coaches?” Jeff said. “Hasn’t Ms. Hanks been coaching the varsity for about a hundred years?”

  Mary Ann Hanks was also a gym teacher and Jeff had heard the seventh- and eighth-grade girls loved playing for her. In fact, he’d heard it from Andi at one point when she was lamenting having to play for Coach Josephson. “If I make it to next year, it’ll be nice playing for a coach who knows what she’s doing,” she had said.

  Coach C smiled. “It’s not a bad idea, but Mary Ann is Amy’s close friend. In fact, I think she was the one who encouraged Amy to give coaching a whirl.”

  “She’s her close friend?”

  “So I’m told.”

  “Then who better to talk to her? She might be the one person Coach Josephson will listen to.”

  Coach C thought about that one for a minute. “Well,” he finally said. “It might be worth a shot. In fact, it may be the only shot.”

  * * *

  When Andi walked into practice that day, she found Coach Josephson standing at the jump circle with Bonnie Tuller, who taught sixth-grade English. Andi was in her class and liked her. But she wondered exactly what she knew about basketball.

  Coach Josephson got right to the point after whistling everyone to the circle.

  “I know you all received Coach Axelson’s e-mail today saying she is stepping down as my assistant coach,” she said. “Frankly, I was disappointed by Joan’s decision—mostly for her sake because I don’t think quitting is ever a good thing.” She turned to Ms. Tuller and, with a rare smile, said, “Fortunately, Bonnie Tuller has volunteered to step in for her. Like me, she hasn’t coached before—except in the backyard with her kids, which to me is excellent preparation to coach at this level. Coach, would you like to say a few words?”

  Coach Tuller stepped forward and looked around. “I know none of you wanted to start the season oh and two,” she said. “How about we wipe the slate clean starting today? We’re playing Haverford tomorrow and conference play starts soon after that…”

  Eleanor put her hand up and said, “Um, Coach, Haverford’s a conference game.”

  “Don’t interrupt, Dove,” Coach Josephson said.

  “No, it’s okay, Amy,” Coach Tuller said. “My mistake. I’m learning as I go here. Thanks, Eleanor.”

  Learning as she goes, Andi thought. Just what the team needed. Coach Tuller was clearly a nice person, but she didn’t seem likely to stand up to Coach Josephson the way Coach Axelson had at least tried to do.

  “Okay,” Coach Josephson said. “Like Coach Tuller said, we start conference play tomorrow. Let’s get stretched and do some drills, then we’ll scrimmage.”

  Everyone looked at Coach Tuller. It had always been Coach Axelson who had led stretching and drill work. She clearly had no idea about that.

  It took Coach Josephson a second or two to figure that out. She looked at Jamie Bronson. “Tell you what, Jamie, you lead the stretching today. Give Coach Tuller a chance to see what it’s about.”

  The good news, Andi thought, was that she was so preoccupied convincing everyone that Bonnie Tuller was the next Pat Summitt that she’d forgotten her promise (threat?) not to forget what had happened on Friday.

  The bad news? Everything else.

  20

  Once drills were over, everyone waited to see how the players would be divided up to scrimmage.

  “I’m told they have a very tall team,” Coach Josephson said. “So, Lee, you join the starters and, Mearns, you be the sixth player for the starters.”

  Bronson had a hand up. “You talking first-half starters from Friday, Coach, or second-half starters?” she asked.

  Coach Josephson looked at her as if she’d asked if the next day’s game was going to be played on the moon.

  “First half, of course,” she said through gritted teeth. “Rest of you are second team. Carillo, you’re the sixth player.”

  In other words, Andi was the twelfth player. Clearly, Coach Axelson quitting hadn’t given Coach Josephson any reason to rethink what she had been doing.

  Five minutes into the scrimmage, the so-called second team—even without Andi—had outscored the first team 14–2.

  “Dove, switch with Bonilla,” Coach Josephson said. “Debbie, take a break. Carillo, get in.”

  Putting Eleanor with the first team made things more even, but the starters still didn’t have anyone who could guard Maria or Andi. The good news was Eleanor was able to score enough to make things a little more balanced.

  Finally, Coach Josephson told everyone to shoot free throws. There were no instructions about keeping count to see who would run suicides. Maybe, Andi thought, the coach realized that running players into the ground the day before the conference opener was a bad idea.

  She thought wrong.

  When free throws were over, Coach Josephson whistled them to the circle. It was 4:07 p.m.—a little early to end practice. The boys were just starting to come out of their locker room.

  “As you all know, we had five players who took the first half off on Friday,” she said. “So they should be well rested right now.” She began pointing: “Carillo, Dove, Carmichael, Medley, Lee. You can each run three suicides.”

  Jamie Bronson had her hand up. “Coach, we lost that game as a team on Friday. I think we should all run.”

  Who, Andi wondered, had been spiking Bronson’s apple juice? This was the second time she had stood up for the Doghouse Five—which is what Maria had started calling them after Friday’s game.

  “Well, Bronson, when they make you the coach of this team, you can make decisions like that,” Coach Josephson said. “Until then, I make those decisions. Come on, girls, line up.”

  Before the Doghouse Five could move, Coach Tuller spoke up. It was the first time she’d spoken since her little introductory speech.

  “Coach, I think Jamie is making a good point and she is the team captain,” she said. “I think we need some team bonding right now. You’re the boss, of course, but maybe everyone should run. I’d be willing to run with them.”

  Coach Josephson looked at Coach Tuller for a second as if she had lost her mind. Coach Tuller was the mother of three, but she was slender and appeared to be in good shape.

  “Okay, fine, Bonnie. You go ahead and run with them then. Everyone line up.”

  As luck would have it, Andi was right next to Coach Tuller. With her long legs, Eleanor was always the fastest runner on the team. Lisa Carmichael was next. After that came Andi, Maria, and Bronson—who was surprisingly fast for someone with her blocky build.

  Andi couldn’t keep up with Coach Tuller. She almost caught her on the third suicide, but not quite. Only Eleanor and Lisa finished ahead of her on all three.

  “Nice going, Coach,” Andi said breathlessly when she crossed the baseline at the end of the third run.

  Coach Tuller smiled. “I need to do these more often,” she said—also out of breath.

  “I don’t,” Andi said.

  Coach Tuller laughed. “You need more playing time,” she said—and walked away.

  “Hit the showers,” Coach Josephson said, forgetting to bring the team in for a post-practice cheer. “Bonnie, stay here with me for a minute.”

  She walked toward the gym door. The boys were taking the court. Andi had no chance to talk to Jeff.

  “What do you think?” El
eanor asked as they walked slowly toward the locker room.

  It was Maria who answered. “I think we might have another new assistant coach by tomorrow.”

  They all laughed. But it really wasn’t that funny.

  * * *

  Mary Ann Hanks was out for her post-school, prepractice run when the text hit her phone. It was a relatively warm day for December, but too cold to sit outside and read a text, so she finished her run and walked into her office to read the text before she took a shower. Her team practiced at five fifteen that day. Gym time had become a lot tighter since the sixth-grade teams had been formed this year, but she really didn’t mind.

  Her kids were both in college, so getting home early wasn’t as important as it had once been. If the kids were still home, she might have been forced to give up coaching, but her husband didn’t get home until after seven most nights, so even when the team had six-fifteen practice they got home at about the same time.

  She walked in the back door of the gym, paused for a moment to catch her breath, and pulled her phone from the pocket inside her sweats. The text was from Jason Crist.

  Can we talk for a few mins today after your practice?

  She quickly texted back. I’m not done until 6:15.

  I know. I’ll shower, grade some tests and wait till you’re done.

  She shrugged. She and Jason had both been at the school for a long time and she liked him. But she couldn’t imagine why he wanted to talk to her. OK. Why don’t you come to my office?

  The response was a thumbs-up emoji. She put the phone on her desk and went to take a shower.

  During practice, she completely forgot about the exchange. Her team was 2–0 but opened conference play the next day, and she knew the games would get a lot more serious now. Merion Middle had won the conference title four times in her ten years as coach and had twice won the unofficial city championship.

  At the end of a tough practice, she reminded her players to be in the locker room tomorrow by four forty-five and ready to warm up as soon as the sixth-grade game ended at about five. Their game would start at five thirty. Evelyn James, the team captain, brought Coach Hanks’s team in for a cheer—“Let’s go one and oh!”—referencing the start of conference play, and they all headed to the locker room.

  Mary Ann walked in the other direction to her office and was surprised to see Jason Crist sitting in the chair opposite her desk. She’d completely forgotten their meeting.

  “Door was open…,” he said.

  “No worries,” she answered. She gestured at the small refrigerator she kept on the floor in a corner of the office. “You want something to drink?”

  He shook his head. “The answer’s yes, but I’d like something a lot stronger than what you’ve got in that refrigerator.” She laughed, leaned down, and pulled out two bottles of water. She tossed one to Jason and said, “For the road.”

  He opened it and took a sip. She sat behind the desk, stretched her back, which always ached a little at the end of practice, and said, “So, what’s up?”

  He put the water on her desk and leaned forward. “Look, Mary Ann, I probably shouldn’t be here because the only team in this school that’s any of my business right now is the boys’ sixth-grade team.”

  “But…,” Mary Ann said.

  “But there’s a real problem with the sixth-grade girls’ team and…”

  Mary Ann put up a hand. “I know all about what’s going on with the sixth-grade team,” she said. “But you’re right. How is it your concern?”

  Amy Josephson had been in her office early that morning to tell her what had happened Friday before the game, during the game, and after the game—specifically her conversation with Joan Axelson. Mary Ann had been the one who had encouraged Amy to coach the new sixth-grade girls team.

  That morning, she had wondered, even just hearing Amy’s side of the story, if she’d made a mistake.

  “Technically,” Jason answered, “it’s not my concern. But one of the kids on my team came to me today because he thinks what’s happening to the girls—specifically the five girls who didn’t play the first half on Friday—is wrong. My instinct is to agree with him—and them.”

  “Let me guess,” Mary Ann said. “Jeff Michaels.”

  “Yeah, how’d you know?”

  She shrugged. “He was in the middle of the whole soccer problem, wasn’t he? Is he threatening to go to his father again—create more bad publicity for the school?”

  Jason sat back, silent for a moment.

  “Why so hostile, Mary Ann? No, he didn’t say anything about going to his dad. He’s friends with Andi Carillo, sure. And the others. I had him and Carillo in soccer, so he came to me. Was that wrong?”

  Mary Ann sighed and put up a hand. “Sorry,” she said. “You’re right. You see, I knew Joan Axelson was a lot more qualified to be the head coach than Amy, but I gave it to Amy for two reasons. First, because she’s older and has been at the school longer.”

  Jason shrugged. “I get that—sort of. But what was the second reason?”

  Mary Ann had been sworn to secrecy, but that had been a couple of months ago. “Because she’s going through a bad divorce. She needed a distraction and I knew she wouldn’t do well working for someone younger than she is.”

  Jason seemed stunned. “Well, she hasn’t done very well as the boss, either,” he said.

  Mary Ann knew he was right but wasn’t sure there was much to be done at this point. “Even if that’s the case, what can I do? Her assistant, the one who had some experience, has quit. Her new assistant is less experienced than she is—by two games. And … even if I did something drastic, like make a change, something like that would divide the faculty. You have any ideas?”

  Jason shook his head. “No, I’m not sure I do,” he said. “Only thing I think I know for sure right now is I really do need a drink.”

  “So do I,” Mary Ann said. “So do I.”

  * * *

  It was the boys’ turn to travel the next day. The good news was the trip to Haverford didn’t require any time on the interstate. It was a few miles up Route 1 and then a few turns to get to the school.

  The same five players who had started the game at Chester Heights started at Haverford. “Rotation will be the same,” Coach Crist said. He smiled. “Worked out okay on Friday, so no need to change anything.”

  He neglected to mention that the team had played its best basketball with Jeff at the point. As they headed for the court to warm up, Coach C told Jeff to stay behind for a second. Jeff saw Ron Arlow glancing over his shoulder as he walked to the door, clearly wondering why Jeff had been told to wait and talk to the coach.

  “Two things,” Coach C said when they were alone. “First, I talked to Mary Ann Hanks last night.”

  “And?” Jeff said, quickly getting excited.

  “And she’s aware there’s a problem. She just doesn’t know what she can do about it.”

  “But she’s going to at least try to do something?”

  Coach C shook his head. “I didn’t say that,” he said. “I think she’s going to give it some thought. For now, that’s the best I can do.”

  Jeff’s heart sank a little. He was pleased Coach C had talked to Coach Hanks, but—for the moment—it didn’t look like it would lead anywhere.

  Coach C was talking again. He snapped back to the present. “I owe you an explanation on why I’m splitting time between you and Arlow at the point,” he said. “Look, you’re a better point guard than he is; I know that. But I’m afraid if I don’t give him time at the point, he’ll sulk and his buddies might sulk, too, and, fact is, we need him—and them. Believe me, I want you on the point as much as possible. Just don’t get upset when I play him there.”

  More disappointment. Jeff understood: Arlow was talented and temperamental. Any coach would have to baby him some of the time.

  “I get it, Coach,” he said finally. He got it, but he didn’t like it.

  “Good. Now get out there
and warm up before Arlow thinks I’m making you the team’s only captain.”

  Jeff laughed at that one—although it sounded like a good idea.

  21

  Jeff could have played the point for all twenty-four minutes and Arlow could have made every shot he took from the shooting guard spot, and it wouldn’t have made much difference.

  Haverford had eleven players who, Jeff figured, were roughly as talented as Merion’s eleven players. But the Squirrels—the nickname they took in honor of nearby Haverford College—had one player Merion couldn’t match: Michael Jordan.

  Jeff’s father had once done a story on a basketball player at Penn named Michael Jordan. He had pointed out in the piece that the “real” Michael Jordan had been a high school freshman when Penn’s Michael Jordan was born, so there was no connection. But he had also found quite a few athletes named Michael Jordan who had been named in honor of the former Chicago Bulls superstar.

  This, apparently, was one of them. And, if he wasn’t actually related to the Hall of Famer, he played as if he had Jordan’s genes.

  He wasn’t that tall—Jeff guessed about five-nine—but he was at least a step quicker than everyone else on the floor and he could jump over anyone to get a shot off. Jeff knew his team was in deep trouble midway through the first quarter when Jordan stripped him, went in all alone, and dunked with one hand. For someone five-nine to dunk was remarkable. For any sixth-grader to dunk one-handed was whatever came after remarkable. Jeff had now seen dunks happen twice in three games. The kid at Camden had used two hands. Jordan used one and appeared to have room to spare.

  Jordan didn’t really guard anyone. He just roamed the floor, looking for steals. If he didn’t get one, he raced to the basket when a shot went up and—almost inevitably—grabbed the rebound.

  “It’s like there’s two of him out there,” Jeff heard Coach Benyak say to Coach Crist at the end of the first quarter. By then the score was Haverford 19, Merion 7. Or, more accurately, it was Jordan 15, his teammates 4, and Merion 7. On the two baskets Jordan hadn’t scored, he’d driven into the lane, drawn a double-team, and passed to a teammate for an easy layup.