by Carl Deuker
Could that have been Trent?
Chapter 5
Monday morning Luke was at my door. We didn't usually walk to school together, so I knew he'd come by to try to lift my spirits. For a while we talked about school—midterms were that week—and how hard it was to find time to study. Then the conversation turned to basketball.
"You're going to be okay, Nick. You're going to be okay."
"When?" I scoffed. "My senior year?"
"No, no. You've just got to become more of a team player."
His words stung. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He caught my tone. "Nothing ... just..."
"Go on. If you got something to say, say it."
He shrugged. "Well, it seems like you're trying to do everything yourself when you're out there. You've got to remember you've got teammates who can score too."
My whole body tensed, but I kept myself under control. "And I suppose you don't care about scoring."
"Come on. You know what I mean. Everybody likes to score. But if it doesn't come to me, I don't force things."
"And I do? Is that what you're saying?"
"A little, you have been."
I exploded. "You've got a lot of nerve, Luke. I'll tell you, a lot of nerve. Because you count your points more than anybody I've ever played with."
"Oh, is that right?"
"Yeah, that's right."
He glared at me. "Fine, Nick. Keep doing things the way you have been. You can sit on the bench all year for all I care." With that he stormed off, leaving me to myself.
All morning I thought about how unfair he was. You miss the big shot and you're a glory hog. You make it and suddenly you're the guy with courage, the guy willing to step up with the game on the line.
I'd always eaten lunch with Luke, and out of habit I looked for him that day too. But when I spotted him, he was in thick with Carver and the other senior starters. Fine, I thought, my anger returning. You eat with them. See if I care.
I had my history midterm that afternoon. I wasn't exactly unprepared for it, but I could have studied harder. When I finished my essay I looked up and saw everyone else—including Trent—still working. What a joke it would be if he ended up eligible to play and I flunked myself right off the team. I put my head down and went over my essay, checking for misspellings and lousy sentences, improving it wherever I could.
The school day ended and I walked to the gym for practice. I was tired of being on the outs with Luke. I needed a friend. If he'd done anything at all, even looked at me, I'd have gone over and made it okay with him. But the instant he saw me he turned away. I found an empty corner and suited up without saying a word to anybody.
We'd gone through all our warm-up drills and were getting ready for scrimmage when Coach O'Leary called me aside. "Listen, Nick," he said, his voice soothing, so soothing that I knew bad news was coming. "You're a good player. I know it; all the guys know it. But you're pressing."
"I'll play better," I said anxiously.
"Sure you will, sure you will. But for right now, I've decided to move you to the third team and let Brian Chang take your minutes. During the scrimmage today, I want you to sit up in the stands and watch. You can learn a lot from watching. You understand what I'm saying?"
It was like taking a fist to the gut and then having to act as if it hadn't hurt. I nodded, and even managed a sort of smile.
O'Leary put his hand on my shoulder. "Good, good. That's the attitude."
He blew his whistle and called the whole team to him. I could tell from the grin on Brian Chang's face that he knew he'd get my playing time. A couple of guys sneaked looks over at me, and I met their gazes as if nothing was wrong.
When you're scrimmaging, time always goes by fast. But when you're stuck watching, it's a whole different story. There were two of us sitting up on those hard bleachers: me and Trent. We sat as far apart from one another as we could, and didn't say a word.
The hardest part was knowing that neither Fabroa nor Chang had my ability. That's not bragging; it's just true. They weren't as fast; they didn't dribble as well; they didn't have my touch, inside or out. But during that practice they moved the ball around, keeping everybody involved. "That's it!" O'Leary called out a couple of times. "That's it!"
By Wednesday afternoon I knew there was no way I was getting into Thursday's game against the Redmond Mustangs. Not even for a minute.
Wednesday night I sucked up my courage and called Dad. He answered, not his girlfriend, and that was something. But he didn't take what I had to tell him very well. "What do you mean you're not playing?"
"I'm third string. Unless it's a blowout I won't get in."
"What's going on, Nick? You arguing with the coach?"
"No, no. Nothing like that." I paused. "Look, Dad, there are only three sophomores on the team and I'm one of them. So I don't play a whole bunch this year. So what? I've got time."
There was a long stretch of silence. At last he spoke. "Well, thanks for telling me. I have the opportunity to work some overtime, and I might just take it. You keep playing hard at practice, you hear? And if anything changes, call me."
Chapter 6
Bench warmer. That's what I was for games three and four. I couldn't even kid myself that the guys needed me, because we won both games, beating Redmond at home 64–50 and then going on the road to stop the Lake Washington Kangaroos 56–44. Not that the victories meant much. They were the weakest teams in our league. No height, no speed, new coaches every year.
Fabroa and Chang ran the plays just the way O'Leary wanted them run: nothing flashy, but nothing stupid. They didn't blow either team out of the gym; they methodically ground them up the way a butcher grinds up meat to make sausage.
If we'd opened against these two loser teams, everything might have been different. With less pressure, my shots might have dropped, and I might have made the plays on defense. If I had, then...
During those two games O'Leary didn't call my number once. I could have ordered a pizza and eaten it on the bench and he wouldn't have noticed.
Zack was released from juvenile hall the day after we beat Lake Washington. December in the Northwest is cold, dark, and drizzly, but he made a point of sitting on his porch every afternoon and evening, stereo blasting, cigarette in hand. It was as if he were flipping off the whole world.
The music didn't get turned down until Steve Clay came home, and then only after loud arguments that usually ended with Zack climbing into his mother's old Corolla and somehow making it sound like a Ferrari as he raced off into the night.
Katya was around our house more than ever those days, supposedly because of the jazz band, but really because she and Scott were an established thing. Like the rest of us, she tried to ignore Zack, but one evening when she stayed for dinner we heard him screaming in the street, and her frustration boiled over. "I don't understand," she said. "Why did they let him out? Michael saw him. He told the police. And nothing happens?"
My mother's voice was calm. "We don't know that for sure. He might have to do community service, or maybe undergo counseling. We don't know what the court decided."
"But he's there," Katya cried, pointing toward the Dawson house. "He's right there, and he's no different, and all those poor birds are dead."
No one could say anything to that.
Then, the night before Christmas vacation began, Steve Clay was at our door again. His face looked grayish, and the creases running by the sides of his mouth seemed deeper.
I let him in, called Mom, and slipped into the kitchen to listen. "You must be sick of seeing my face," he said softly as he sat, his back hunched.
"No, not at all," my mother answered. "What can I do for you?"
"Actually, I came over to say goodbye."
"Goodbye?"
He took a deep breath, sighed. "It didn't work out with Ericka and me. It's not Ericka's fault. It's just..." his voice trailed off.
"I'm sorry for you and for Ericka, and for the boys, too
," my mother said. "You were good for them."
"It's the boys I want to talk to you about." He stopped for a moment. "Listen, this is the last time we'll ever talk, so I'm going to lay it all out. I got nowhere with Zack. Nowhere at all. But Trent's different. There's a chance for him. I'd like to think he had some place to go at night other than out with Zack. So I was wondering—"
"That basketball court is his whenever he wants to play," my mother said, anticipating his request. "You tell him that. And we've got a sofa downstairs to sleep on if he ever needs it. You tell him that too."
Steve Clay's spine straightened. "Thank you. Thank you very much. You're a good woman." He pulled out his wallet, wrote down a phone number on a scrap of paper. "I'm moving in with my brother. I won't be there for long, but if you ever need to get in touch with me, he'll know where I am."
My mother took the little piece of paper.
Steve Clay left, and my mother stood in the front room looking at the door. Finally she turned to me. "You heard that, didn't you? Is that okay?"
I remembered how angry I'd felt when she first allowed Trent to use my basket, but now I couldn't remember exactly why. "Sure," I said. "It's okay by me."
Chapter 7
We were entered in a three-day Christmas tournament in Victoria, British Columbia, beginning December 28. The games had popped right out at me the first time I'd seen the schedule. Riding the Victoria Clipper with the guys, staying in a hotel, seeing R-rated movies at night—the whole thing seemed great, almost like being a college player.
From the start Mom hadn't been crazy about the trip. She'd considered coming along as a chaperone because she didn't trust O'Leary. "I heard he's a drinker," she said one night at dinner. But Scott's jazz band was headed to Monterey, California, over Christmas for the music festival, and she wanted to go with him.
For a long time she stewed about it, then over Thanksgiving Dad solved the problem. "I'll go up with Nick, keep an eye on him," he told her. To me he said: "Don't worry. I'll stay out of your hair. You hang out with your buddies, not your old man."
School was out for the holidays, and there were no games until after Christmas, but that didn't mean time off. It was practice, practice, practice—twice a day. O'Leary called it our "readjustment" time. "We can make a run at the league title," he said. "But these practices are crucial. This is not playtime."
I wanted to use those practices to push Chang from his spot on the second team, and maybe make Fabroa nervous about his spot on the first team. I was going to show O'Leary that what he'd seen was a slump, and that it was over. But it didn't work out that way. At every practice something went wrong right away. I'd miss my first shot, or double-dribble, or make a bad pass. The harder I tried, the worse I did. If guys were open, I'd double-clutch on my passes, and then either chuck them out-of-bounds or get them picked off. It was like a rock slide that I once saw up in the Cascade mountains. First one rock came tumbling down, and then another, and pretty soon it seemed as if the whole mountain was caving in.
I hit bottom at our last practice before the trip. On a three-on-three fast break, I made a spin move in the key, then tried to swoop in a running lay-in. The ball somehow slipped out of my hands and bounced off my forehead and out-of-bounds. I must have looked like a total fool. O'Leary's eyes went to the roof. He crossed himself. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he bellowed, "help me in my time of need!" All the guys roared with laughter, and I managed a smile, but the lump in my throat was so big I could hardly speak.
That happened on December 24. O'Leary phoned that night. He started out by wishing me a merry Christmas and asking me about my family and all that, but something was up. Finally there was a long pause. "About the trip to Victoria."
"What about it?" I asked.
He coughed. "You know how tight things are with school budgets and all. Well, it turns out that they raised the prices on the Victoria Clipper. Instead of having money for fifteen, we've only got money for twelve. That means ten players and me and Mr. Fabroa, who's going to help chaperone. You see what I'm saying?"
"I understand," I mumbled.
There was a long pause. "Look, Nick, I know you're disappointed. But you're a sophomore. The team makes a trip every year over Christmas. You'll get your chance."
Once he hung up, Mom asked who I'd been talking to. I lied, telling her it was Luke. "I haven't seen much of him lately," she said. "Is he coming over?"
"No," I said. "He's got family things."
Christmas morning Scott and I opened our gifts early: clothes, CD's, the usual stuff. Without Dad there, it felt all wrong. Around noon he did stop by. Still, it wasn't like a real Christmas. He sat on the sofa in his normal spot, only he never kicked off his shoes, never even leaned back into the cushions. He didn't look any more comfortable than the insurance agent who'd come by to update my mother's policies.
After about an hour he stood to leave. I followed him outside. "I got some bad news yesterday," I said. Immediately his eyes registered worry. "It's about basketball."
"What happened?"
I blurted it out. "They just don't have enough money to bring everybody on the team to Victoria, so I'm not going."
His eyes flared in anger. "Tell O'Leary I'll pay the fare, if that's all it is."
I winced. "That's nice of you and everything, but I wouldn't want to go like that. You see what I mean?"
He thought for a minute. "Yeah, I see what you mean." He paused. "Are you telling me everything, Nick? You're not feuding with the coach or anything, because if—"
"No, Dad," I interrupted. "It's nothing like that. I'm just not playing well. I'm trying, but nothing is going right."
"Well, all you can do is try."
There was no anger in his voice, no disappointment even. It was as if he'd given up on me. He pulled his keys out of his pocket. "I should be going now. Merry Christmas, Nick."
Chapter 8
We had our own little Christmas dinner: Scott, Mom, and me. Ham, mashed potatoes, asparagus, and for dessert pumpkin pie with whipped cream. There was nothing wrong with it, but there was nothing right with it either. I kept thinking about when I was younger—five, six, seven. Then two of my grandparents were still alive. The table was so crowded with food and people that we had had to put the extra leaf in. And the house, too, was full of sounds. My grandfather's transistor radio always on to the news, the jangling bracelets on my grandmother's arm. Now they were both dead, and my father was gone. My whole world seemed to be shrinking.
After dinner I told Mom about Victoria. She was upset at the thought of my being alone. "You come with us to Monterey. I can get another ticket."
But I knew how worried she was about money. Besides, the idea of seeing Scott on stage was too much for me. The way things were coming together for him just reminded me how everything was falling apart for me. "I'll be sixteen this summer. I can spend a few days alone. And if I need anything, I can always call Dad."
She thought. "You could stay at your dad's place. If you want, I'll ask."
"I don't want to stay there," I said, wondering if she knew about his live-in girlfriend. "I'll be fine here."
We talked some more about it, until she finally came around. But she hugged me tight when the airport shuttle arrived at our door early the next morning. "I'll call every night," she said.
Scott grinned at me. "Hey, Nick, now you can have one of those wild parties that make the newspaper. You know: Bothell Police Arrest..."
"That will be enough of that," my mother said, and I could tell she didn't think Scott was being the least bit funny. Then they were down the walkway and into the van.
"Good luck!" I shouted to Scott as the door closed.
Once they were gone, the house seemed wrong, as if it were a stranger's. When I took a cup down from the cabinet, it clattered on the counter. When I closed a door, the sound echoed loudly, as if I were in a museum. The background sounds of the house, sounds like my mother typing on her computer or Scott practicing his tr
umpet, were all absent.
Outside a light rain was falling. I turned on the television and tried to watch a movie, but my mind kept wandering. I turned the movie off, stuck in a Sonics video, but even that didn't help. The announcer was screaming about some tremendous dunk, but there was nothing inside me to match his excitement.
Time crawled by. I had to force myself to eat lunch. The mail came. Three catalogs—two for clothes and one filled with Valentine stuff.
Around four my mother phoned. They were in the hotel in Monterey. It was windy, but the sun was shining, and the coast of California was incredibly beautiful. She put Scott on. The band was going to compete the next morning, go to the aquarium in the afternoon, then take a night cruise in the bay. "They say there might be whales."
I ate a TV dinner, or half of it, then went to my room and turned on the radio. The Washington Huskies were at Wisconsin, up by six at the start of the second half. I listened for a few minutes, then flicked the radio off. I thought about calling Dad, but I didn't have anything to say to him. Besides, his girlfriend might have answered, and I definitely didn't want to talk to her. I turned off the light and lay on my bed in the dark, listening to the silence. That's when I heard the gate creak open and the bouncing ball.
In the summer, I'd been the one playing ball all the time. Trent had been the loser, the quitter who walked off the court whenever his brother showed up. Now he was playing basketball every minute he wasn't studying, and I was spending my time turning the television off and on, flipping through catalogs, and generally doing nothing. When he became eligible—and he'd make it, with all the studying he'd done—he'd move ahead of me in O'Leary's rotation. I'd be the last guy at the end of the bench.