Athlete vs. Mathlete

by W. C. Mack

  And Arthur Richardson the Third?

  For the next hour, he sat back and watched it all, like he was a supervisor and we were his employees.

  When the final donut was gone and the last student left the building, we started cleaning up. Instead of helping, Arthur put himself in charge of counting the money.

  “You were a huge help,” Nitu told him, sarcastically.

  “I made all the money.” He shrugged.

  “This was a group effort, Arthur,” I reminded him.

  He stared at the table, where all the homemade desserts still sat, untouched. “I beg to differ.”

  Fast Break

  During practices, Coach Baxter worked us even harder than he had at tryouts. The guy was tough!

  I ran harder and faster than almost everyone and tried not to smile when my brother wound up at the back of the pack in nearly everything we did. It served him right.

  About halfway through one practice, Coach blew his whistle and we got in a line for layups.

  I made my first shot, then passed the ball to Paul, who missed his. I jogged back to the end of the line to wait for another turn.

  Then Coach Baxter left Mr. Webster in charge, and he took Russell over to the far basket. While I waited for my turn to shoot, I watched Coach. I hoped he realized he’d made a huge mistake and was cutting Russ from the team in private.

  But I was disappointed.

  The two of them spent the next hour working on Russ’s dribbling skills.

  Well, lack of dribbling skills, really.

  Man, I would have loved to get some one-on-one time with Coach! But it was all about Russ.

  Everything was about Russ.

  I kept checking over my shoulder to watch them, and it was obvious that my brother wasn’t getting it.

  Coach looked like he was losing patience, or maybe I just hoped he was.

  “Owen,” Chris shouted, right as a basketball hit the side of my head.

  “Sorry, man,” Paul said, jogging toward me. “I thought you knew I was passing it to you.”

  “That was a pass?” I growled.

  “I said I was sorry,” Paul said. “Hey, you’re supposed to be keeping your eye on the ball, anyway.”

  “Whatever,” I muttered, rubbing my head.

  “Whatever, yourself.” Paul shook his head as he walked to the back of the line.

  When I took my next turn, I moved in for the perfect layup, but the ball bounced off the bottom of the rim then hit me.

  In the face.

  “Nice one,” someone whispered.

  “Which Evans twin is that?” someone else asked, a little louder, and I heard some of the other guys laughing.

  I passed the ball to Nate and walked to the back of the line. I didn’t make eye contact with the rest of my teammates and tried not to watch Russ and Coach Baxter either. I folded my arms and waited for my next turn.

  Basketball was supposed to be fun.

  I had to get my brother out of my head.

  Fast.

  It felt like everything was changing in the worst way. Even though I knew it wouldn’t be a big deal to anyone else, I hated that Russ suddenly had the cool shoes and the awesome jump shot.

  We were supposed to be opposites.

  The jock and the brains.

  We couldn’t both be jocks and we couldn’t trade places.

  I mean, what was the chance of me turning into a genius overnight?

  Zip.

  At the end of practice, Coach brought Russell back over to the rest of us.

  “Our first game is on Friday. That doesn’t give us much time before we face Westhill’s team.”

  “They’re tough,” Chris said, like we didn’t all know that already.

  “What we’re going to do at each practice is run drills for the first half and scrimmage for the second. Everybody got that?” Coach asked.

  I nodded along with the rest of the guys.

  “One weakness we’ve got is stamina,” Coach continued.

  At least four guys turned to look at Russ, who practically ran out of breath walking to the bathroom.

  “I’m talking about the team as a whole,” Coach said, giving us all the stare down. “Stamina is key, here. We have to be able to keep up.”

  The guys nodded again.

  “Now, let’s get that scrimmage going.”

  The next night, I had an English paper to work on, and I didn’t feel like it at all. We were supposed to write five hundred words on someone who inspired us.

  Obviously, I was going to write about Tim Camden. He was an awesome player, scored tons of points, and did what needed to be done to win the game.

  But I was having trouble getting the ideas out of my brain and into my notebook.

  I decided to head for the park to shoot some hoops and clear all the junk out of my head. When I called Chris to go with me, there was no answer at his house. So I decided to go on my own, hoping some of the guys would be there.

  I dribbled the ball all the way to the park, trying to think about the “inspiration” paper, but all I could think about was Russ and how mad I was at him.

  When I got to Sunset, a bunch of teenagers were already playing on the main court.

  Great.

  I bent over to retie my laces before heading back home.

  “Hey, you wanna play?” someone shouted.

  I went for my usual double knots.

  “You wanna play?” the voice shouted again, even louder.

  I looked up to see who they were talking to, and gulped when I saw that the teenagers were all staring at me.

  “Me?” I asked, my voice shaking a bit.

  They never talked to us. They never even looked at us.

  “You’re the only one out there,” a big guy said, laughing. “We’re short a man.”

  “Short a man?” I repeated.

  Could they really be asking me to fill in?

  High school kids?

  “Yeah,” the guys said.

  “And you want me to—”

  “Forget it,” a skinny redhead interrupted. “There’s something wrong with him.”

  “No, there isn’t,” I said, standing up.

  I didn’t know what to do.

  The idea of playing with the teenagers was totally scary.

  But it was also totally cool.

  What if some of the Pioneers showed up and saw me hanging out with them?

  That would be awesome.

  “So?” the big guy asked.

  Yes, please probably wouldn’t sound very cool.

  “Sure,” I said, trying to act like it was no big deal as I jogged toward the court.

  “This should be good,” the redhead groaned.

  “I’m Matt,” the big guy said. “You, me, Rick, Devinder, and Jonesy are a team.”

  When he said each name, the guys nodded at me, so I’d know who they were. I waited for them to ask for my name, but nobody seemed to care.

  They just called me “kid.”

  For the next hour, I worked even harder than I had at practice. I was at least a foot shorter than everyone else, and I really had to sweat to keep up.

  The guys didn’t pass to me much at first, and I started to wonder why they’d even invited me to play. What was the point of being an extra body if you didn’t get to do anything?

  Then Jonesy threw me the ball and I knew it might be my only chance to prove myself.

  Two big guys came at me, and I took a deep breath, slowly dribbling in place until I saw the opening I was looking for. I made a break for it, shouldering the guy on the right and squeezing between them.

  “What the …?” one of them grunted from behind me.

  I was out in the open, only a few steps from the basket.

  I knew my safest bet was a layup, so I dribbled in fast and made it.

  “Nice!” Matt said, slapping me on the back. “You’re a tough kid. I like it.”

  I grinned.

  I liked it, too.


  From then on, whenever the guys gave me the ball, I pushed through whoever was in my way. I used my shoulders and elbows and went straight to the hoop.

  Just like Tim Camden.

  It was rougher than the Pioneers played, but it worked.

  “A go-to guy,” Rick said, after I made another shot. “Give the kid the ball, and he makes it happen.”

  “You’ve got to be aggressive to win, right?” Matt said, punching me on the shoulder.

  “Yeah.” I nodded.

  Aggressive.

  I’d never thought about basketball that way before.

  The Pioneers didn’t have a “go-to guy.” We just passed the ball around until somebody had a clear shot. We were all about teamwork, not star players, and I knew that was a good thing.

  But I also knew that going for the basket had way better results.

  After all, basketball was about scoring points, and no one got points for passing.

  Back at school the next day, I met up with Chris at his locker so we could walk to English class together.

  “I’m almost finished writing my inspiration paper,” he said. “It’s about my uncle Eddy. You know, the one who was in that car accident?”

  “And they said would never walk again?”

  Chris nodded. “Yeah. Now he’s running.”

  “Pretty cool.”

  “What about you?” he asked.

  “I haven’t started,” I admitted. “But I’m going to write about Tim Camden.”

  Chris laughed. “The most hated guy in the NBA.”

  “But an awesome player.”

  “Totally,” he agreed. “Hey, I got your message last night. I wish I’d made it to the park, but we had to go visit my cousins.”

  “Too bad,” I told him.

  And I meant it. I’d met his cousins.

  “Did you find anyone to play with?”

  I nodded and told him about the teenagers.

  “You and the big kids?” he asked, squinting at me like he wasn’t sure whether to believe it.

  “High school guys,” I corrected, loving the sound of it. Me and the high school guys, kickin’ it. “Yeah.”

  “They just … asked you to play?”

  “Well, they were short a guy, so …,” I said, and shrugged.

  Chris stared at me. “That is so cool.”

  “It was okay,” I told him.

  Of course, it was way better than okay. It was ESPN highlight material.

  When Chris told some of the other Pioneers about it, I told them how I’d driven to the net a bunch of times. (Well, three times, anyway, scoring twice). And how when the teenagers left, Matt and Jonesy both high-fived me on their way off the court.

  Unreal!

  The way the guys were looking at me, I could tell they’d forgotten about Russ, and that was awesome.

  “Are you going to play with them again?” Chris asked.

  The teenagers hadn’t said anything about it, but I didn’t care.

  “Maybe a pickup game here and there,” I told him, shrugging again.

  It wasn’t impossible, right?

  “Whoa,” he whispered.

  The rest of the week raced by, and even though I was mad that Russ was there, the practices weren’t bad.

  The drills were brutal, but I “borrowed” Russ’s digital watch so I could measure my improvements. And I was definitely improving. I was getting faster at running lines, and even though it was the drill I hated the most, I was proud of being one of the fastest guys on the team. The scrimmages were my favorite part of practices, and it was pretty cool to see our passing game coming together, too.

  I kept an eye on Russ, who was getting a little better at dribbling.

  Better than a seven-year-old, anyway.

  Maybe.

  Even though Russ and I left basketball on the court, Dad liked to relive our practices at the dinner table every night. And while Russell did all the talking, Dad acted like he was the most interesting person on earth.

  I just concentrated on my vegetables.

  Mom must have noticed something was up, because on Thursday, the night before our first game, she made me stay with her in the kitchen to help put away the dishes.

  “Everything okay with you, Owen?” she asked.

  “Yup.”

  “How’s the team?”

  “Basketball?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she laughed. “Basketball.”

  “It’s fine.”

  Mom put a hand on my forehead.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I’m just checking for a fever. It’s usually ‘awesome.’”

  “I know … it’s just kind of … different this year.”

  “Ahh,” she said. “A new coach.”

  I didn’t want to talk about the whole mess with Russell, so I just nodded.

  “Don’t worry, honey. You’ll get used to him.” She handed me some glasses to put away. “Dad and I are excited about tomorrow’s game.”

  “Me, too,” I told her.

  I was excited, but kind of nervous, too.

  I had no idea what would happen.

  Complex Division

  My week was a blur of basketball practices, Masters meetings, and my usual workload from school. I’d like to say I floated through it all with the greatest of ease, but the truth was, my hectic schedule was causing some problems.

  I got a ninety on my science test.

  Barely an A!

  I didn’t have time to proofread my English essay before I handed it in, and I should have made the time. Mrs. Chen found two spelling mistakes, and there was a concerned note on the top of my cover page when she handed it back to me with a big red B on it.

  And worst of all? I missed another Masters of the Mind meeting because Coach wanted to squeeze in an extra practice before our first game.

  When the day of the Pioneers’ first game arrived, I woke up feeling more than a little nervous. I’d been surviving the practices and even surprised myself with some great moments, but playing against another team was something totally new.

  And playing that game in a gymnasium packed with fans, demanding a win? That was very intimidating.

  But throughout the day, I was high-fived by every member of the basketball team I saw. It was a complete surprise and I couldn’t help grinning whenever it happened.

  I felt like I was really part of something.

  Of course, I’d already felt like part of my other clubs and Masters of the Mind, but this was different. People who never paid attention to me before suddenly noticed me.

  I liked it.

  When I suited up with the rest of the team in the locker room after school, I could feel the tension in the air. Obviously I wasn’t the only one battling nerves.

  “Are you ready, Russ?” Nicky Chu asked me.

  “I hope so,” I told him.

  “You’ll be fine,” he said, slapping me on the back.

  It was more than Owen had said to me all week. I didn’t know why my brother was so quiet, but I assumed he’d been busy, like me.

  Coach gave us a pep talk before the game started, then I spent the first quarter watching my teammates play from the bench.

  The view was amazing.

  But the playing wasn’t.

  The Westhill team had a better record than the Pioneers, and they were living up to their reputation as a tough team to beat. We were losing, but I could see how hard my teammates were trying and I was proud of them.

  Every now and then, I’d wave at my parents in the stands, knowing how happy they were to see me out there.

  The rest of the time, I couldn’t help admiring my magical Nikes.

  By the end of the quarter, I guessed Coach would keep me on the bench while his more experienced players tried to catch up to Westhill. And that was fine with me. I didn’t need that kind of pressure during my very first game.

  But I was wrong.

  “I’m gonna mix things up,” Coach said.

  And t
hat meant putting me in.

  For the first few minutes I was out on the court, I was lost. Everything seemed louder, brighter, and faster than it had at practice. I tried to “just stand there,” but the Westhill team was pretty good at dribbling around me.

  At one point, Paul was heading for the basket and I chased after him, hoping I could somehow stop one of the Westhill players from blocking his shot.

  When I stopped, there was no one anywhere near me. There was nothing but open space between me and the hoop.

  “Paul,” I shouted, before I could change my mind. “Over here!”

  He turned and threw me the ball.

  I knew I only had a couple of seconds before the Westhill players would surround me, so I did the only thing I could think of.

  I took a jump shot.

  And scored three whole points!

  The only words I heard over the roar of the crowd was Coach shouting, “Nice hustle, Russell!”

  I couldn’t believe how different everything was after that first game.

  Dad couldn’t stop smiling.

  Mom gave me a huge hug and told me how proud she was.

  Owen didn’t say anything.

  Not “way to go” or “nice job” or even “you didn’t blow it.”

  He was silent.

  When his friend Chris came over on Saturday morning, I answered the door as I was getting ready for my Masters of the Mind meeting.

  “Russ!” Chris said, punching my shoulder like I’d seen the jocks do to each other. It kind of hurt. “How’s it going?”

  “Good,” I said, surprised that he hadn’t just grunted hello and headed for Owen’s room the way he usually did.

  “Cool,” he said. “I still can’t believe how awesome you played yesterday. Westhill didn’t know what hit them.”

  “Thanks,” I said, grinning. I knew I needed to get going but thought that talking about basketball for a minute or two might be fun.

  “I mean, for your first real game, that was pretty sweet.”

  “Are you coming up?” Owen asked from the top of the stairs.

  “Just a sec,” Chris called back, then turned to me again. “Can you teach me some of your moves?”

  “My moves?”

  “Yeah, that jump shot is awesome.”

  “You want me to teach you?” I asked, stunned.