Kings of the Court

by Alison Hughes

  “Of course, of course,” said Mr. Williams, smiling. “I was forgetting why we’re here. By all means, we should take to the pitch.” He made an awkward gesture, swinging his arm out. On a wave of relief, the guys fanned out, dribbling basketballs and shooting. Mr. Williams called over the noise, “I’m delighted to be standing in as coach, and I hope you’ll bear with me while I get to know you all and master the rules.”

  “Warm up for five minutes, and then we’ll do a shooting drill,” called Sameer.

  Mr. Williams rubbed his hands together and looked over at Sameer with a smile, his pale face slightly flushed. “I thought that went very well, didn’t you?” he said.

  Mr. Williams let Sameer run the practice. He seemed happy to watch, sitting on the bench with his elbows on his knees. He pulled Sameer’s binder out of his backpack and every once in a while he consulted it, nodding his head, squinting off into the distance or smiling to himself.

  The last twenty minutes of practice was a scrimmage, with Vijay pretending to ref, a whistle clenched in his big teeth.

  When five o’clock rolled around, Mr. Williams got up and called out, “All right, boys, huddle up! That was a good little game thingy you were playing!”

  “Scrimmage,” said Sameer quickly. “It’s called a scrimmage.”

  “Thank you, Sameer. Everyone have a seat.” Mr. Williams indicated the bench.

  Sameer’s heart sank as he squeezed in between the twins, Hassan and Mohammed. Another squirm-inducing speech? More Shakespeare? He looked down the bench. Anil and Rochon, their faces hard and set, had their arms crossed.

  “I ask for three minutes to see whether I’ve got things right,” Mr. Williams said. He walked quickly to the end of the bench and began a rapid-fire commentary, gesturing with both arms at each player as he went down the line.

  “Rochon and Anil, elder statesmen of the team, ninth-graders, talented marksmen, a little lazy on defending their own basket and prone to a touch of arrogance, but excellent leadership capabilities.” Before either player could even register the description, he had moved on.

  “Kyle, a quiet tower of strength, a calming presence and a solid player needing only the confidence to be a leader in his own way.” Mr. Williams moved down the bench.

  “Nate, Big Nate, whose towering frame is matched only by the magnitude of his heart. Be not afraid of your size, good Nate—use your Olympian stature!

  “Nikho, deft and quick. Your physical skill is apparent. Work on the mental element of concentration to finish the job. Plus, incidentally, I admire your most excellent faux-hawk.

  “Tom, a player who needs to rise from the bench and take his place! For too long you have been unappreciated and your abilities minimized.” Tom sat up a little straighter.

  “Kenneth, questioning Kenneth, your athleticism almost brought tears to my eyes. Work with your teammates, and you will indeed be formidable.

  “Hassan and Mohammed.” Mr. Williams gestured to the twins. “You do share an astonishing likeness, and it’s virtually impossible to tell you apart at a glance. No matter. As the only two representatives of seventh grade, you will both learn and grow and will begin to assert your individuality.

  “Sameer, excellent Sameer! You have the qualities of organization, strategy and the natural leadership of a general in the field! I hereby promote you to assistant coach.” Sameer blinked and stared.

  “And, finally, Vijay, fearless mascot, scorer and assistant to the manager…”

  “Assistant manager,” said Vijay. “But willing to be promoted!”

  “Manager it is! Your easygoing good nature will prove invaluable to this team.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Gladiators,” cried Mr. Williams, “disperse!”

  “Okay, that’s it for today, guys,” said Sameer as the team hesitated.

  Everyone headed for the gym doors.

  “I’ll just get my backpack, and we’ll head out,” said Vijay to Sameer.

  Sameer nodded. “I’ll wait here.”

  He sat on the bench, clutching his clipboard and trying not to think about the rest of the season. Mr. Williams had nailed the player descriptions, but Sameer knew some of the guys wouldn’t appreciate that. They would just fixate on the fact that he was odd. He was odd. But was he odd enough that the whole rest of the season was going to be a nightmare?

  Exhausted and confused, he stared off into space in the silent gym. His eyes fell on the Gladiators logo painted on the gym wall. It was a helmeted head in black silhouette against a red circle background crossed by two swords. Underneath the head was a stenciled motto:

  Our strength does not lie in not failing, but in getting up every single time we fail.

  I wonder if Coach Boss actually wrote that, Sameer thought. Or did he just read it somewhere? Anyway, who writes an inspirational quote that mentions failing not once, but twice?

  Mr. Williams trotted back into the gym.

  “Forgot this.” He smiled, grabbing Sameer’s red binder from under the bench. “Everything all right, Sameer?” He followed Sameer’s gaze and read the quote Sameer was staring at. Mr. Williams tilted his head. “That’s somehow not a terribly inspirational phrase, is it?”

  “I was just thinking that.”

  “It hints at the value of perseverance but seems to dwell darkly and repetitively on failure.”

  “Yeah,” said Sameer, “I noticed that.”

  “Shakespeare would have said it better,” said Mr. Williams.

  Sameer looked up, interested in spite of himself. Shakespeare wrote about sports?

  “What would he have said about the Gladiators?”

  Mr. Williams tilted his head, looking up at the ceiling and thinking. “Oh, I know! This is a good one: We know what we are, but know not what we may be.”

  Sameer considered this. “You’re right, that is better. Way better.”

  Mr. Williams smiled and nodded. “See you later, Sameer. And thanks for running the…you know…the rehearsal!”

  “Practice.”

  “Practice,” Mr. Williams repeated eagerly. “Practice. Of course.” He smiled and gave an awkward little salute.

  When Mr. Williams had gone, Sameer wrote out the quotation on the top of his practice notes.

  We know what we are, but know not what we may be.

  That’s a great team motto, Sameer thought. He hauled his big book of sports commentary out of his backpack, looked up mottos in the index and flipped to page 232, wondering whether Shakespeare had made the list.

  ELEVEN

  Maintaining Composure

  “He’s an idiot,” Rochon said a few days later when they were shooting baskets at lunch.

  “Yeah, a guy who can quote endless Shakespeare off the top of his head is a real idiot,” Sameer said sarcastically.

  “Okay, maybe not an idiot. A freak?”

  “Bit harsh,” said Sameer. “He’s a little different maybe.”

  “He doesn’t have a clue about basketball,” said Anil, spinning the ball on one finger. Sameer had nothing to say to that. It was true. “Not the smallest clue. All that deep breathing we do in practice? The yoga stretches? It’s ridiculous.”

  “I know for a fact that lots of NBA players do yoga,” said Sameer, wagging a finger, “for the flexibility.”

  “I touched my toes for the first time last practice,” said Hassan (or Mohammed). He looked around, nodding with pride. “So maybe the yoga works.”

  “Good,” said Sameer. “That’s great…uh… Hassan.”

  “Mohammed.”

  Rochon ignored both of them. “Seriously. What good is a stupid downward-dog pose going to be against J.P. Thorpe tomorrow? They’re going to murder us.”

  There was an uneasy silence.

  “Anybody else find Williams embarrassing?” asked Anil. “I came out of Science, and he says, in front of everyone, ‘The curtain rises on our athletic ballet at 4:00 PM.’ Anil said it in an exaggerated, dramatic way. A few of the g
uys laughed. “Like, meaning basketball practice.” Anil looked around, his hands held out. “I mean, what do you even say to that? ‘Uh, yeah, later, Coach.’ All that Shakespeare garbage. Why can’t he just talk normal?”

  “Okay, he is a little…dramatic. That’s true,” said Sameer.

  “Really dramatic,” said Vijay. “Like DRA-matic!” He flung out his arms.

  “Thanks, Vijay,” said Sameer wearily. “He is a drama teacher, after all. But he’s a smart guy. Anyway, we don’t have a choice, right? He’s who we got. There’s nobody else.”

  “I never, ever thought I would miss Coach Boss,” said Rochon. “But hey, can we get him back? I mean, he was a total jerk, but with him there was a tiny chance we might actually win. Or at least not be humiliated.”

  “Really?” said Sameer. “I seem to remember lots of humiliation with Coach Boss. A lot of it. Humiliation, bullying, intimidation.” He listed them on his fingers.

  “Sameer’s right,” said Mohammed (or Hassan).

  “But he wasn’t a total freak,” Anil said slowly, emphasizing each word.

  “Dot so fast,” said Nate. “Coach Will mide be odd, but he’s dice.”

  “Yeah,” said Kyle. “I got no problems with him. Well, maybe I could do without the singing. But other than that…”

  “See, that’s the kind of thing I mean,” wailed Anil. “There’s a game tomorrow, and the guy’s going to humiliate us. It’s bad enough that we suck. We don’t need to be humiliated as well. And I’m not even mentioning his hair or his clothes.”

  “Hey, hold it right there,” said Vijay aggressively, pointing a finger at Anil. “I think Coach Will rocks a very cool look. Sort of a goth-poet vibe.”

  “There you go,” said Anil, like Vijay had made his point for him.

  “Okay, okay, I got it, I got it,” said Sameer. “Can’t do anything about the way he looks, but I’ll try to talk to him about the yoga and the singing. And the quoting.”

  But Sameer was worried. How do you tell a person to try not to be himself?

  TWELVE

  Game Plan

  Gracie sat with Sameer on the bus after the game against J.P. Thorpe. It happened in an accidental way, with a whole group of them piling onto the bus and fanning out for seats. Gracie just crashed in beside him, but Sameer wasn’t complaining.

  Gracie and her friends had asked to come along on the team bus to watch the game, and Coach Will had said, “The more the merrier!” which was a refreshing change from Coach Boss’s belligerent “Team-only” policy.

  “I’m impressed you can actually drive this bus, Coach,” Vijay said. “I mean, legally. Like, you can drive it legally, right? ’Cause you don’t really strike me as a big machine guy.” He was asking what all of them were thinking.

  “Oh yes, rest assured, Vijay,” Coach Will said, “I’m fully licensed. Completely legal. I taught band at my last school and drove the group to performances, tubas and all.” He leaned on the steering wheel, reminiscing. “Now that group had some wonderful sing-alongs.” He glanced in the rearview mirror, saw Sameer’s face and said, “Not that I’m suggesting this group should have sing-alongs.”

  Sameer relaxed into his seat. Coach Will was learning. “Well, another loss, hey, Sameer,” Gracie said, idly kicking at the seatback in front of her.

  “Yep.” Sameer nodded. “Depressing.”

  “Not a bad loss though,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  She turned to face him. Her dancing brown eyes were serious for a moment. “Well, every guy got in the game, so it was way more of a team effort than it’s ever been before.”

  “Yeah, I really like that about Coach Will. Gives everyone a chance.” He didn’t mention that Rochon and Anil had complained bitterly to him after the game about that very policy. They were not happy to sit on the bench and take turns.

  “What else did you notice about the game, Gracie? You know basketball. I really want to hear what you think. Some of the guys aren’t happy, and I’m helping coach the team. Vijay’s helping too. Team manager.” Sameer thought he should put in a word for his friend. Sameer had been so busy trying to keep everyone happy, he hadn’t had much of a chance to concentrate on the game, so he really hoped Vijay had taken diligent stats as instructed. Somehow he doubted it. He looked over his shoulder and found Vijay sitting at the back of the bus. He was sandwiched between Hassan and Mohammed, glaring at Sameer.

  “Passing was good,” said Gracie, “but Rochon and Anil are total ball hogs. They only pass to each other and don’t give anyone else a chance to shoot. I mean, Anil stripped the ball right off Nate a couple of times! His own player.”

  “Yeah, I saw that. Our defense also sucked,” said Sameer.

  “Yes, defense,” Gracie said. “Guys always want the big dunk, the three-pointer or the steal. All the flashy glamor stuff, but they’re out there standing still on defense, getting burned. They gotta move.”

  Sameer smiled. “You’re absolutely right, Gracie. I’ll make a note to work on that in practice. Are you an NBA fan? I mean, you sure know a lot about basketball. You got a favorite team?”

  “Celtics,” Gracie said. Sameer was glad she was rummaging in her backpack so he had time to get his face under control.

  His nani would have liked Gracie. Her beloved Celtics had another outspoken fan.

  “You want a piece of gum?” Gracie asked.

  “Thanks.”

  They sat silently chewing, one of them happier than he’d been in a long time.

  THIRTEEN

  Fancy Footwork

  “Vijay, what on earth is this?” Sameer asked, pointing to a bunch of squiggles on the stats chart he had created to make Vijay’s stats collecting foolproof.

  “No idea,” said Vijay, barely glancing over. They were sitting on the bench in the gym, waiting for practice. Vijay had his arms crossed and his face turned away from Sameer.

  Sameer nudged Vijay with his elbow. “And this one. What’s this one? Seriously, could you look at it?” Sameer pointed with his pen at another cryptic squiggle.

  Vijay glanced at the squiggle. “I don’t know. A three? An eight? Maybe it’s a star. I don’t know.”

  “A star? The column is for number of rebounds. What would a star even mean?”

  Vijay shrugged. “Look, Sameer, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the game goes pretty fast, okay? I’ve only got, like, a couple of eyes and hands.”

  “That’s why I tried to make it easier—”

  “You know what? I’m not talking to you. I’m mad at you, if you haven’t noticed, Mr. Robotic Stats… Guy.” Vijay floundered a little on this description. Then he blurted out, “You couldn’t have changed places with me on the bus?”

  Sameer put his pen down. “So that’s what all this is about. Gracie sitting with me on the bus?”

  “Would it have killed you to help out a friend, Sameer? Your best friend since kindergarten? I’d have helped you out in a heartbeat, in a second, in a nanosecond. In a”—he paused, searching for the right word—“hypersecond!” Sameer opened his mouth, then thought he’d better let that one go. “Anyway,” finished Vijay, “I’d have helped you out.”

  “What was I supposed to do, Vijay? Stand up and flag you down? Whistle you over? Crawl over everyone to change seats with you? You were all the way at the back of the bus. She just sat beside me at the last second before the bus pulled away.” And I enjoyed every minute of it, he thought, feeling a little guilty.

  “Did she at least mention me?” Vijay asked.

  “Your name came up, yes,” said Sameer, looking down at his shoes.

  Vijay perked up. “Excellent.” He looked at Sameer. “Well? Go on. I’m listening.”

  “Um, well, I mentioned what a good manager you are. I hadn’t seen your stats yet.”

  “Well, that’s something. Manager sounds impressive.” Vijay sighed. “So unfair. I get stuck between two sweaty, stinking players, and you get half an hour of laughing and tal
king with Gracie. I saw you. Laughing. Talking. Man, you know I like her. Like, like like her.”

  “You’ve like liked pretty much every girl in eighth grade this year. A few in seventh and ninth as well.”

  “This is different,” Vijay said. “Soooo different. I’ve liked Gracie for, what?” He squinted his eyes reflectively. “Ten days now. Ten whole days, Sameer. The best ten days of my life.”

  Sameer was relieved to hear the gym door bang open.

  “…and I polished up that handle so carefully that now I am the ruler of the Queen’s navy!” They swiveled around. Mr. Williams had come into the gym, singing and carrying a bunch of badminton rackets.

  “Hello, boys.” He dumped the rackets on the floor in front of Sameer. “Had a dickens of a time finding these. Seventh-graders had them.”

  “Uh, you coaching badminton now too, Coach Will?” Vijay asked.

  “Oh no.” Mr. Williams laughed, pushing back his hair. “I’m terrible at racket sports. I can never coordinate the racket to actually hit the ball or that little feathered thingy.”

  “Birdie,” said Sameer, looking down at the pile of rackets.

  “Right. The birdsie. No, these are for basketball practice. I know, I know,” he said, holding up a hand when he saw their faces. “You’re thinking, ‘What on earth is this fellow up to now?’ ”

  “Heh-heh, pretty much,” Sameer said, glancing at Vijay.

  “But there’s method in my madness, I assure you. Don’t say a word to the others.” Mr. Williams rubbed his hands, smiled down at Vijay and Sameer, and bustled off to pull the wheeled bin of basketballs out of equipment storage.

  Oh, we won’t say anything, thought Sameer as Rochon and Anil came into the gym. We certainly won’t.

  Sameer gathered up the rackets and shoved them behind the bench.

  “Yeah yeah, good idea,” Vijay whispered. “Maybe he’ll forget about them. You want me to toss my hoodie over them?”

  “Absolutely.”

  When the team arrived for practice, Mr. Williams called them in.