“Who’s Mr. Felkoff?”
The man braked to a halt as if he’d been asked who’s Abraham Lincoln.
“Mr. Felkoff is one of the most distinguished and important sports agents in the country,” he said.
“I didn’t think there was such a thing as a distinguished sports agent,” Coach Archer said.
At that moment Alex heard a sound he had never heard before around Coach Archer: laughter.
Alex was standing near midcourt doing some stretching exercises when he heard someone calling his name. He turned around and saw a big kid, probably about six four and at least 220 pounds, approaching him wearing a Mercer uniform.
The kid must have seen the confused look on his face because he grinned as he walked up and said, “Dave Krenchek. Remember? I’m the guy who tried to kill you.”
Alex remembered—he’d never actually met Krenchek, unless you counted being knocked cold by someone as meeting them. In the opening game of the football season, when he was still the last-string quarterback, Alex had been sent into the football game against Mercer to kneel down for the final two plays and run out the clock. Chester Heights was leading 77–0 when Alex came in, and Krenchek—like most of his teammates—was upset about Coach Gordon running up the score.
He had called Alex the next day to apologize and to make sure he was okay. Alex remembered now that Krenchek had mentioned he played basketball.
Alex shook the extended hand but put up his left hand protectively. “You aren’t going to hit me, are you?” he said.
Krenchek laughed. “Not unless you guys are up 77–0.”
“Not likely,” Alex said. He looked around and lowered his voice. “We’re a little rocky.”
“Not according to our coach,” Krenchek said. “He says you guys are the Spurs and the Thunder rolled into one.”
“Yeah sure,” Alex said. “I’m Duncan and here comes Durant.”
Jonas had walked up. “I remember you,” he said. “You’re the guy who tried to kill my buddy.”
“Guilty,” Krenchek said.
“You went after the wrong guy,” Jonas said.
“Yeah, I know. I should have gone after your coach. But I guess you don’t need to worry about him anymore, do you?”
Alex was about to give Krenchek some of the backstory when he heard a sharp whistle. He looked up and saw—surprise—Coach Archer with his hands on his hips.
“Myers, Ellington, get over here!” he said.
“Gotta go,” Alex said. “Maybe we can talk after the game.”
Krenchek nodded, and Alex and Jonas jogged over to Coach Archer.
“What do you think, we’re here for a party or something?” he said. “You want to socialize, you can sit in the stands and talk to anyone you want.”
“Coach, it was the guy who slammed me in football season and—”
“Myers, I don’t care if it was your long-lost brother. And I really don’t care about anything that happened during football season. Are you here to play basketball or have a good time?”
“Play basketball.”
“Good. Go warm up.”
Clearly, the Evan Archer comedy minute was now over.
Just as clearly, Holder hadn’t been kidding about the coach’s disdain for football. Alex was kicking himself that he’d even mentioned the word….
There was nothing funny about the game. Krenchek had been right: Mercer was a lot better in basketball than it was in football. One of the reasons was Krenchek, who, despite his lineman’s body, was very agile in the low post and quickly got Steve Holder into foul trouble. Coach Archer, as Alex had expected, started Tony Early and Zane Wakefield at the guard spots, and they were overmatched from the start. Six minutes in, Mercer led 21–7.
“That’s a football score,” Jonas murmured to Alex. “Except we aren’t playing football.”
“Watch yourself. We’re not allowed to use the f-word,” Alex murmured back.
At that moment, Wakefield was stripped by Mercer’s point guard, who went in for a layup to make it 23–7. So much for the football score. Coach Archer called time-out. He turned to Alex and Jonas and pointed in the direction of the scorer’s table.
“Go for Wakefield and Early,” he said.
Alex and Jonas jogged to the scorer’s table to report into the game.
“We’re in for twelve and twenty,” Alex said to the scorer, who nodded. They jogged back to the huddle. Alex could see that Wakefield was glaring daggers at him. He looked right back at him, wanting to say, Not my fault we’re down twenty-three to seven.
Coach Archer was kneeling in front of them. The five players in the game sat on the bench, while the rest of the team huddled behind the coach.
“There are no sixteen-point plays in basketball, fellas,” Coach Archer said. “We aren’t going to catch them by trying to be spectacular. Let’s go back to two-three zone for a while on defense, see if we can make them shoot from outside on occasion. You two guys are out front,” he said, pointing to Alex and Jonas.
He looked directly at Alex and said, “I need you to double on your pal Krenchek when he gets the ball in the post. He’s just too big and strong for one guy to guard. Can you handle that?”
Alex nodded. He had never been asked to double-team a big guy inside, but this wasn’t middle school basketball anymore.
“Yes sir,” he said.
The horn went, sending them back onto the court. As they broke the huddle, Coach Archer took his arm. “I meant what I said about sixteen-point plays,” he said. “Just play.”
Alex looked at him and saw that he wasn’t giving him his icy stare. It was more of a pleading look. Alex nodded.
Mercer’s coach had seen Alex and Jonas report in and figured this was as good a time as any to press full-court. As soon as Alex took the inbounds pass, two Mercer players were in his face, pushing him toward the corner. He tried to dribble, but a hand was reaching in. He picked up his dribble in order to keep from being stripped. That was a mistake.
The two Mercer players had him completely surrounded. He leaned back and tried to throw a pass crosscourt to Jonas. That was a worse idea than picking up his dribble. With surprising quickness, Krenchek darted into the passing lane and reached up with his left hand to intercept the ball. In one quick motion, he switched the ball to his right hand and dunked.
Alex put his hands on his hips in disgust as the gym, which was close to full, exploded. Jonas was trying to get the ball inbounds again. This time, Alex came right to the ball, so he’d be in the center of the floor. And before Mercer could trap him again, he turned and went straight upcourt.
He was able to get it across half-court just in time to see a Mercer player charging at him as if he intended to run right through him. The guy was even bigger than Krenchek and was acting as if he was rushing the passer, not a point guard. Over his shoulder Alex could see Holder with his arms up, waving for the ball. He got the pass off just as the big guy, who was out of control, piled into him. They went down in a heap and Alex heard the whistle.
“What the—” Alex yelled as they untangled. Krenchek came running up and stepped between Alex and his tackler.
“Joey, cool it,” he said.
Joey was shaking his head. “I’m sorry, man. I’m still thinking about football, I guess.”
“He plays football too?” Alex said. Krenchek nodded—sheepishly.
From behind him, Alex could hear Coach Archer screaming—he presumed at him.
He was wrong. He was yelling at the official.
“You’ve got to call that intentional and count the basket!” he was saying as one of the refs walked in his direction, holding his hand up as if to say calm down.
“The foul was before the basket, Coach. It’s your ball, side out-of-bounds.”
“How can you not call that intentional?!”
“He was going for the ball.”
“He practically put my guy through the floor! You’re penalizing my team, taking away a layup because
their guy was trying to kill my guy?!”
“Coach, that’s enough,” the ref said. He was walking to the sideline with the ball, indicating to Alex that he should come over and inbound since it was a nonshooting foul.
“Enough?!” Coach Archer screamed. “What is this, your first game? Have you ever watched basketball? Do you know anything about the concept of not taking away advantage? That kid should be ejected for a play like that! My kid could have been seriously hurt!”
Alex didn’t disagree. In fact, the shoulder he’d landed on—his throwing shoulder—was a little sore and so was his elbow, which he noticed was turning bright red.
This time, the ref didn’t answer. He put his whistle in his mouth, blew it, pointed at Coach Archer, and formed a T with his hands to indicate he had just given Coach Archer a technical foul.
Coach Archer tore his sports coat off and threw it on the ground. “That’s total b——!” he screamed, using a word that Alex knew was going to get him thrown out of the game.
Sure enough, the official gave another T signal and then put his arm up in the you’re out of here signal.
At that point, Archer actually charged at the ref. Alex reacted instinctively, jumping in Coach Archer’s path to keep him from getting to the official. Coach Birdy was right there too, trying to get ahold of his boss from behind. Jonas jumped in, and between the three of them, they managed to keep Coach Archer away from the official, who was glaring, hands on hips.
“One more step in my direction and you won’t coach for a month!” the ref yelled. Alex noticed that the gym was now in complete bedlam, the fans on their feet, directing invective at Coach Archer.
“I’m going to make sure you don’t ref ever!” Coach Archer yelled back, even as Alex, Jonas, and Coach Birdy were pulling him backward. Coach Archer was right to be angry—but at that moment right and wrong had become irrelevant.
BOOM. The ref gave the T sign again.
“Keep it up, Coach,” he said. “You’re out of the game, but until you leave the floor, I’ll just keep giving them to you.”
“Come on, Evan, let’s get away from this guy,” Coach Birdy said. “Nothing left to be done here.”
Coach Archer finally seemed to understand that the whistle gave the ref absolute power. He slumped and said to his assistant and his two players, “You can let go; I’m done.”
They did. Two yellow-jacketed security guards had come out to escort Coach Archer to the locker room. He saw them coming and pointed a finger in their direction. “Don’t even think about touching me,” he said.
One put his hands up defensively. “Just here to do our job, Coach. We want to make sure you get off the floor safely.”
Coach Archer turned to Coach Birdy. “Play the two kids,” he said softly, but loudly enough for Alex to hear. “And play man-to-man—”
He was interrupted by the officious referee, who really seemed to be enjoying the whole thing.
“Time’s up, Coach. Leave now or I’ll have to tee you up again.”
“Have to tee me up?” Coach Archer said. “You’re loving every second of this.”
He turned to go before the ref could, in fact, tee him up again. Alex agreed with him. There had been no reason for the ref to walk over. He had clearly done it to get in one last shot.
As he watched Coach Archer leave to a chorus of boos from the Mercer fans, he heard Coach Birdy’s voice behind him. “Come on, Myers, let’s huddle up. We’ve still got a game to play.”
Alex glanced at the scoreboard. It was 25–7 with nineteen seconds left in the first quarter, and if his math was right, Mercer was about to shoot six free throws—two for each technical foul. If someone was going to run up the score this time, it would be Mercer—not Chester Heights.
After Chuck Swenson, Mercer’s point guard, made five of the six free throws brought on by the technicals, the first quarter ended with Mercer leading 30–7. By halftime, even though the Camels’ coach only pressed on occasion, it was 53–18.
Alex was surprised when they got into the locker room to find that Coach Archer was nowhere in sight. He had figured Coach would be waiting for them. As if reading Alex’s (and no doubt everyone else’s) mind, Coach Birdy explained that, by rule, any coach who had been ejected had to leave the building.
“He can come back in when the game’s over,” Coach Birdy said. “For now, he’s waiting on the bus.”
Alex hoped the bus driver had turned on the engine. Otherwise, it would be pretty cold sitting out there for two more quarters.
The Lions played better in the second half, in part because Mercer’s intensity clearly lapsed with such a huge lead, and in part because Mercer’s coach—unlike Coach Gordon in the football game back in September—played his subs liberally, especially in the fourth quarter.
After his shaky start, Alex played better, ending up with twelve points and three assists—along with three turnovers. Jonas was the team’s best player, with fourteen points and six rebounds. Steve Holder did very little until Krenchek came out of the game, and then he finished with ten points. The final was 86–56, and Alex knew it could have been much worse.
As they went through the handshake line, Krenchek introduced him to Joey Cohen—whose tackle had led to Coach Archer’s ejection.
“I’m really sorry, man,” he said. “I’d tell you my linebacker mentality came out there, except I’m not a very good linebacker.”
Alex just nodded. His shoulder and elbow were both still a little sore, and to be honest, he was a little tired of getting beaten up for no reason by kids from Mercer.
Krenchek jumped in to try to lighten the mood. “Wouldn’t have been so bad if the ref had gotten the call right,” he said. “Your coach was right. It should have been an intentional foul.”
Cohen didn’t argue.
Krenchek batted Alex on the head. “Good luck,” he said. “You guys will get better—especially if your coach realizes he needs to play you and Ellington and not those two stiffs who started at guard.”
Alex liked the fact that Krenchek recognized how much better he and Jonas were than Wakefield and Early. He’d been a little disappointed when Coach Birdy, despite Coach Archer telling him to “play the kids,” had split time pretty equally among the four guards in the second half.
Coach Archer was waiting for them when they walked into the locker room—apparently he’d been allowed back inside once the final buzzer sounded. He stood in front of them for a long moment, as if trying to decide what to say.
“First of all, fellas, I apologize,” he said finally. “There’s no excuse for me losing it the way I did. I embarrassed myself, I embarrassed you, and I embarrassed Chester Heights.” He paused, then smiled briefly. “Giving them six free throws at that point in the game didn’t exactly help our cause either, did it?”
He paced back and forth for a moment, then stopped. “Tonight’s a good lesson for all of us. That’s a very good team, but it’s not a great team. It isn’t ranked in the USA Today Top Twenty-Five. It’s the kind of team we have to find a way to beat when we get to conference play. Clearly, we’re a long way from that. We have to keep working and try to get a little better in practice every day.”
He pointed a finger at Holder. “Steve, you’re the captain. Do you think we have the talent in this room to do that?”
“Yes sir, I do.”
“So do I. And you guys should know, if I didn’t feel that way, I’d say so. I’d say, ‘Let’s try to improve and win whenever we can.’ But I honestly think we’re a lot better than that—or can be a lot better than that.”
He nodded at Holder, who stood up in the middle of the room with his right arm raised. The players formed a circle around him, each with an arm in the air, pushing up against one another to make the circle tighter.
“On three,” Holder said. “Good enough to win!”
Alex wasn’t completely sure if he thought that was true, but he did know one thing: Evan Archer was a lot better coach than he had gi
ven him credit for before tonight.
“He’s going to get suspended. They have to suspend him. Three technicals?”
Christine hadn’t gone to the game. Only Steve Garland, the sports editor of the Weekly Roar, had made the trip. She hadn’t needed to be at the game to know what had happened, though, since some fan had recorded the entire confrontation between Coach Archer and the referee and put it up on YouTube, where it was quickly becoming a sensation under the heading HIGH SCHOOL COACH LOSES HIS MIND.
Now Christine, Jonas, and Alex were back at Stark’s, eating Saturday lunch, and Christine was trashing Coach Archer.
“He got the three techs because the ref was looking for a fight,” Alex said. “The ref should have walked away, especially after he called the first one. Instead, he kept walking in Coach’s direction. He wanted the confrontation.”
Christine was shaking her head, the ponytail that her long black hair was tied in wagging behind her.
“Doesn’t work that way and you know it. And anyway, when did you become president of the Evan Archer fan club?”
Jonas snorted at that one. “Yeah, when did you guys get tight?”
“Do you think he should be suspended?” Alex asked Jonas.
“Actually, yes,” Jonas said. “But you’re right about the ref. Guy was a jerk.”
“Then why should he be suspended?” Alex asked.
Jonas sighed. “The ref got the call right. You got fouled way before Holder made the layup, before he even caught the ball. It may seem unfair, but that’s the rule.”
“Shouldn’t it have been an intentional foul?” Christine asked.
“Yes, it should have been,” Alex said. “But Jonas might be right that the basket shouldn’t have counted.”
“Which means Coach shouldn’t have gone that nuts,” Jonas said. “And charging the ref…that was over the top.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Alex said. “But it felt pretty good that he stood up for me when I got clocked that way. He got ejected. That’s enough of a penalty.”
Their hamburgers arrived. Alex was so hungry the thought of ordering a second one crossed his mind even before he took a bite of the first.
The Sixth Man Page 5