Before I knew it, I was a million miles away again. I started to think about basketball practice today, how maybe I could ask the best guys from the school team to play in the Classic.
“What do you think, Amar’e?” said Deuce.
“Huh?” I said. I looked around and realized we were out in the parking lot already. “Think about what?”
“Man, you are lost in space today,” said Deuce.
“Seriously, man,” said Mike. “Earth to STAT. Do you read us?”
I shook my head. “Sorry, guys. I just got — well, I agreed to do something last night, something big.”
“What is it, man?” said Mike.
They were both leaning in, ready for whatever I was about to say. “It’s a lot of work,” I said. “I really didn’t want to drag you guys into it.”
“Come on, man,” said Deuce. “We’re your best friends.”
“Yeah,” said Mike. “Consider us dragged.”
I looked around. There were hundreds of kids standing out in the bright Florida sunshine, with teachers rushing up and down, trying to keep all the little groups together. Inside, the alarm was still honking. Now that I thought about it, I could use a little help keeping things together, too.
“I’m organizing a big tournament: the Classic,” I said.
“I’ve heard of that,” said Mike.
“No sweat,” said Deuce.
“Yeah,” said Mike. “We’ll help you out.”
“You don’t have to,” I said.
“But we’re going to,” he said.
I looked over at Deuce. He nodded.
All day long, I’d been thinking about the short time and all the things that could go wrong. Now I thought about all the things I had going for me: Jammer working on things on his end, Carl to drive us around, two good friends here, and a tournament everyone had already heard of.
Inside the school, the fire alarm switched off.
“Told you it was a drill,” said Deuce, giving Mike a push.
Mike pushed him back, and Deuce spun his arms backward like he was about to fall over.
“Great,” I said as our class started shuffling slowly toward the open doors and the cool, dark hallway inside. “Biggest tourney of my life, and I’ve got a couple of jokers to help me.”
“Yeah, you’re pretty lucky,” Mike said. “Now that you’ve got us helping, why don’t you go find some players for this thing.”
TWEEEEEEEEEEET!
Coach B blew his whistle long and loud. “All right, I’ve seen enough!” he shouted.
Practice had just started, and he wasn’t happy with how it was going. Our school team, the Bears, was pretty good. We were in first place in the league, but just barely.
“We’re only one game up on Central,” said Coach. “One tiny game! If we want to stay that way, we can’t have sloppy passes and lazy cuts. I’ve been seeing way too many of those lately.”
We’d stopped in the middle of a full-court scrimmage, and now we were just standing there. The ball was still rolling around in the corner of the gym, where it had ended up after the last sloppy pass. I risked a quick look over at Isaac. He was our starting point guard and a good one, but, yeah, that was a bad pass. He was staring really hard at his shoelaces, like he was trying to memorize them.
I hadn’t done anything too bad today. I mean, I’d missed a shot or two, but I hadn’t made any boneheaded plays. I was the only sixth grader on a team of seventh and eighth graders, and I knew from day one I had to avoid those.
“Maybe it was that fire drill,” Coach said. “Your bodies came back in the building, but I think your minds might still be out there in the sunshine. Maybe we should have a fire drill of our own.”
We all looked around at one another. Even Isaac looked up. None of us had heard of a basketball fire drill before. And whatever it was, we all knew it was going to be intense.
One more long, loud whistle, and we found out just how intense. The rules were pretty simple. It was three-on-three, half-court. The offense inbounded the ball from the sideline and then tried to score, but here’s the thing. The offense wasn’t allowed to dribble, just pass, and the defense had to play man-to-man, so they couldn’t double the person with the ball. With no dribbling, it would take tons of cutting and screening and everything else to get open.
When Coach B told us the rules, some guys laughed and others just shook their heads. But he wasn’t done. “Offense has ten seconds to score,” he said. He picked up the digital stopwatch that always hung next to his whistle. “Otherwise they stay out there. If they score, the defense stays out. And let me tell you, you’ll get awful tired trying to match those fresh legs!”
Now the laughs turned to groans. For some reason, that seemed to make Coach happy. One more whistle — TWEEEEEEEEEET! — and we got to it.
Isaac, Kurt, and Joe, the three involved on that last sloppy play, were on offense first. We all knew that wasn’t a coincidence. As I watched them line up, I had something else in mind other than my own group being up next. That last play aside, all three of those guys were good players. And I had a tournament to scout for. I needed eight three-man teams, and they had to be tournament-ready. To get that many, I knew I’d need some Bears in the mix.
Kurt inbounded the ball to Isaac, who used his speed to get open. Then Kurt and Joe both bolted toward the free throw line from opposite directions. Isaac fired the ball to Joe.
Kurt spun around to create some space, and Joe fired the ball to him. The court was strangely silent without dribbling. The only sounds were the squeak of sneakers and the quick breaths of the players.
Kurt had the ball and half a step at the high post. Almost everyone expected him to go up with it, but not me. I’d seen Isaac, still using that speed. He hadn’t stopped moving the whole time. Now he burst into the open, cutting toward the hoop from the opposite side.
Kurt hit him in stride with a laser pass. Isaac went up, the ball went in, and the whistle went off.
“That’s more like it!” called Coach B.
It was definitely impressive, but I couldn’t quite shake the memory of that ball rolling around in the corner. They might be good enough for the Classic. But were they consistent enough?
Isaac, Kurt, and Joe high-fived as they headed toward the sideline. The defenders just shook their heads and waited for the next three. They still had work to do.
So did I. I was one of the next three.
I was ready for this “fire drill” to be over as soon as it began. Two seconds in, I was pinned near the baseline by a bad pass. Now, being pinned near the sideline is bad when you can dribble. When you can’t, it’s pretty much a dead end. Even worse, Gerry was defending me. He was my closest friend on the team and that meant he knew all my tricks. He was all over me, slapping and grabbing at the ball.
My teammate Anton came back to me, hoping I could get him the ball. Unfortunately, his defender came with him. That was too many hands in too little space. I had to get rid of the ball now or I’d lose it for sure.
My other teammate was Mark Bibo. The good news is he was the best player on the team. The bad news is I couldn’t see where he was through all the shifting bodies and flailing arms.
Gerry got one hand on the ball. In another second, he’d get the other one on it, too. I did the only thing I could think of. “Up top!” I shouted as loud as I could. All I could do was hope Bibo heard me.
Then I jumped backward toward the sideline and away from all the grabbing hands. I turned sideways in the air and launched the ball with a hook-shot motion an eye blink before I went out of bounds.
The ball flew in a high, lazy arc toward the air in front of the rim. Suddenly, two hands rose to meet it. Bibo. He’d heard me after all. As the ball dropped past the rim, he stretched out and got the tips of his long fingers on it. It was just enough to tap the ball up and in.
The whistle blew. The defense couldn’t believe it. They’d done everything right this time, but they still couldn’t get
off the court.
“Good D,” I said to Gerry. I held out my hand to give him a low five.
“You and Bibo, man,” he said, slapping my palm, “you’re too tall.”
My two teammates caught up with me as we headed up the sideline.
“Thanks for bailing me out,” I said to Bibo.
He didn’t talk much, but he gave me a quick nod, like: No problem.
“Yeah, that was a great play,” said Anton.
That wasn’t just a great play, I thought as we joined the other players. That was a Classic play.
The drill had started off with two quick buckets, but the defense ruled after that. Gerry had had enough. He gambled on the next inbounds pass, rose straight up, and plucked the ball out of the air.
TWEEEEEET!
The group on defense after that was led by Kelvin. He was our starting center and a real space eater. As soon as his guy got the ball down low, he used his powerful hands — seriously, he had Man Hands — to rip the ball loose.
TWEEEEEET!
I took a mental photo of that play. I knew the Classic had to be about more than just high-flying offense. Also, I was the youngest player, but here I was scouting the veterans. They might not like that. Could this work? I needed a plan, fast.
When I got home after practice, I went straight to my room. I rummaged around and found an old notebook that still had some blank pages. Then I started listing names. I gave each one a few lines so I could make notes and things like that.
When I was done, I looked at the list. Even with a few lines for each name, it still looked short. Out in the hall, I heard the screen door creak open and bang shut. Dad was home.
I left the notebook open on my desk and headed out to wash up and get ready for dinner. I gave the little list one last look before ducking out of the room. At least it’s a start, I told myself.
We had garlic smashed potatoes with dinner. I loved those — and Junior loved pretty much anything. We were having a pretty good fencing match with our spoons for the last scoop when the phone started ringing. Neither of us so much as looked in that direction — that’s how duels are lost.
Dad let out a long sigh, and got up and got it. “It’s for you, STAT,” he called from the hall.
As I got to my feet, Junior scooped up the last lump of smashed potatoes and began savoring his victory.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said, taking the phone.
“It’s Jammer.”
“Oh, cool,” I said. Junior could have his potatoes. I had business to discuss.
“ ’Sup, player?” said Jammer.
We joked around for a few minutes and then got down to business.
“Got us a practice court,” said Jammer. “You know the one just off Palmer? Remember we played that one tourney there?”
“Yeah, that’s a nice one,” I said. It was part of a fancy sports complex and you had to make reservations for it and all that. “How’d you snag it?”
“I almost didn’t. It was like the third place I tried, and they weren’t really having it. But then I mentioned it was for Overtime, and it was like magic. They scheduled us for the next two Saturdays.”
“What about the one after that, the actual tournament?”
“Nah, I wish. They’re booked that whole weekend.”
“I guess we’ve still got time for that,” I said. “At least we have someplace good to practice.”
“Yeah,” said Jammer. “Now all we need is some players to do the practicing.”
“Seriously,” I said. I pictured my short list. “You got anyone?”
“A few,” he said. “I tracked down the other ‘core guys’ OT already invited.”
“Nice,” I said. “Who are they?”
“Round Mound!” he said.
“Should’ve known!” I said. “Of course he’d want Khalid out there.”
Khalid was a friend of ours — and a great point guard. He didn’t look it. He was a little plump around the edges, which is how he got his nickname, but all that did was give him the permanent element of surprise. He was actually super-quick, with a first step you wouldn’t believe. “Who else?” I said.
“Stevie, too,” said Jammer.
“Makes sense,” I said. He was tall and versatile, the kind of guy who could play every position on the court. “And?”
“Braylon and Benoit.”
Braylon I knew. He was a deadly outside shooter, but I’d never heard of the other one. “Who’s Benoit?”
“No idea. Khalid says he’s new around here.”
“From where — France?”
“Yeah, right? Michigan, I think, or somewhere like that. Supposed to be the real deal, though.”
“Okay, cool. Who else?”
“That’s it.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah, what do we have, a bad connection?”
“No, I heard you,” I said. “It’s just …”
“Yeah, it’s not a lot,” said Jammer. “Four guys, plus us. That’s just two teams. Still have six to go.”
“Man,” I said. “And that’s only if they all show up.”
“Man,” he agreed. “How many have you come up with?”
So I told him about the names in my notebook: three guys, maybe four at the most. “Plus me,” I added.
“We already counted you,” said Jammer. “You can only play for one team.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “So that’s one more team, with maybe a guy left over.”
“If they all agree and aren’t busy.”
We were both quiet for a while, thinking the same thing: three teams down — maybe — at least five to go.
“I guess I could lower the bar a little,” I said.
“No way,” said Jammer. “Remember, these guys don’t have to meet our standards; they have to meet Overtime’s.”
He was right. I thought about what Overtime would’ve thought if he’d watched Bears practice today. I felt pretty confident he would’ve written down the same names I had.
“All right,” said Jammer. “So we still got some work to do. We got a little time, and I think there are a few guys at my school I could ask. You’ve asked your guys, right?”
Before I could admit I hadn’t, a big shadow fell over me in the hall. I looked up and saw Dad. “Doing all this talking,” he said. “That homework better be done.”
He looked straight at me, waiting for my answer. I slowly shook my head side to side: nope. Dad was a pretty reasonable guy, and a lot of the rules around the house were pretty flexible. Homework wasn’t one of them.
“Jammer,” I said, “I gotta go.”
I hung up and headed straight to my room. I had English and history homework to do. Those were two of my favorite subjects, but all I could think about was math. Three times five, minus one … Where were we going to find that many Classic-type players? I hadn’t asked any of my picks yet. What if they said no? The first practice was just a few days away.
That crazy drill at practice on Wednesday was a good start, but I needed more evidence before I made my final decisions. I remembered what Jammer had said: These guys had to meet OT’s standards, not ours. I was also hoping that another player or two would prove themselves, and I could add them to my too-short list.
I felt like a secret agent as I changed for practice on Thursday. My practice jersey was my disguise. My sneakers were my wheels. My goggles were my surveillance gear. My teammates had no idea that I was undercover.
Coach did his part, too. As soon as we were done warming up, he called out, “Scrimmage! Let’s run some full court!”
That was perfect. Drills were fine for scouting, but games were better. We divided up into odds and evens, based on our jersey numbers. I was Team Odd — Number 1. We had one cocaptain, Bibo, and the even team had the other, Kurt. The rest of the talent was divided up pretty evenly.
Bibo jumped halfway to the roof to win the opening tip and we were off and running. I zoomed down the court, trying to space the floor and
get open. Gerry was running the point for us, and he pulled up near the free throw line. I kept going and tried to carve out some position down low.
Kelvin was already there, clogging the lane with his big frame. I got in front of him and Gerry fired the ball to me. As soon as I got it, I felt Kelvin’s forearm in my back. It was like a steel beam. The message: You’re not getting any closer. I could go for a hook shot or maybe try to get him to bite on an up and under, but the scout in me had other ideas.
I saw Bibo flashing into the high post and fired the ball back out to him. Joe was defending him and had good position, but it didn’t matter. Bibo went from going full-speed forward to full-speed sideways in the space of one jump stop.
Joe was left standing there, his feet planted like petunias and his arms pressed to his sides, waiting for a charge that never came. Bibo slid by and scored easily.
One bucket in, and Bibo was already a lock for an invitation. In my mind, I put a little check by his name on my list. As I headed back up the court on defense, I reached back and rubbed my lower back. Kelvin had made a strong “first impression” himself.
Kurt had the ball for the other team, and I watched him closely. He was another candidate, but he fired up a brick. I didn’t hold it against him: We all missed, especially from that far out. But as the game went on, I started to notice something else. It wasn’t just that he was missing more shots than he was making. He was a streaky shooter, and I’d seen games where he hit everything. It was that he was getting really down on himself when he missed. His jaw clenched up and his shoulders slumped.
When he fired up another shot that barely drew iron, I knew he was beating himself. No check mark there. But all the open looks Kurt was getting were coming from somewhere: Isaac. He was running the other team’s offense smoothly and getting good looks for their top guy on the outside.
The next trip up, he looked inside instead. He’d seen the same body language I had and knew he had to adjust his strategy. He hit Kelvin down low with a beautiful bounce pass, and the big man split a double-team to power it up and in.
I’d seen everything I needed to see. Isaac had the smarts to go with his speed, and Kelvin had the O to go with his D. Check and check.
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