“What’s up?” said Junior.
“Think I might have a problem,” I said.
“All right,” he said. “But did you guys win?”
“Yep, by twelve, but Bibo got hurt.”
“Oof.” He thought it over. “Well, one out of two ain’t bad.”
Later on, after I’d polished off some food and some homework, I gave Jammer a call. I needed to break the bad news about Bibo.
“Hey, man,” I said.
The first thing he said, I kid you not: “Glad you called. I just heard back from Daniel. He’s in! Now he can play with Braylon and the new guy, and Khalid can play with us. You, me, and Round Mound: There’s no way we’ll lose!”
At least Isaac had asked. This wasn’t even a question. But I couldn’t play for both teams. And what about my best friends?
Yeah, I thought, I’ve definitely got a problem.
It was Saturday morning. I wasn’t sure which team I’d be on — and I wasn’t the only one. New players were arriving at the practice court for the first time, and the atmosphere was electric.
The Bears were all charged up because Muni was there, and Muni was all charged up because the Bears were there. It didn’t help that he’d arrived early and on his own. The first thing he said to me when I went over to shake his hand: “I got no backup!”
But then Fabrice arrived: big, tall Fabrice, who looked like a giant praying mantis. “Got my boy!” Muni called over. I gave him a thumbs-up and went back to helping piece the new teams together.
Unlike last week, the players had started showing up early. But they were all mismatched. In addition to all the new guys we’d invited, Bibo wasn’t there and Benoit was.
He was the last of the “core guys,” the one who hadn’t been able to make it last time. “That’s Benoit?” said Jammer. I was thinking the same thing. Overtime had invited him early, so we knew he was good. But he really didn’t look like much. Not big, not small, not skinny, not fat — he just looked like a normal kid walking down the street.
“Well,” I said, “guess we better find him a team.”
I walked over to Kelvin and Isaac. “Hey, Amar’e,” said Kelvin. “Muni’s here! You’re playing with us, right? Gotta stuff that fool!”
“Can’t,” I said. “All these new guys and stuff. I’ve got to ref and organize and everything else.”
Isaac shook his head in that letdown way and said, “Well, who are we gonna play with? Joe?”
I looked over and saw Joe with Mike and Deuce, already talking strategy. “Nah,” I said. “I need you guys to do me a favor. I’ve got someone new. Needs a team, supposed to be good.”
“Hey, Benoit!” I called, and waved him over.
“This guy?” Kelvin said, and gave me the same look Jammer had.
“Trust me,” I said, and hoped I was right.
The rest of the teams slowly got LEGO-blocked together. Two guys from the East Lake Lakers would latch onto a lone Eagle or Knight or Crimson Fury, whatever that is, and bam! You had a team. Two Crusaders from a Catholic school Jammer had played against joined forces with Walter.
Meanwhile, Stevie, who’d taken a tumble last time, was back in action today. He was hanging out with Khalid, Braylon, and Daniel. Jammer and I walked over to say hi.
“All right, Daniel’s subbing in for me,” said Khalid. “I’ll play with you guys.”
I looked around. “Wait, me?”
“Yeah, you, me, and Jammer.”
“I thought I was reffing again,” I said, looking at both of them.
“Numbers, man,” said Khalid.
I looked around the court and did a quick count. Seven groups of three — and then the three of us.
“Yeah,” said Jammer. “We can all call our own fouls. It’s a good group. That won’t be a problem.”
I looked over at Isaac and Kelvin. “I hope not,” I said, but it was 9:15 already. Time to play.
We played first team to seven, and no win-by-two, either. The games went fast, and that was the plan. The idea was to have all the teams play one another at least once so winners rotated out just like everyone else.
It worked out pretty well because we all got to play some and scout out the other teams in between. The guy I was most interested in seeing was Benoit. He took to the court in the first game, along with Kelvin and Isaac. On the first possession, he hit a, well, I’m not even sure what to call it. It was kind of a spinning fadeaway jump hook. Basically, it was an impossible shot, but he banked it off the backboard and right into the hoop.
“Well, that explains that,” said Jammer.
Benoit kept taking circus shots and made enough of them to give him and his team a 7–5 win. I was hoping Isaac and Kelvin would be happy with that, but they definitely didn’t seem happy the next time they took the court — against me.
“Thought you were reffing,” said Isaac.
“Numbers,” I said with a shrug.
“Yeah, right,” he said.
Yeah, definitely not happy. Kelvin didn’t say anything, but he had a scowl on his face that let me know this probably wasn’t the best game to drive down the lane.
They played hard, but first-to-seven happens fast. Khalid was at the top of his game, Jammer and I were hitting our shots, and we got a few good bounces. Just like that, it was 7–4 and we were off the court. All I could do was grab a drink of water and hope there wouldn’t be any bad blood at Bears practice on Monday.
A game later, Muni’s team took on Walter’s. It was classic offense versus defense. It was also the longest 7–6 game I’d ever seen. Not a single car had shown up when it started, but half a dozen were waiting in the parking lot by the time Muni’s long game-winner rattled in.
“Good practice,” said Jammer as we headed toward the parking lot.
“Yeah,” I said. “We finally have enough players.”
“Just barely, but they’re good ones.”
“Definitely some good matchups,” I said as a handful of paper was thrust in my face.
“Don’t forget to take your flyers!”
It was Deuce. He was standing by the gate with a big grin on his face and a big stack of flyers under his arm. A few feet away, Mike had a stack of his own.
“Put ’em up around your school,” he was saying, giving each player a handful as they headed home. “Give ’em to your folks!”
“Where’d you get all these copies?” I said.
Deuce kept smiling: “I’m not saying. But I hear that the copier in the main office is out of ink.”
I shook my head: “They trust you way too much at that place.”
He didn’t say a word, just kept handing out flyers.
When I got home after practice, there was a letter waiting for me. It was on the table along with the bills and junk mail. My name and address were handwritten on the front. I opened it up.
Dear Amar’e,
I hope you are doing well. I would’ve called, but they won’t let me! They took the telephone right out of my room. You met the nurse, but the doctor’s even worse! They say they want me to relax and not worry about things until my blood pressure comes down. All this relaxation is driving me up a wall!
I hope everything is coming along with the Classic. I really appreciate you helping me out. That’s the one thing that actually is helping me to relax: knowing that you and Jammer are out taking care of business.
I’ve got some good news, too. My leg is healing up fine, and the doc says I’ll be out of here in time for tip-off. I can’t wait to see some live hoops. Think you can get your hands on a nice MVP trophy? I’d love to hand one out at the end.
Thanks again for your help. It means a lot to this old man. If you want to write me back, you can send it care of the hospital. Who knows, that cranky old nurse might actually give it to me.
Your friend,
OT
Junior walked into the kitchen as I was folding the letter and putting it back into the envelope. “You getting bills now, too?” he sa
id.
“It’s a letter from Overtime,” I said.
“Cool,” he said, pouring himself some milk.
“Where do you get a really nice trophy, like an MVP trophy?”
Junior lowered the glass and wiped the milk mustache off his face with his forearm. “That’s easy,” he said. “You win it.”
“Yeah, but what if you’re the one handing it out?”
He thought about it. “That’s tougher,” he said. “Ask Dad.” Then he drained the rest of the milk and walked out.
“Gee, thanks for your help!” I called after him.
Bibo showed up at Bears practice on Monday in his big plastic walking boot. Everyone crowded around, looking at it and asking him questions.
Like I said before, Bibo definitely wasn’t a big talker. He answered most of the questions by shrugging or pointing down at the boot.
“How does it feel?”
He shrugged.
“Is it heavy?”
He pointed.
“How easy is it to walk with?”
He took a few steps.
“Well, it’s good to see you.”
He smiled.
Then practice got started, and Bibo took a seat to watch. The first thing we did was partner up for a three-man defensive drill. Guess who partnered up with me right away. Yep, Isaac and Kelvin.
“What was that on Saturday?” said Isaac.
“Yeah, I thought you were just going to ref?”
“I was!” I said. “I mean, that’s what I thought, but we had to fill out that last team.”
“You could’ve played with us and let Benoit play with those other guys,” said Isaac. It was totally true.
“It just worked out that way,” I said. “What, you didn’t like him? You won that first game pretty easy.”
“Yeah, and we lost the second one — to you guys!” said Kelvin.
“And he’s a chucker, man,” said Isaac. “He just throws it up from anywhere.”
We were still running the drill as we were saying all this, and starting to huff and puff as we talked. “Yeah, but he makes a lot of those shots.”
“Yeah, and he misses the rest,” said Isaac. “Meanwhile, K-man here is the biggest guy on the court, and Benoit’s not even trying to work it down low to him.”
I had to admit that was a good point. The drill was almost over.
“So you’ll play with us at the Classic, right?” said Kelvin.
“Yeah, we need an all-Bears team out there,” said Isaac. I thought of Joe, but Mike and D really seemed to like playing with him.
“Maybe,” I said. It was time to level with them. “Jammer and Khalid want me to play with them, too. That was the plan going in.”
Isaac looked at Kelvin and then back at me.
“But those guys have tons of tourney experience,” he said. “This is our first one. We need to represent — and you invited us.”
Those were good points, too.
“I’ll think about it,” I said, and I meant it. Maybe Benoit could play with Jammer and Khalid. It would definitely be a tough team to defend. The whistle blew. The drill was over, but I felt like I was still playing defense.
* * *
On Tuesday night, Carl drove Jammer and me out to check out the court. We had to figure out where we were going to sell tickets, where the tables would go and the teams would stretch out, and all that stuff.
The guy who ran the place was waiting there for us when we arrived. His name was Mr. Tompkins. He probably had a first name, too, but I never found out what it was. He was one of those old dudes who was basically just a “Mister.” We talked to him for a while about the sound system, then Jammer and I walked around the court and tried to get a handle on things.
“There’s supposed to be an MVP trophy, too,” I said.
“Oh, man, I forgot about that,” said Jammer. “Where are we going to get one now? We’ve got no budget.”
“I’ll ask my dad about it. He’ll know.”
“Hope so,” said Jammer. “Hey, let’s put the scorer’s table here, with the microphone right on it.”
“Yeah,” I said, “that’ll work.”
We talked about a lot of little things, but I was having trouble bringing up that one last big thing: who I’d play with. I guess I didn’t want to rock the boat. I was the one who’d shot my mouth off and said we’d put the Classic together, but Jammer had jumped right in to help out. He was a good friend, and I didn’t want to let him down.
It was getting late. Mr. Tompkins turned on the big lights so we could see how things would look on Saturday night. “Let’s play some one-on-one,” said Jammer. “Just to test it out.”
“Good idea,” I said as Jammer produced a scuffed-up basketball from his backpack.
He tossed the backpack aside and got down into a low dribble. I pulled my goggles out from the case in my pocket, tugged on my shorts, and got down into a defensive stance. The only sounds were the ball bouncing, the hum of the lights, and the thick bass coming from the open window of Carl’s car. He was sitting in the driver’s seat with his head turned to watch us play. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Tompkins take a front-row seat on the bleachers.
I tuned them out and focused on Jammer. We had an audience now, and I didn’t want to get posterized. For a few beats, his dribble matched the beat of the music. If he kept it up, I could reach out and steal the ball with no problem. But he realized it a drumbeat after I did and switched it up.
“Nice try,” he said. “You almost —” He took off in the middle of his sentence, trying to catch me napping. I didn’t fall for it. I knew all his tricks! As soon as he realized he wasn’t going to turn the corner on me, he pulled it back. Then he started trying to back me in.
Jammer was a year older than me, but not that much bigger. He tried to back me in but I held my ground, and he got tired of that. He swung the ball around to face the basket, keeping his dribble alive. He was closer to the rim now, and I took a few swipes at the ball to keep him from getting too comfortable.
He tried a head fake, then a shoulder fake, looking for any little opening. I stayed low and didn’t give him one. He pulled the ball back a little and seemed to be considering his next move. He had this look on his face like, Huh, what now?
And of course, that’s when he rose up and fired off a short fadeaway. I rose up out of my crouch and waved at it, but the ball just cleared my fingertips. I turned around to box him out, but there was no rebound. The ball hit the backboard and dropped through.
“Nice,” I said. “I never saw a face fake before.”
“I still got a few tricks up my sleeve,” he said.
“You’re not wearing sleeves,” I said, nodding at his tank top.
“That’s what makes it so surprising,” he said.
We just kept on like that for a while. He scored a few, and I scored a few. We weren’t really keeping score. Sometimes Mr. Tompkins would say, “All right, now,” when one of us did something good, or he’d make a little clucking sound when one of us got burned or threw up a brick. We could just hear it over the music, and after a while, we started playing for those “All right, nows” — or at least to avoid those clucks.
We got a good rhythm going and a little bit of a sweat, and then I got around the corner on Jammer. It was just a quick first step and off to the races, but we’d been giving each other so many jab steps and fakes that he didn’t believe I was going until I was already gone. I had a clear path to the hoop. Dunking was still pretty new to me, and I needed some room for takeoff. I wasn’t sure I had enough, but with a crowd of two and under the lights, I figured why not.
One more dribble and I went up strong — and powered it down!
“All right, now!” said Mr. Tompkins.
“Got ya there, cuz!” called Carl.
Jammer just shook his head. “All right,” he said, “you asked for it. I’ve got a new move I’ve been saving for a special occasion. Prepare to get thrown down on!”
>
“Sure,” I said. I thought he was bluffing, but nope. He blew by me a few plays later with a slithery, snake of a move I’d never seen before. The rim rattled as he threw down a one-hander. They didn’t call him Jammer for nothing!
“Save something for the Classic,” I said.
“Yeah, you too,” he said. “We are going to monsterize out there.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. Just like that I realized I had to let him know what was up. It was easier than I thought. I don’t know why. I guess maybe it’s because a good one-on-one game is almost like a conversation, anyway.
“I know I played with you guys on Saturday,” I said. “But I don’t know about the tourney.”
“What d’you mean?” said Jammer. He narrowed his eyes and gave me a look, but he didn’t pick up his dribble. “You, me, and Khalid, man: It’s the dream team.”
“Yeah, I know, but I’m getting some pressure from my boys.”
“From your Bears, you mean.”
“Yeah, I’m having some Bear trouble,” I admitted. “But they’ve got a point.”
“What, ’cause Bibo went down?”
“Yeah, that’s part of it, but our biggest rivals are playing, too, the guys from Central.”
“Yeah, those guys are good,” admitted Jammer. “Muni can shoot it.”
“Yeah, and if the Bears lose to them? And it’s Benoit instead of me out there? It won’t be pretty. And Benoit was firing it up like crazy, anyway.”
Jammer was still dribbling nice and slow. He tried a few moves, just to see if I’d bite, but mostly we were just talking now. “Yeah, I saw that,” he said. “I think he was just making up for lost time, ’cause he missed the first practice. He’s a good player.”
“Yeah, I know it, but the guys want to play with someone they know.”
“Well, so do I,” said Jammer. For the first time, I thought I heard a little edge in his voice.
“Hey, I’d love to play with you and Khalid. I just … it’s a tough call.”
Jammer crossed the ball over and gave it a few loud, hard dribbles. He wasn’t happy about this. Not at all.
“If I could,” I said, “I’d play with both teams.”
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