“But you can’t,” he said, and drove hard to the hoop.
“I can’t believe it’s Wednesday already!” I said.
“Yeah, that seems to happen every week,” said Deuce.
Mike was too busy chewing his lunch to chime in. We were sitting around our usual table in the cafeteria and strategizing. Ever since they made those flyers, Mike and Deuce sort of considered themselves the publicity committee. And with only three days to go before the tournament, I definitely needed the help.
“What about the newspaper?” said Deuce.
“Already sent something in to their calendar section,” I said.
“You hear back?” said Mike in between bites.
“Not yet.”
“What about the radio station?” said Deuce.
“What — the little local one?” I said.
“Yeah, they do a calendar thing, too, like ‘Things to Do This Weekend,’ or something like that. Think they even have a sports program.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “Dad has that on in the truck sometimes. Good idea.”
“Want me to check with them, see if they’ll mention the Classic?” said Deuce.
“Yeah, that would be great,” I said. “I’m completely swamped with all the other stuff.”
“As long as you’re ready to play on Saturday,” said Mike. He’d just finished his lunch in no time flat and was eyeing what was left on Deuce’s tray.
“I’m definitely ready,” I said. “After all this work, I can’t wait to get out there and actually play. I just don’t know who I’m playing with….”
As soon as I said it, the table got quiet. And not a good kind of quiet, either. Deuce looked at Mike, Mike looked at Deuce, and then they both looked at me.
“Wait a second,” said Deuce. “I thought you were playing with us.”
I couldn’t believe it! This was the last thing I needed.
“Yeah,” said Mike. “I thought that was the deal when you invited us.”
They both gave me these looks of total betrayal. I felt really bad and then … the corner of Mike’s mouth started to twitch. Then Deuce’s cheeks filled with air.
And they both burst out laughing!
“Oh, man!” said Mike. “You should’ve seen your face!”
“Talk about a Classic,” said Deuce. “That was classic!”
“That was pretty good,” I admitted. I imitated their super-serious faces and we all cracked up again.
Once things settled down, Deuce said: “But seriously, I thought you were playing with Jammer and Round Mound?”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too. But now Bibo’s out and Isaac and Kelvin are putting the pressure on. They want an all-Bears team to win it all — or at least take out the guys from Central.”
“Well,” said Mike. “You are a Bear.”
I shot him a look.
“Whoa,” he said. “I’m not saying you should play with them. I’m just saying: You are on the team.”
“Sorry, Mike,” I said. “I didn’t mean that. I just don’t know what to do about it. It seems like I should play for both teams, but I can’t.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about us,” said Deuce. “I mean, it would be awesome if the three of us could play. It’s like the original crew. But we know you’ve got responsibilities, and Joe’s been cool.”
“Thanks, guys,” I said.
“No problem,” said Deuce. “Just my opinion, but as much work as you’ve put in, I think you should be able to play with whoever you want to.”
“Yeah, no problem,” said Mike, and then he kind of paused. I could tell he had something else to say. I thought it might be some more good advice or something, so I leaned in close.
“Gonna eat that cookie?”
We got another good laugh out of that, but as I handed it over, I realized something. I already had all the advice I needed.
* * *
I didn’t even make it to practice on Thursday before Isaac and Kelvin asked me who I was planning to play with. They came over as I was changing in the locker room.
“Made up your mind yet?” said Isaac.
“Yep,” I said, and I told them. It was a pretty simple case to make.
I finished tying my sneakers and then looked up to see their reaction. They were nodding.
“So we’re good?” I said.
“Yeah,” said Kelvin. “We’re good.”
As soon as I got home, I heard from Jammer. I told him the same thing.
“Yeah,” he said, thinking it over. “That works for me.”
It felt good to be out of the doghouse, especially since there was still so much to do. We had the courts and the teams, and it felt like there was at least a chance that there’d be a crowd there to see it all. But there were still lots of little details to iron out. Like did we need actual tickets or a hand stamp or could we just go with the honor system?
Jammer and I talked it all over, but I still felt like there was something I was forgetting. I was about to find out. Friday flew by, and just like that, it was tourney time!
Dad knocked off work early so we could lug some stuff to the court.
“What’s this for?” he said as he slid an old folding table across the tailgate and toward where I was kneeling in the back of the truck.
“This is the scorer’s table,” I said. “And we’ll have the microphone and the trophies on it.”
And then it hit me: “Oh no! I forgot the trophy!”
“What trophy?” said Dad.
“The MVP trophy! Overtime asked me about it in his letter. He said he was looking forward to handing it out. I’ve been so busy all week, I just forgot!”
It was a disaster. There was a clean blue tarp next to me in the truck bed. The idea was to use it to make the table look more official, but right then I just wanted to hide underneath it. How could I make such a huge mistake? There was no time to get a trophy now.
“This is terrible,” I said. “OT is going to be really bummed.”
Dad shook his head. “It sounds pretty bad,” he admitted. “But there’s nothing for it now. Better just climb down out of there and help me load this one last thing.”
“Okay,” I said, but I barely heard him. I sleepwalked to the edge of the tailgate and hopped down into the driveway. Then I turned and followed Dad into the garage. The whole time I was trying to figure out how this happened. I remembered telling Jammer I’d ask my dad about it. But then there was that one-on-one game and all that drama. And then all the publicity to take care of …
Dad handed me a heavy hunk of wood and metal, but I barely looked at it. “Where’s this go?” I mumbled.
“Might as well put it on top of that table,” he said. “I think that’s where you said the trophies go.”
I looked up. “What are you talking about?” He had a big, goofy grin on his face. Then I looked at the thing in my hand. It was a shiny brass basketball-player statue on top of a heavy wooden base. Expertly carved into the front of the wood were three big letters: MVP. It was the nicest trophy I’d ever seen!
“Where?” I said. “How?” I could barely get the words out I was so surprised.
“You asked Junior where to get an MVP trophy, remember?” said Dad. “And he asked me. Wasn’t too hard to figure out.”
“And you just … made one?”
“Yeah, your old man knows a thing or two, you know. That’s cherry wood there, and that decoration on top? Believe it or not, that came from one of Junior’s old trophies. It fell off and I had it in a drawer in the garage.”
I just stood there for a few seconds, looking at his workshop masterpiece and trying to pick my jaw up off the driveway. “You made me a trophy….”
“No,” said Dad firmly. “I made the MVP of the Classic a trophy. We’ll see who that is in a few hours. Now hurry up and get it in the truck or we’re going to be late.”
“Dad,” I said. “Thanks doesn’t even cover it.”
“I know,” he said,
“but it’ll do.”
I was afraid the trophy would get scuffed up in the back of the truck, so I brought it with me as I climbed into the passenger seat. The preparations were officially done. Without another word, we buckled up and headed for the court.
Carl and Jammer were already there when we arrived, and we immediately started unloading the truck and setting everything up. Mr. Tompkins was walking around making sure everything was working.
“Sweet trophy!” said Jammer as I handed it to him. “We’ll put it right in the center here so everyone knows what they’re playing for. And so they’ll be jealous when I win it!”
“You wish,” I said. “But I might let you hold it after I win it!”
Meanwhile, Carl was setting up the little ticket table by the entrance, and Dad and Mr. Tompkins were discussing the finer points of setting up electrical wiring outside. And just as I was taking a look around at the usual cast, I saw an unusual cast heading right for us. A familiar figure walked through the main gate, with the help of a crutch and a fat white cast on his leg.
“Overtime!” I called, and Jammer and I ran over to see him.
“Hey, boys!” he said. “It’s great to see you. I’m pretty sure I recognize this court, too. ’Course my view is a little different this time, not rolling around in pain and all.”
“Yeah,” said Jammer. “Hope that’s okay. It was the best one we could get.”
“Oh, no, it’s fine,” said Overtime. “It’s a good court — and it owes me one!”
“Yeah, how are you feeling?” I said.
“I feel a lot better now that I’m out of that hospital!” he said. “Nice to see the sun again.”
I looked over. The sun was reddish orange and sinking toward the horizon. When I turned back around, I saw three more guys walking through the gate. I recognized them all. Two were regular volunteers at OT’s tournaments, and the third was one of his regular refs. All three were carrying boxes.
That was OT for you: out of the hospital for two hours and already working his magic. “Let’s get to it,” he said to the men. “We’ve got an hour to make this place presentable!”
And just like that, they started putting up banners and decorations, pulling out stacks of forms, raffle tickets, smaller trophies for the teams, and everything else that made up a successful tournament. I let out a long, slow breath. For the first time in weeks, I felt myself relax. Really relax. The tournament was in good hands. Now all I had to worry about was playing hoops. And that I knew I could handle.
The late day shadows grew longer as we put the final touches on the court. By the time people started to show up, everything was in place. Pretty soon it went from a few early birds arriving to a steady stream of players, families, and basketball fans. Some of them were holding the flyers that Mike and Deuce had made. Others had read about it in the newspaper or heard the news on the radio.
“This is terrific,” said Overtime, watching the long line of people handing over money at the ticket table and then filing into the stands, filling up row after row. “I hate to say it, but I had a few nightmares when I got here and it was just the three of us.”
Jammer and I laughed.
“I had the same one!” I admitted.
“In mine, it was just the two of you,” said Jammer. “Because I was running late!”
We all took one last look at the stands, nearly full now. I saw Dad up there with Manny and a few other guys from his crew. And heading down the row to join them were Junior and a few of his friends. They were all doing their part to help fill the seats. I gave them a quick wave.
Then OT headed over to the scorer’s table, and Jammer and I headed out to the court with the rest of the players. It was time to warm up for the first round of action. All the games would be single elimination: Winners advance, losers sit. One and done.
It was finally time to join my team.
* * *
“You ready, guys?” I said to my teammates as we took the court for our first game.
“Ready,” said Deuce.
“As I’ll ever be,” said Mike.
So yeah, that was my team. The choice between Jammer and Khalid and the Bears was a tough one. But once I thought of it, the choice to play with my best friends was easy. They were the ones who’d been with me all along, the ones who got me ready for my first tournament and every one since then. They were just here to play for fun, and you know what? After all the work that went into putting things together, so was I. To me, this one was about helping Overtime make the Classic happen, and I’d done everything I could. Now I was going to play some ball with my best friends and see how far we could go.
We lined up for the tip. Across from us were Walter and those two fierce defenders. It was our first-round matchup and we’d drawn Team Lock-Down. I knelt down and sort of bounced on my knees a few times, getting ready for the jump.
A few feet away, Walter did the same thing. The last rays of the Florida sun lit the court, and a single drop of sweat slowly made its way down my forehead. Suddenly, the ref tossed the ball high into the air.
Walter and I flew up to get it like a pair of falcons. My wingspan was a little longer, and I tipped the ball back to Deuce. The other team slapped on their airtight man-to-man defense as we headed up court.
After a few scoreless possessions for both teams, we knew we were in for a battle. At a lot of tourneys, you’d play to a specific score: first team to twenty-one or whatever. At the Classic, we were playing ten-minute games in the first round. It was a good thing, too. At this rate, it would take us all night to reach twenty-one.
Deuce whipped the ball to me as we headed back up the court, but Walter got a hand on it and tipped it out of bounds. The ball rolled under the bleachers. We huddled up quickly while a kid climbed under there to get it.
“Man, my guy is strong,” said Mike. “I swear he must’ve spent every minute since the last practice doing push-ups or something.”
“And my guy is fast,” said Deuce.
I nodded. Walter was some of both.
“And they’re super-disciplined: never out of position,” Deuce added.
The kid emerged from under the bleachers with the ball and the crowd cheered. The ref took the ball and headed toward the sideline. Our time was almost up.
“Maybe we should be, then,” I said.
“We should be what?” said Mike.
“Out of position,” I said.
“Seriously?” said Deuce.
“Yeah, let’s just mix it up. Have some fun, like we do when we’re messing around at the old court in the park.”
“It’s worth a shot,” said Deuce.
When we inbounded the ball, we took to the court with a whole new attitude. You’ve probably heard of a pick-and-roll. So had the other team. They played them perfectly and never seemed to get out of position. But have you heard of a pick-and-pick-and-roll? Nope, and Walter and his teammates hadn’t, either!
It was basically a crazy play that Mike, Deuce, and I had drawn up in the dirt during a long pickup game down at our local court. It worked then, and it worked again. For the first time, a team that was always in the right position had no right position to be in. They were all jumbled up near the free throw line as I slipped to the hoop with my hand up. Deuce got me the ball and — one finger roll later — we were on the board.
Thirty seconds later, we introduced them to the drive-and-dish-and-dish-and-drive! As expected, they defended the first part perfectly. Mike drove down the lane like a bull running down hill. His defender had no trouble staying in front of him, and Mike tossed the ball out to me on the perimeter.
And of course Walter was on me like a glove. He’d been expecting Mike to pass it out. What he wasn’t expecting was that Deuce would be cutting to the hoop at the same moment. He flew down the lane, a half step ahead of his defender. Mike was already in position to pin his own defender behind him under the hoop. Now I did my part.
Instead of taking the shot, I fired the b
all back into the lane. Deuce hauled it in and lofted up a floater for our second bucket. After that, we had them off-balance. We wound up winning pretty easily, 17–11.
We shook hands and headed to the bleachers to watch the rest of the first-round action. First up, Jammer, Khalid, and their new teammate, Benoit. Since he was the other “core guy” OT had invited, he was an obvious pick to take my place. And this time it was obvious to everyone why.
He wasn’t hoisting up circus shots the way he had at the first practice. He was playing smart, but he could still hit from just about anywhere on the court. Add in Jammer’s athleticism and Khalid’s quickness, and they had no trouble beating Hector, Lex, and Van and advancing. Afterward, Jammer came and sat by me on the bench.
“Nice game,” I said.
“Yeah, you too,” he said. “Those were some crazy plays you guys made out there.”
“Had to,” I said. “The non-crazy ones weren’t working!”
The whistle blew for the next teams to take the court. I watched this one carefully, too. Isaac and Kelvin had what they wanted: an all-Bears team. Joe lined up in front of them for the tip.
They were playing Daniel, Stevie, and Braylon. Those guys were all tournament veterans, so it was a tough matchup. “Let’s go, Bears!” I shouted.
The game was close the whole way, but Kelvin was just too big. Isaac kept dumping the ball into him down low and he pretty much worked Stevie over. Daniel could do a lot of things for his team, but he couldn’t make them grow any bigger. In the end, it was Bears by two.
Three of the four second-round teams were set. Just a few minutes into the next game, it was clear who’d get the last slot. Muni was on his game. He seemed almost bored out there as he drained one shot after another from the outside. He kept it up and by the end it was one dagger after another.
“Man,” said Jammer, shaking his head as Muni put the other team away with icy precision.
“Man,” I echoed.
We were both thinking the same thing. Someone’s going to have to face that guy in the next round.
The team that had to try to cool down Muni in Round 2 was … the Bears! I had all kinds of bad thoughts as the six players took the court. Well, maybe not all kinds. Basically, I had one bad thought: They might lose and then blame me for not being on the team.
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