My Life as a Busted-Up Basketball Backboard

by Bill Myers

  With those stirring words of inspiration (no doubt spoken from a state of delirium) all four of the team members raced for the stairs, shouting and pumping themselves up with such battle cries as, “We’re dead! We’re goners! I want my mommy!”

  But as I followed them up the stairs it became obvious what had just happened. My big chance had finally arrived. As they headed onto the floor to face off for the tipoff, I joined them.

  “Wally, what are you doing?” Pee Wee squeaked as we took our position around the center circle. I motioned to the rest of the team. “There’s only four of you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And it takes five to make a team.”

  “Ah.” Pee Wee nodded. “Well listen, that’s awfully thoughtful and everything. But after watching you at practice the last couple of days . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  He scrunched up his face, trying to find the right words.

  Pencil Lead leaned down and helped out. “It would be better for us if you don’t play.”

  “What’s that?” one of the referees asked.

  Pee Wee swallowed. “We were just telling Wally here—”

  “I know what you were telling him, son. But the rules call for five players on a team.”

  “Well, yeah, but . . .” Pee Wee pointed helplessly to me. “I mean, look at him.”

  The referee turned to me, took a long gander, then sadly nodded. “I see your point, but rules are rules. Either he plays or you forfeit.”

  Pee Wee and Pencil Lead looked hard at each other, obviously trying to figure out which was worse, forfeiting or letting me play.

  “Well?” the ref asked.

  After a deep breath, Pee Wee finally squeaked, “Okay, he plays.”

  My heart leaped. Of course, it would have leaped a bit more if he hadn’t stood on his tiptoes and whispered into my ear, “Just don’t touch the ball, okay?”

  I nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

  “That’s what we’re worried about,” Pencil Lead sighed. “That’s exactly why we’re worried.”

  Chapter 10

  Wrapping Up

  Pencil Lead and his opponent lined up for the tipoff. The ref threw the ball up and Pencil Lead easily outjumped his man (not that you have to do a lot of jumping when you’re six-foot-seven). Unfortunately, his coordination hadn’t quite caught up with his height, which explains why he missed the ball completely and landed on his rear. (It also explains why he was on the scrub team.)

  But not to worry, the guy I was supposed to guard got the ball and raced downcourt.

  “That’s your man!” Pee Wee squeaked. “That’s your man!”

  “I know.” I beamed just as the guy went in for an easy two-point lay-up. “Isn’t he great? I’m so happy for him!”

  “You’re not supposed to be happy for him, you’re supposed to stop him!”

  “I am?”

  Once again, I’ll save you the gory details. Let’s just say that’s how our defense went the rest of the game (which explains why they racked up points faster than my big brothers collect speeding tickets).

  Unfortunately, our offense was no better. Since I’d been given strict orders not to go near the ball, it meant their team had five players against our four. No problem, except that it meant their guys could double-team our guys whenever they wanted—which was all the time!

  This would explain why, by the end of the third quarter, they’d scored over thirty points and we’d scored a grand total of . . . zero.

  Yes, sir, we were giving new meaning to the word pathetic. (It was a good thing you couldn’t subtract points or we would have really been in trouble.) I suspected things weren’t going exactly the way Mr. Slicko had hoped, either. And when I glanced into the stands and saw him shaking his head and bawling like a baby, I knew I was right. And still we continued to play (if you could call it that). Our score remained frozen at a respectable, tried-and-true 63 (Hey, if you find a good thing, why change it?), while the other team steadily gained on us. On and on it went. And then, on some more. By the time we got down to one minute left in the game, they’d scored a total of 58 points.

  Uh-oh.

  At thirty seconds they were up to 62 points.

  Double uh-oh.

  That’s when Pee Wee called time-out and we huddled together.

  “Okay, guys,” his little voice squeaked. “We’ve got thirty seconds left. We’re ahead by one point. If we hang on, we can still win this thing.”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Just don’t do anything stupid.”

  Again we nodded.

  “And Wally?”

  “I know, I know,” I said, “just stay out of the way.”

  “Now you’re getting it,” he said, grinning. “We can win this thing if we keep our heads.” With that we broke and raced back onto the floor. Pencil Lead tossed the ball to Pee Wee, who immediately dribbled downcourt.

  I glanced at the clock. It read:

  25 seconds.

  Pee Wee faked to the left, then tried to fire off a long shot. But with his man and my man both covering him, it was more like a suicide mission. The ball missed the rim completely, bounced off the backboard, and came sailing toward me.

  Triple uh-oh!

  At first I thought of doing the smart thing and leaping out of the way. But that’s not what the great Willard McDorkel would do. No, he’d catch the ball and save the day. So, it was obvious, I had no choice. I had to catch it.

  Fortunately, all my training from the last two days paid off and, wonder of wonders, I actually caught the thing. Suddenly, two guys were all over me trying to get it. I had to act fast. I had to pass to somebody in the open.

  Then I spotted him. Aperson totally in the clear. I fired the ball to him. The good news was, it was a perfect pass. The bad news was, it was to the wrong team. (Hey, you can’t have everything.) He caught the ball and broke downcourt to score two more points.

  I looked up at the scoreboard. It read:

  For the first time in the game we were behind. We were down by one point with only sixteen seconds left on the clock. But it wasn’t over yet. We still had time to make a basket.

  Pee Wee tossed the ball inbounds to Pencil Lead. But he only got halfway downcourt before he was double-teamed and had the ball stolen. Then, the weirdest thing happened. Instead of racing down-court to try to score two more points, their player spun around, spotted me, and tossed me the ball. “What are you doing?” I cried.

  He shrugged. “You’re the best player we’ve got. If anybody can score us another point or two, I figure it’s you.”

  Needless to say, his comment made me mad. Not only was it mean and insensitive, it was probably the truth. But I’d show him. Instead of doing something with the ball (Translation: Helping our opponents), I’d do absolutely nothing with it. I’d just hold it until time ran out. At least that way, it would be nice and safe and we’d only lose by one point.

  But Pee Wee didn’t appreciate my plan. “Pass it,” he kept squeaking. “We’ve got ten seconds left. Pass it! Pass it!”

  But I wasn’t falling for that old trick, no, sir. No way was I going to help the other side score any more points.

  “Wally!” Now Pencil Lead was running toward me. “Wally, give me the ball!”

  I shook my head. No, sir, I’d done enough damage already. I couldn’t pass, I couldn’t dribble, so

  I’d do the only thing I knew how to. I’d cling to the ball with all my might.

  The crowd started to boo.

  “Wally,” Pencil Lead yelled, “we’ve only got eight seconds!”

  I clung to the ball tighter.

  He tried to take it from me, but my grip was like iron. In fact, I wrapped my whole body around it and dropped to the floor. For some reason the crowd appreciated this even less, but there was no way I was giving up that ball.

  In desperation, Pencil Lead acted. It wasn’t his best idea, but it was his only one. The big guy reached down and picked up the ball . .
. and me! “This is your last chance, Wally. Let go!”

  I shook my head.

  “All right,” he said. “Then hang on real tight.” He stood up, and to the crowd’s astonishment (let alone mine) he began dribbling the ball with me still attached.

  K-Bounce “OW!”

  K-Bounce “OW!”

  It was quite a ride. And over the sound of my breaking ribs, I could hear the crowd cheering and counting down as the seconds clicked off: “Five, four . . .”

  K-Bounce “OW!”

  K-Bounce “OW!”

  We continued moving downcourt.

  “Three, two . . .”

  “SHOOT!” Pee Wee’s voice screeched. “SHOOT!” “One . . .” And then it happened. Suddenly, the ball and I were sailing high through the air. Actually, the view wasn’t half bad. On the court below, I could see Pee Wee and Pencil Lead standing with their mouths open. Over in the stands, I could see Mr. Slicko and his TV crew busy videotaping. And there, not too far from the approaching basket, stood my old friends Wall Street and Opera.

  It was a beautiful moment. No longer was I the great Willard McDorkel, no longer was I being something I wasn’t. Instead, it was just me, Wally McDoogle, doing what I do best.

  Talk about exhilarating, talk about a great feeling. Who cared what the crowd thought? Who cared what my fans felt? It was terrific just to be me again. Unfortunately, what was not so terrific was hitting the backboard so hard that it shattered into a gazillion pieces.

  Yet, over the roaring crowd and shattering backboard (not to mention my shattering head), I heard Wall Street shout, “Stick out your arms, Wally! Stick out your arms!”

  It was great having her talk to me again, just like old times. And since I had nothing else better to do, I decided to take her advice. I stuck the ball out over my head just in time to feel it and my hands go shooting through the net, followed by my head and chest . . . just as the buzzer sounded to end the game.

  The crowd went wild. And, hanging in the net by my feet, I managed to turn and see the scoreboard. It read:

  I couldn’t believe it! Somehow, someway (but in true McDoogle style), we had won! It was a little too close and a lot too embarrassing, but we had won! It was a little too painful, but we had won! Of course, I’d have loved to stick around and join in the celebration, but with all the bouncing and backboard shattering going on I had something more pressing to do . . .

  Like drop into major unconsciousness.

  The first people I saw when I came to were Opera and Wall Street. They were hovering over me as the paramedics carried me toward the ambulance. “Nice work, Wally!” Wall Street shouted over the commotion. “It’s great to have you back!”

  “Burp.” Opera nodded.

  I wanted to say something, to agree with them, to tell them how good it felt, but it’s hard to speak when your jaw is broken in seventeen places. Yet I managed to nod, even give a little smile.

  “Step aside!” Mr. Slicko shouted. “Step aside!” Suddenly, he was looking down at me. “Don’t worry about a thing, Willard. I can fix it in the editing. If we cut out all your klutziness and add lots of computerized special effects, you won’t look like a total idiot. I’m sure I’ll be able to save your reputation.”

  Again I tried to speak, and this time I got out a word. Actually two: “Monnn’t mahver.”

  “What?” Mr. Slicko leaned closer. “What did you say?”

  I tried again, this time speaking as clearly as possible: “Don’t bother.”

  Yes, sir, it felt great to be back to my old self again. Of course, everybody made plenty of jokes about my performance (or lack of it), and of course Coach was charging my folks for destroying the backboard, the locker room, as well as making us pay his psychiatric bills. (Actually, we were still paying for those from his last encounter with me.) But all of this was pretty normal for me. Maybe not for the great Willard McDorkel, but definitely for the not-so-great, somewhat average Wally McDoogle. The Wally McDoogle that I liked being and planned on remaining.

  And Ricko Slicko? He and Lovely Assistant Doris headed back to New York where he’s still running his advertising company. The last I heard he was going to relax for a while and take on something easier—like trying to elect Cruella De Vil president of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

  And my superhero story? Well, by the time I got around to finishing it (after all the bones in my arms and hands were healed), it read something like this:

  When we last left our hero, he had leaped atop the Good Ear Blimp that KidVid has stolen to rule the world. Now, running along the top of the blimp, he looks for some way to enter the fanatical fiend’s hijacked headquarters.

  But alas and alack (whatever that means), the surface of the blimp is as smooth as Brock’s face (even though he keeps saying he has to shave). The only thing visible is a door with a sign that reads:

  ENTER HERE FOR

  FANATICAL FIEND’S HIJACKED

  HEADQUARTERS

  It’s a long shot, but with nothing else to go on, ImaginMan gives it a try. He opens the door, climbs down the ladder, and voilà (I found that in the same dictionary as alas and alack), there is KidVid! He stands alone in his giant room switching switches, dialing dials, and, er . . . knobbing knobs.

  “KidVid!” our hero shouts.

  The awfully antagonistic alien alters his attention. (Translation: He turns around.)

  “ImaginMan!” he gasps. “How did you get up here? How did you find me?”

  “That’s easy,” our hero boasts, “I just, uh . . . that is ...” He scratcheshis head trying to remember.

  “You used your imagination,” I type.

  “I just used my imagination,” he shouts. “And, uh . . . er ...”

  “And read your sign,” I type.

  “And read your sign.” (Just ’cause the guy’s a superhero doesn’t make him a supergenius.)

  “And what are you going to do now?” the bad guy taunts. “Try to shut me down?”

  “Well,” our hero replies, “now that you bring it up ...”

  “First, why not sit beside me and play a video game?”

  “I’d love to, but I have to find your main power supply to shut you down.”

  “Are you sure?” KidVid reaches over and with one flick of the switch

  BLEEP, PING, BLAM

  BLEEP, PING, BLAM

  they are suddenly surrounded by the sound of a video game. Then, even more suddenly-ier (don’t try that spelling at home, kids) the entire inside of the blimp turns into one giant DVDscreen.

  “Look up!” KidVid shouts. “Look around you! Look at the screen!”

  The temptation is strong, but ImaginMan finds a way to resist. He begins imagining he is one of those cool heroes he’s read about (no doubt in one of those cool My Life As . . . novels). He remembers the different ways the different heroes were able to overcome their temptations and beat the bad guys. It’s tough, but by practicing what he’s read, ImaginMan is able to keep his eyes off the screen until, Eureka! (Yup, that’s in the same dictionary) he spots another sign that reads:

  WARNING:

  MAIN POWER PLUG!

  PULL ONLY TO SHUT OFF POWER

  AND END STORY!

  In a burst of inspiration, he races to the plug and wraps both hands around it.

  “No, NOT THAT!” KidVid cries.

  “DON’T PULL THAT!”

  “Your days are over, KidVid,” our hero shouts as the good-guy music begins to play softly in the background. “No longer will you enslave my world with your video games.”

  “BUT THEY’RE SO MUCH FUN,” KidVid whines. “EVERYONE MUST PLAY THEM.”

  “That’s where you are wrong, my fiendish little friend.” The music grows louder as our hero places his hands on his hips and the wind begins blowing his cape. “Each of us must choose for ourselves. For those who want to play video games, let them play. For those who want to use their minds and imaginations, let them use their minds and imagin
ations.”

  “Oh, no,” KidVid groans. “Have we already come to the part of the story where the hero gives his speech?”

  ImaginMan grins. “That’s right. You see, each of us has been created uniquely. And to really be happy each of us must become the best ‘us’ we can be. For some it may be playing video games, for others it may be wearing these stupid capes and saving theworld.”

  “Or for others,” KidVid adds, “it can be writing these whacked-out stories with these syrupy endings.”

  “Hey!” I type. “Watch it!”

  Our hero continues as the music grows louder. “Each of us has been uniquely created by God. And each of us should be allowed to become who we are——not what others want us to be.”

  “I understand,” KidVid cries. “Suddenly, everything you say makes sense!”

  “Of course it does,” ImaginMan says with a grin. “After all, we’ve only got a few more lines left in the story. Listen, to prove to the readers out there that you really do understand, that you really have changed, why don’t you give me a hand with pulling this giant plug?”

  “Hey, that’s a superswell idea,” KidVid says as he heads over to join our hero at the giant outlet. “Then maybe you can show me some of the nifty keen things you do in your life, and I’ll show you what I do in mine.”

  “Neato,” ImaginMan cries, “thatwould be just so superswell.”

  And so, the archenemies work together to disconnect the power to KidVid’s video machine. Once again the human race can make their own decisions, once again they will have free will, and once again they have the chance to become the special individuals each of them was created to be.

  I reread the ending one last time. It was so sugary sweet that it was a three-maybe even four-cavity ending. But I had definitely gotten my point across. And, as I sat there staring at the screen, waiting for the next McDoogle mishap to strike, I could rest assured that it would at least be my disaster, that it would be my custom-designed catastrophe and nobody else’s. Because just as there’s only one KidVid, one ImaginMan, and one of you . . . there’s only one Wally-the-Walking-Disaster-Area McDoogle!

  And for that, I guess, we can all be thankful.