Time-Out

by W. C. Mack

  “Anybody into a pickup game before Orientation starts?” a voice asked the growing crowd.

  I think everyone in the stairwell volunteered.

  “I’m in,” Owen called out, once he’d caught his breath.

  “You might need a nap first,” somebody said, and the stairwell was filled with snickers and snorts.

  I waited for Owen at the top and we counted off room numbers until we spotted mine.

  Taking a deep breath, I unlocked the door, hoping the room would be empty, at least for a few minutes. Just long enough for me to get my bearings.

  Apparently, that was too much to ask for.

  When I swung open the door, I saw a couple of bags piled on the floor along with no less than three basketballs, a laptop computer, plugged in (and playing loud music) on the desk, and a dark-haired boy lying on one of the beds, concentrating very hard on texting.

  “Hello,” Owen said too loudly.

  The boy glanced up and grinned at us. “How’s it going?”

  “Good,” Owen said, peering from one corner of the tiny room to the other. “I’m glad I got a single.” He slapped me on the back and said, “Catch you later,” before disappearing down the hallway.

  “I’m Danny,” the boy said.

  I cleared my throat. “I’m Russ.”

  Thankfully, he leaned over to turn down the music. “Where are you from?”

  “Here. I mean, Portland.”

  “Cool. I’m from Bend.”

  “I’ve never been there,” I told him, moving toward the empty bed. I brought my rolling suitcase to a halt next to it.

  “We can fix the beds tonight,” Danny said.

  I turned to him, surprised. “What do you mean?”

  “Stack them,” he said, smiling. “Like a bunk bed, you know? Then we’ll have more room for people to hang out.”

  I nodded slowly but stopped when the words sunk in. “Hang out? What people?”

  “Uh, other campers?” he said with a laugh.

  I glanced at my backpack, feeling a sinking sensation that between the sports schedule and a “social” room, reading time was going to be hard to come by.

  “I know T. J. and Big Mike will be here.”

  I was confused. “Do they go to your school?”

  “Nah, they were here last year and they were at two of my other camps.”

  “Other camps?”

  He nodded. “My dad sends me to at least five a year. Mostly in the summer.”

  “All basketball?” I asked, glancing at the balls.

  He looked at me like I was crazy. “Yup. He’s counting on me.”

  “Who? Your dad?”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, the smile a little tighter this time. “For a college scholarship.” He sat up on the bed. “And then the pros.”

  I’d heard Owen talk about the glorious future of his basketball life, dreaming about ending up on the Trail Blazers roster, but this seemed . . . different.

  “Aren’t you in middle school?” I asked, amazed that a parent would have such high expectations. My dad loved the fact that Owen and I were playing for the Pioneers, but he wasn’t expecting us to make a living from basketball.

  “Seventh grade,” he said.

  “But you were here last year? I thought that opening the camp to kids our age was relatively new.”

  Danny nodded. “My dad pulled some strings.”

  At that moment, he stood and I tried not to stare.

  Danny Sanchez was the height of a third or fourth grader.

  And he was supposed to make it to the NBA?

  Before I could say anything, there was a loud knock on the door. “Sanchez? You in there?”

  Danny raced to open it and two boys took turns high-fiving him.

  He welcomed them into the room and they looked me over, from head to toe.

  “Russ, this is Tyrelle,” Danny said.

  “I go by T. J.,” he said, smiling at me. His nose twitched, like he smelled something strange.

  I turned to see the human skyscraper Owen had called a jerk in the courtyard giving me a cold stare.

  “That’s Big Mike,” Danny said.

  It wasn’t the most creative nickname I’d ever heard, but it certainly fit the bill.

  “I know you,” he said, in a deep voice.

  “Yes. I, uh . . . saw you on the way in, but we haven’t actually met,” I said, nervously sticking out a hand for him to shake. “I’m Russell.”

  He ignored the gesture and asked the room, “Who’s ready to hit the court?”

  “I’m all over it,” Danny said, picking up a ball from the floor. “Russ?” he asked.

  “I think I’m going to get settled in,” I said. “I have to be in Gym Two for Orientation in an hour.”

  “Gym Two?” T. J. asked, his nose twitching again. “We’re supposed to be in Gym One at ten thirty.”

  “For basketball?” I asked.

  The three boys all exchanged looks before Danny said, “Yeah, for basketball.”

  “Oh, I’m in the Multisport Sampler camp,” I explained.

  “What?” T. J. asked.

  “It’s that other one, where you try different sports,” Danny explained.

  “Like baseball?” T. J. asked.

  “It’s different every year,” Danny told him. “What are you guys playing, Russ?”

  “Soccer.”

  “Cool,” Big Mike said.

  “Volleyball.”

  “Not so cool,” Big Mike said.

  “And, uh . . . pole vaulting and whatnot.”

  They all stared at me in silence until T. J. sniffed again and asked, “You signed up for pole-vaulting camp?”

  I cleared my throat. When he put it that way, it sounded ridiculous.

  Correction: it was ridiculous.

  “No . . . it’s actually part of the track-and-field component. It just happened to be offered this year.”

  “So why are you staying here?” T. J. asked. “This is the Hoopsters’ dorm.”

  “The whole building?” I asked, surprised.

  “C Wing,” they all answered at the same time.

  “A Wing is baseball,” Danny explained. “B is for soccer, we’re C, and D is football. I think your camp is in E.”

  “So, why’d they put you in here?” T. J. asked, with another nose twitch.

  “I signed up late.”

  “Huh,” Danny said. “Well, we should get out there before the courts fill up.”

  “Wait,” I said as they moved toward the door. I saw a golden opportunity to distract Owen, who I was sure would appear at the door at any moment. “The guy next door would probably love to join your pickup game.”

  “Hold up,” Big Mike said. “The kid who can’t carry his own suitcase?”

  T. J. chuckled.

  Guiltily, I found myself reluctant to mention that he was my brother. “I think it was very heavy,” I explained, in Owen’s defense.

  Big Mike looked skeptical. “He can come down if he wants to, I guess.”

  “We’ll be at the Freeman Court,” T. J. said.

  “If he can find it,” Big Mike said, laughing.

  Suddenly, despite all of his selfishness, I felt sorry for my brother. I wasn’t expecting to enjoy camp, but he was counting on it. And the truth was that despite everything, I wanted him to have fun.

  “He’s right next door,” I told the guys. “Room two-twelve. If you just knock, I’m sure he would—”

  “Yeah, I’m sure he would,” Big Mike said with a smirk. “But we need to get rolling.”

  Just before they left, Danny turned around to ask me, “You sure you don’t want to come?”

  I nodded. “I think I’m going to squeeze in some reading before Orientation.”

  “Oh . . . okay,” he said, closing the door behind him.

  I breathed a sigh of relief, until I heard Big Mike’s voice in the hallway. “Squeeze in some reading?”

  They all laughed, not bothering to knock on Owe
n’s door before they headed for the stairs.

  My room was pretty awesome, even though it was kind of empty. Sure, it had a bed, desk, closet, and some drawers, but the walls were totally bare.

  The place was going to be my home for a whole week, and I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought to bring posters or pictures to make it look cool.

  I looked down at my suitcase. The handle was about to break off and the thing looked ready to explode.

  I might have forgotten decorations, but I definitely remembered everything else.

  I unzipped the bag and a couple of my T-shirts fell on the floor. I shoved them into one of the drawers, then unpacked the rest of my clothes.

  Rip City T-shirt. Check.

  Nike hoodie. Check.

  Blazers jersey. Double check.

  I’d expected to have the sweetest gear at camp, but I’d already spotted kids wearing stuff I’d never even seen before.

  I crammed the suitcase under the bed and put my hands on my hips while I looked around the room.

  I was pretty much done.

  I checked my watch and saw that it was only nine thirty. I had a whole hour until Orientation.

  I looked out the window and saw a bunch of kids heading toward a big white building, most of them dribbling basketballs. They had to be playing pickup games.

  Awesome!

  I couldn’t wait to show off my skills.

  I checked the campus map and it took me a couple of minutes to figure out that the building everyone was racing to was Freeman Court.

  I slipped off my old Nikes and put on my “good” pair, then switched to my favorite Blazers T-shirt. There was a mirror on the back of my door, so I stood in front of it.

  I looked ready.

  I hadn’t brought a ball because I figured they’d have a thousand at camp, so I headed out.

  When I walked by Russ’s door on the way to the stairs, I knocked.

  “Who is it?” he asked.

  “Who do you think?”

  It took him a minute to open the door. “What’s going on?”

  “Everybody’s heading to Freeman Court to play before Orientation.”

  He looked surprised. “Oh, they invited you?”

  “Who? What? No,” I said, shaking my head. “You don’t have to be invited, Russ.”

  “Oh.” He frowned.

  “So?”

  “So what?” he asked, fixing his glasses.

  “So, are you coming?” I asked, starting to get ticked off. It was like we weren’t even speaking the same language.

  “No, I’m going to read for a bit.”

  I stared at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

  He held up a book with a bunch of stars and junk on the cover. His finger was marking a page. “I’d like to finish this chapter.”

  “Russ, you’re at Hoopsters!”

  He shook his head. “No, you’re at Hoopsters. I’m at the Multisport Sampler camp.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  The thing was, I kind of wanted to walk into Freeman Court with somebody, even if it was only Russ.

  I tried another angle. “Mom and Dad spent a bunch of money to send us here.” He didn’t say anything, so I kept going. “If you’re just gonna read, you could have done that at home.”

  He gave me a long stare. “I know that. I also could have done that at Cannon Beach.”

  “Come on, Russ. Don’t be a baby.”

  “I’ll see you later,” he said, starting to close the door.

  “I’m serious, Russ—”

  “So am I,” he said as it clicked shut.

  Fine.

  Whatever.

  I’d go to Freeman Court by myself, and when I walked in the door, I’d have nothing but swagger. I was in paradise, and I wasn’t going to let Russ’s crummy attitude ruin it for me.

  I hustled down the stairs and crossed the courtyard, making it to the court in under a minute. I took a deep breath and opened the double doors, ready to work some magic.

  When I walked inside, I saw that it was actually two courts, and both were surrounded by kids watching games. I walked around the edge of the crowd, nodding hello to kids when they looked at me. Most of them nodded back or said, “hey,” which was cool.

  I found a spot at the edge of one court and watched as a guy about my age in a red vest dribbled a ball between his legs then threw a behind-the-back pass to another player. The other red vest caught it, took a couple of steps, and made a sweet three-pointer.

  Whoa!

  Instead of high-fiving like the Pioneers always did, the scoring team bumped fists. Just like the pros.

  There was barely a pause in the action and the guard for the other team dribbled down the court, dodging in and out of the defending players like they were standing still.

  “Over here,” someone shouted and the ball soared through the air, right into his hands.

  They hadn’t even practiced together yet!

  Coach Baxter would have been super impressed with the communication and the ball handling.

  For the next few minutes I watched the game, amazed at how awesome some of the guys were. It was weird, though, because I’d been kind of expecting to . . . dominate.

  A couple of Reds switched out and I recognized Russ’s roommate when he got into position. I hadn’t noticed how short he was when I met him. Of course, he’d been lying down, but still.

  “Danny Sanchez,” the kid next to me whispered. “He’s awesome.”

  I found that hard to believe until he got control of the ball and turned into a human tornado. He spun, dodged, dribbled, and scored in seconds, and the crowd went nuts, like they weren’t players themselves, but fans.

  “Wow,” I said, shocked.

  A tall kid got the ball and started working his way toward the basket. He was smoother than smooth and when he glided across the floor, I couldn’t believe he was just a kid.

  “Tyrelle Johnson,” the guy next to me said as he made an unbelievable jump shot.

  I was impressed. Seriously impressed.

  But I was also ready to get out there myself.

  I walked toward the Reds’ bench, since they seemed to be the better team, and asked the kid at the end, “You got room for one more?”

  “There’s a lineup,” he said, pointing to a group of guys behind him.

  “Cool,” I said, even though it wasn’t.

  I tried the other bench, with no luck. I made my way over to the other court, where I decided to try a different strategy.

  I couldn’t see any extra vests lying around, so I walked up to the other team’s bench. I stood next to the kid at the end. “Slide down a little, would ya?”

  He glanced over at me and shuffled down to make room. As soon as I sat down, I felt like I was exactly where I needed to be. I didn’t come to Hoopsters to be part of an audience. I came to play.

  I looked back at the crowd of kids watching and realized it was another case of the men versus the boys in basketball.

  You have to be aggressive.

  I watched for a few minutes as guys traded off the bench, and when I saw my chance, I jumped up, ready for action.

  “Hey,” the kid next to me called out. “You can’t do that!” But it was too late. I was already in the game.

  I jogged down the court, happy to be in the mix. The ball was passed to me and I started dribbling like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  Which it was.

  I easily whipped around the Red who was in my face and kept going.

  “I’m open!” one of my new teammates shouted.

  I thought about Coach Baxter’s five and seven passes, but I had everything under control. I kept dribbling, keeping one eye on the basket and the other on the opposing team.

  It felt pretty awesome, knowing that everyone was watching me and I had the chance to prove myself before camp even started.

  I dodged another Red, no problem, and dribbled a few steps closer to the basket.

&nbs
p; Should I go in for a layup, or wow the crowd with a three-pointer?

  The answer was obvious. It was Hoopsters.

  I got into position for a three-point shot I’d made a thousand times before (or maybe twenty). But just as I was about to release the ball, an arm reached over my head and knocked it loose. It bounced once, and I moved to grab it, but the guy pushed past me and took possession.

  “What was that?” one of my teammates asked as the ball thief took off down the court.

  I didn’t have an answer for him, so I ran after the ball, hoping to steal it back. But the guy was super fast and I was at least ten feet behind him when he took a shot.

  That was when I realized that it was the camper who’d pushed past me and Russ on our way to the dorm. The guy I’d called a jerk.

  I watched his shot fly through the air and into the basket.

  Swish.

  The crowd cheered and all I could think about was making them shout and clap for me.

  Get back in the game, O.

  The other guard passed me the ball, and I dribbled down the court again.

  “Over here,” one of the guys shouted. I waited for a second or two more before deciding to hand it off.

  Big mistake.

  The Jerk popped up right in front of me. He blocked the pass, snatched the ball, and took off for the net.

  Again.

  Nuts!

  I should have joined the Reds.

  He passed the ball to an open player, who scored. Of course.

  On the way back down the court, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to see the kid who’d been next to me on the bench.

  “I’m subbing in,” he said.

  “What? You mean for me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But I haven’t had a chance to do anything yet.”

  “Believe me,” the kid said. “You’ve done enough.”

  “But—”

  “Back to the bench, Showboat.”

  “I’m not a—”

  “Come on. You’re holding up the game.”

  I looked around and saw that he was right. No one was moving and the only sound on the court was the ball slapping the hardwood as the other guard bounced it and stared at me.

  I walked off the court and sat down on the bench with a thud. “That’s not even fair,” I muttered. “I was barely even out there.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” the curly-haired kid next to me said. “We’ve got a whole week to play.”