Slam Dunk

by Amar'e Stoudemire

  To the children of the world. I hope you all find the

  success and peace that comes from reading and learning.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Acknowledgement

  About the Author

  Copyright

  I climbed down out of the front seat of my dad’s old truck and slammed the door behind me. My face was hot even before the heat blazed up from the sun-baked parking lot. I’d been invited to another basketball tournament. But instead of thinking about the first practice that was about to start, I was angry because Dad and I had had a dumb argument on the ride over.

  Shake it off, Amar’e, I told myself. Before I even looked up, the sound of rims rattling, balls bouncing, and kids hollering told me where I needed to go. My first good look at the court told me what I already knew: These kids were good. I saw silky crossover dribbles and shots dropping in as smooth as rainwater. And they were older, too. I’d already been told I was the youngest kid they’d invited, and now I could see it. I felt my stomach tighten a little with nerves.

  Dad’s run-down truck somehow managed to drive off, slowly. The engine revved, the wheels turned, and the truck backfired loudly as it pulled away. It was sounding bad lately. On the ride over I’d made the mistake of asking him when he was going to get it fixed. Man, that did it: When am I supposed to find the time for that? he’d snapped.

  Dad always had busy times and quiet times at work. I think that’s just part of running a lawn-care company. But this busy time had gone on and on. I usually helped out on the weekends, but now I had practice instead. The last thing Dad had said before I got out: Got to go pick up the extra guy.

  Dad made his point — he wouldn’t need an extra guy if I helped out — and I made mine when I slammed the door. Didn’t he understand that this was my biggest tourney yet? It was an opportunity to really step up my game. Wasn’t that more important than pushing a lawn mower for the millionth time?

  Everyone on the court turned to look at me after the truck backfired. I was really starting things off with a bang. They sized me up as I headed toward them. I didn’t understand why they kept looking my way until a guy came up behind me and startled me.

  “You Amar’e?” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Yes, Coach,” he said.

  Well, at least I knew who he was now.

  “Yes, Coach,” I said.

  “Well, report to the court.”

  The way the guy moved and talked made me feel like I’d accidentally signed up for the army instead of the tourney. He was dressed that way, too, with a short-sleeve shirt tucked into khaki pants that were way too heavy for the Florida weather. His head wasn’t shaved, but it might as well have been: The hair was buzz-cut down to about four millimeters. He pulled some keys out of his pocket and headed over to a big red car.

  My friend Jammer met me at the edge of the court. His full name was James Jamison, but I’d only heard anyone say it once. He was coming over to say hi, but also to sort of vouch for me — to let the others know he knew me and that I was okay. Jammer was an amazing player, and I appreciated it.

  “A-ten-hut! I’m here to report to the court,” I said.

  He smiled: “You sound like Coach Commando over there.”

  “Is that really his name?” I said with a laugh.

  “Nah, it’s Dunn. He’s a little over-Dunn sometimes, but he’s not so bad.”

  “As long as you hit your shots,” said a familiar voice.

  “Hey, Khalid,” I said.

  He was another guy I knew from the last tournament. Khalid was short and it looked like someone had inflated him with a bicycle pump. I don’t mean that in a bad way. He wasn’t fat, but he was kind of … thick, I guess. I think the word is stocky.

  But somehow he was still as fast as a sprinter and as agile as an acrobat. Not only was he a point guard, he was the best one I’d ever played with. I guess it helped that he had the permanent element of surprise. No matter how many times I saw that cobra-strike quick first step come from those thick legs of his, I still couldn’t believe it. Anyway, he was a good guy: funny, confident, and friendly.

  I looked around. I may only know two guys here, I thought, but they’re good ones. And then Coach Dunn came back from his car, and things got serious as he began barking out his orders.

  There was no need to split up into teams — they’d already done that before I arrived in Dad’s hunk of junk. Coach just stuck me with the guys who were down a player and got things started. Jammer was on my team, but Khalid was on the other side. I looked around at the others, and it really sunk in how big they were. It’s not that they were that much taller than me. I was pretty tall — not just tall for my age, but tall for a human. I was already taller than most of my teachers.

  But these guys were starting to fill out and add real muscle. I felt like a sixth grader wandering into an eighth-grade gym class, which is actually what I was kind of doing. Except instead of phys ed, these were the best ballers their age. Before I could think anything more, I had the basketball in my hands. The first practice game was underway, and my team had won the tip. The guy D’ing me was named Wayne. He wasn’t on me all that tight, so I dribbled it a few times as we headed up the court.

  At least the ball hadn’t grown any. It felt familiar in my hand, and I started to settle down. The ball was the same size, the court was the same size, and the basket was definitely the same size. And I was good at this. I may not have been as big or as old as most of these guys, but I hadn’t just wandered in here off the highway. I was invited to play in this tourney, same as them.

  A guard from the other team tried to sneak up behind me for the steal. I executed a quick crossover and left him swatting at air. But that reminded me: I wasn’t the guy who was supposed to be bringing the ball all the way up the court. I was usually a power forward, but I was basically a swing on this team. That’s like a mix of small forward and shooting guard.

  I looked for our point guard, a kid named Daniel. We made eye contact. He flicked his eyes to the left. It was a tiny move, but I caught it. He was telling me which way he was going. He burst into the open with impressive speed as I launched a pass, leading him just enough.

  He plucked the ball from the air and started dribbling. He got down low so that no one could steal it. But the main thing was the way he dribbled. It was a point guard dribble, like Khalid’s: totally comfortable, never looking down, like he was born with a basketball in his hand. I knew our offense was in good hands, so I sprinted over to get position near the hoop.

  By the time I did, the possession was already over. Daniel found Jammer cutting to the rim. Anyone who was wondering where he got that nickname just found out. He rose up like a rocket and threw down a rim-rattling, one-handed jam.

  “Come on, Braylon, put a body on that little dude,” a low voice rumbled.

  In what world was Jammer a “little dude”? I wondered, as I turned to see who’d said it.

  “My bad, Monster,” said the guy who was supposed to be defending Jammer.

  In Monster’s world, I realized, everyone was a little dude. A lot of the kids were starting to fill out, but this one straight up looked like a man already. And not a nice man, either. Not only did he have muscles, his muscles had muscles.


  He saw me sizing him up and shot me a nasty look. It wasn’t mean as much as dismissive, like I was nothing. I ignored him and headed the other way on defense. I don’t know if he planned it or not, but after a few quick switches on D, I found myself guarding Monster. It felt like standing in traffic.

  We were still up near the top of the key, pretty far from the basket. He turned and started backing me down anyway.

  Oof! He bumped into me. I tried to shuffle my feet, lean in, not give too much ground.

  OOF! He bumped into me again, harder this time. I reached out and swatted at the ball. His dribble was high and off to the side, and I thought I might be able to knock the ball free. I didn’t.

  OOF! I looked over at Coach Dunn. He didn’t even have a whistle, much less any urge to use it. I’m not sure if Monster could’ve backed me all the way into the basket before I got a hand on the ball or had to climb on his back to get a foul. I’m glad I didn’t have to find out. Jammer saw what was going on and jumped in to double-team him.

  With two pairs of hands swatting at the ball, Monster had to give it up. When he did, our defense reset. Our center, Tevin, hadn’t missed any meals himself. He switched back onto Monster. Jammer went back to guarding Braylon, and I switched back onto Wayne. And tried to catch my breath.

  We were all getting a little worn down by the heat, and I switched onto a guy whose dribble was high and lazy to begin with. I went for the steal, slapping out with my hand as I darted forward.

  I felt the slap of leather against my palm. When I looked up, the only thing between me and the basket at the other end was the ball, bouncing just ahead of me. I was off and running before anyone else knew what was happening. I had such a clear path to the basket that the only person who ran hard after me was the guy whose pocket I’d picked.

  I reached top speed by midcourt. By the time I got to the foul line I was thinking about what I wanted to do with the ball: lay it up off the backboard or maybe finger-roll it straight into the hoop. But the one thing I really wanted to do, I couldn’t.

  Believe me, I’d tried to dunk the ball. I’d tried it almost every practice. Most of the time, it was just like this, streaking down the court at top speed. If wishing hard made you jump higher, I’d be jamming it by now. But wishing hard just made it hurt more when you doinked it off the rim. And that’s what I did when I tried to dunk, unless I lost control on the way up. I was close, but you know how many points you get for close? Zero.

  I reached the hoop and laid it up and in.

  The players behind me erupted into a chorus of hoots and hollers and laughs. They were waiting for the dunk, too. I turned in time to see the guy I’d stolen the ball from imitating my layup. He raised his front knee high and extended his right hand into the air, palm up. He exaggerated it and put a goofy, tongue-out look on his face.

  He’d turned the ball over, but somehow I was the one burning with embarrassment. As I headed back on defense, I heard them all around me. They were talking about what they would’ve done if they’d had the ball: dunk it two-handed or throw it down with one.

  Right then, Khalid took off at top speed with the ball, and everyone had to take off with him. Khalid was on the other team, but I honestly think he did that for me, just to shut everyone up. The last thing I heard as I put my head down and started running was: “Nice layup, Pee-wee.”

  From the low rumble of the voice, I knew it was Monster. But I didn’t look at him. I didn’t want him to see how much it was bothering me. I was as tall as a lot of these guys, and I definitely worked just as hard: Why couldn’t I dunk yet? And why did they all have to know?

  The ride home was pretty bad. Dad was tired, I was tired, and the truck was exhausted.

  “Wash up for dinner,” Dad said as we pulled into the driveway.

  Normally I’d help him unload the truck, but he didn’t ask and as grouchy as he was, I wasn’t going to volunteer. I went inside and washed up with Dad’s heavy-duty work soap. By the time I was done, my older brother, Junior, was home.

  “Something smells good,” I said.

  Junior held up a big bag from the local supermarket. Dinner! In addition to all the rows of soda, cereal, and frozen food, the supermarket had a section near the meat counter where they sold hot food, right down to the mashed potatoes and side dishes. It looked like my bro had cleaned them out, and it was a good thing, too. As tired as Dad and I had been on the ride home, that was how hungry we were now. And Junior, well, he could always put it back.

  We said a quick prayer and then got down to business. I looked around the table as we ate. My dad and brother were big, strong dudes. And my brother was a fierce basketball player himself. No one would ever call either of them Pee-wee. I put another forkful of garlic mashed potatoes in my mouth. Maybe this will be the mouthful that gets me up and over the rim, I thought. Well, that and: Mmmmmm!

  After a while, our eating slowed down to a normal level.

  “You over at that new job today, the one on the other side of the lake?” Junior asked Dad.

  “Yep,” said Dad. “First day.”

  “So how’d it go?”

  “Not so great,” said Dad. At first, it seemed like that was all he was going to say on the matter. Then he started talking. Once he did, you could see he was glad to be able to unload a little. There were two main problems. The guy who hired him was being a pain. And the new guy didn’t seem to know which end of a mower was which.

  “I told this fella to watch out for the gravel,” said Dad.

  “He didn’t …,” said Junior.

  “Yep, passed right over it with the push mower, sprayed gravel everywhere,” said Dad. “Lucky he didn’t break any windows or chew up that mower.”

  I winced when I heard that part. The push mower was usually my job. It’s not like I was the world’s best grass trimmer, but I definitely knew enough not to try to mow rocks!

  Dad didn’t say anything to me. He didn’t even look my way. In a way, that was worse.

  There was a knock on the door after dinner. “I’ll get it!” I yelled. Not that I needed to. The other two didn’t so much as look up. We all knew it was for me. I went to the kitchen and opened the door.

  “Yeah, what do you want?” I said.

  “A friend who doesn’t keep us waiting at the door for five minutes,” said Deuce.

  “Yeah, maybe one who’s a little cooler, too,” said Mike.

  I rolled my eyes and stepped aside, and they strolled into the kitchen like they owned the place. Mike and Deuce were my best friends, and they’d been coming over for years. Sometimes, like tonight, they’d just stop by.

  “How was practice?” Mike asked me.

  I just shrugged.

  “That bad, huh?” said Deuce.

  “Could’ve been better,” I admitted. “Most of it wasn’t bad. Jammer’s there….”

  “But …?” said Deuce.

  That’s the thing about best friends: Sometimes they almost know you too well. I didn’t really know what to say about that: But they’re older and like to give me a hard time? But one of them is a real Monster? I’m not a whiner, and Mike and D wouldn’t let me get away with it if I tried. I just changed the subject.

  “Hey, Mike,” I said. “Check the freezer and see if there are any Popsicles left.”

  Mike was the closest to the fridge. He always seemed to be.

  “Sure, STAT,” he said. STAT was a name my dad had given me a long time ago. It stood for Standing Tall and Talented. It was a nickname and kind of a reminder, too.

  Mike ducked his head into the freezer and fished around for a while. Frosty white air drifted out around him. “Bad news,” he said when he finally emerged. “Only two left.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “and you’ve already taken a bite out of one of them!”

  He looked down at the Popsicle in his hand. It had a corner missing and his lips were already bright red. “I couldn’t help it,” he said with a shrug. “Cherry’s my favorite.”

  I
let Deuce have the last one. We hung out for a little longer, and then they headed home. Afterward, I went to the freezer and pulled one last Popsicle out from behind a box of frozen vegetables. I always try to have a backup plan.

  Speaking of backups, when it came time to head to practice number two on Sunday morning, I asked Junior if he’d drive me. I wasn’t sure I could handle another long drive with Dad right now.

  “All right,” said Junior, “but hurry up. I don’t want to be late for my job.”

  Everyone was working except me, but I had a job today, too. If I got another chance, I was going to try to dunk.

  I wasn’t sure it would work. I was still a good four inches away the last time I’d tried. I was hoping that big dinner and a good night’s sleep would get me half of that and the embarrassment from yesterday would get me the rest.

  Anyway, at least the ride over was better. We blasted the music and rode with the windows down.

  Practice began with some drills, a few too many wind sprints, and a lecture about “The Importance of Discipline” from Coach Dunn. To absolutely no one’s surprise, the speech ran long. To make up time, we just went with the same teams as the day before for the scrimmage.

  Right from the start, I had my hands full on defense. I wasn’t the only one determined to do better in practice number two: Wayne was a real pain! He busted out a new move on their first possession. He got the ball down low, dribbled it a few times, and pump-faked. I bit on the fake just a little, but it was enough. He ducked his shoulder and slid past me like he’d been buttered. His body went up and under. The ball went up and in.

  As I turned to head up the court, I heard a low voice behind me.