It was signed with the kind of squiggly scrawl that was on every doctor’s note I’d ever seen. I was pretty sure I saw a G in there, so I knew it was from sour, dour Dr. Guntrum. I was surprised she didn’t just sign it with a frowning face.
I tried to imagine what the kids at school would say. My school could be pretty rough on kids with glasses.
If anybody could pull these things off, it was me, but I didn’t have time to figure this out right now. I put the goggles back in the box, took the box to my room, and stuffed it under my bed. Then I changed into some old jeans and a T-shirt, hopped on my bike, and headed off toward the edge of town.
There were a few office parks out there, and I knew that Dad and his crew were working at one of them. I knew I’d found the right one when I heard the sound of the big riding mowers and saw his truck parked at the edge of the parking lot.
I thought about leaving my bike in one of the parking spots. I thought it would be kind of funny. Those spots were for people who worked here, and I planned on working. But some dude would probably just pull his Honda in without looking and my bike would be road-kill. I leaned it against a tree and went to find Dad. He called his riding mower a “lawn tractor,” and he was so surprised to see me, he nearly fell right off it.
“What are you doing here, STAT?” he said, killing the engine. “You okay? The eye bothering you?”
“Nah, I’m all right,” I said. I thought about telling him the goggles had arrived, but he’d just want to know why I wasn’t wearing them. “I just thought I’d help out.”
I didn’t usually help out during the week. Dad always made it clear that my main job then was getting good grades at school. But then I didn’t usually get accused of goofing off and only “working at playing” at dinner. I usually worked on the weekends, but I’d been missing those lately, too, because of basketball practices.
“What’s your homework situation?” Dad asked.
“I’m all caught up. Just a few little things for tonight.”
“And your eye?”
“Feels all right. Should be fine under the eye patch.”
He looked at me carefully, considering it. I don’t know if he knew I was there to prove a point — or if he thought I was there because he’d proven his. But as busy as he was, he wasn’t about to turn down an extra pair of hands. “Okay,” he said at last. “Go help Manny over there, but tell him no power tools. I don’t think the vibrations would be good for that eye.”
He didn’t smile or say thanks, and he definitely didn’t apologize. I’d missed whole days of work and now I was showing up for the last few hours of this one. But he gave me a little nod, and that felt like something. I went to find Manny as Dad’s lawn tractor roared back to life behind me.
Manny was in the big garden out front. The company that owned the office park had its name spelled out in bright flowers facing the highway. The whole thing was surrounded by carefully trimmed bushes and shrubs. It was the kind of job you had to be careful with so you didn’t end up putting a foot-shaped dot in the wrong part of the i.
Manny was kneeling down in the flower bed, so I could only see his back. I knew it was him, though. He’d worked with us for years. “Hey, Manny,” I said. “Dad says I should give you a hand. Just no power tools, ’cause of my eye.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, standing up and turning around. “I heard about that. How’s it feeling?”
I just shrugged. I’d been answering questions about my eye for days now, and it was getting old, but that wasn’t why I didn’t answer him. The reason for that: I was too busy looking at his safety goggles. He wore them when he was trimming hedges or pruning trees. Any time a branch or thorn might poke him in the eye. I guess I was so used to seeing them that I hadn’t even thought about that. They looked so much like the ones that came today that I wondered if they were the same brand.
“Earth to Amar’e,” he said.
“Yeah, sorry, Manny,” I said, snapping back to the here and now.
“Get some gloves and start pulling weeds,” he said. “We got some sneaky ones trying to take over the S over there. Think there might be something going on with the E, too.”
“Got it,” I said.
I headed over to Dad’s truck to get some gloves and his hedge clippers. As I walked, I took one more look back at Manny’s goggles.
I worked a good three hours: weeding, trimming, clipping, and whatever else Manny needed me to do. When we were done, I threw my bike in the back of Dad’s truck and we headed home. The truck was running even worse than the last time I was in it. There was one uphill where I was thinking, This would be quicker on the bike.
Dad was still in a bad mood, but I think it was mostly about the truck. He didn’t really say anything about me showing up to work. He didn’t really say anything about anything. When we turned onto our block, I finally asked: “You ever wear safety goggles, like Manny?”
“Sure,” he said. His voice flat and tired. “I’ve got a pair somewhere. Just depends on the job.”
“Hmm,” I said.
It was definitely something to think about. And I did, too. But when I headed to school the next day, I had my eye patch on. The goggles were still stuffed under my bed.
Depends on the job, he’d said. My assignment today was sixth grade. It just didn’t seem like big, bug-eyed glasses were the right tool for the job.
Wednesday was business as usual at school: a pop quiz here, a spelling test there. No one even mentioned the eye patch.
Right before lunch I heard a low voice behind me: “I hope you enjoyed your day off!” I should’ve known it was Deuce. He was making his voice sound like the drill sergeant he thought he was.
“Some day off,” I said. “I must’ve pulled up half the weeds in Florida.”
“That’s highly unlikely,” he began. “In the Everglades alone there are …” And then he caught himself and went back into Super Trainer mode. “I mean, you’re going to wish you were pulling weeds today! We’re going to do twice as many stairs, and I have something new planned, too.”
“Oh, great,” I said. I could feel those backpacks on me already.
A few hours later, I was getting ready to put them on for real. I was swapping out the textbooks in my school pack for the heavy load of old notebooks and other stuff. Before I put it on, I bent down and stuck my hand under my bed. I fished around until I found the box with the goggles.
I took them out and looked at them. I guessed it wouldn’t be so bad to wear them to the park. There was hardly anyone there during the week, anyway, and I really didn’t like the way the patch got all sweaty. I put the goggles on. It was nice to be able to see with both eyes.
Right on cue, I heard Mike knocking on the door. I could tell it was him because he always knocked too hard. I walked out to the kitchen wearing both backpacks and the goggles. Mike and Deuce had gone easy on me with the eye patch, but I was sure they’d bust on me for the goggles.
“Cool goggles, man,” said Deuce.
I was happy to be wrong again.
“Yeah, you look old school,” said Mike. “Like Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.”
“Yeah, definitely,” said Deuce. “Maybe we should work on your skyhook.”
I expected them to make fun of me, and instead they’d compared me to a Hall of Famer. They definitely weren’t as nice once we got to the park. I always knew Deuce was smart. I mean, the guy knew how many weeds there were in the Everglades! But it turned out he was a legit genius when it came to finding ways to make me work my legs.
We started off with the two drills from the first day. First up (and down) was running that little set of stairs. Deuce was true to his word and had me do twice as many, but it was easier with the goggles. I could judge distances better with both eyes on the job, so I could run down the stairs, too. I did twice as many in the same amount of time. I was feeling like a beast until Deuce said, “Good, now you have time to do twice as many jumps onto the bench.”
They had
me jumping on and off this bench. It felt like eight years, but they claim it was only ten minutes. Mike was timing me with his mom’s plastic egg timer, and I was fried and scrambled by the time it went off. “Okay, you’re done,” he said.
“I’m done in!” I said. “Water break.”
I started trudging toward the old water fountain before they could say no. My backpacks flopped against my sweaty shirt with each step. When I’d had about a gallon’s worth, I headed back. Mike and Deuce were standing on the basketball court now.
“Over here,” called Deuce. “Stand right under the rim.”
“Okay,” I said once I was right under the ratty old net.
“Now jump up and touch it,” said Deuce.
“The net?” I said.
“The rim.”
“I can’t touch the rim,” I said. “I’ve got two stuffed backpacks on.”
“You can’t touch it anyway,” said Deuce. Ouch. “That’s why we’re here. Just get as close as you can.”
Man, that was humbling. I stretched my right arm and hand up as high as they could go, but I could barely even get off the ground with those backpacks on. My first jumps were the best, but even then there was some serious airspace between my fingers and the rim. I could see it right above me, though. The rim looked close enough to touch. It was like it was taunting me. It was good motivation, and probably a good workout, but pretty soon I was done.
“That’s it, guys,” I said. “No más.”
They looked at each other and nodded.
“I’m glad you two are satisfied,” I said. “Especially since you haven’t sweated one drop today!”
“Hey,” said Deuce. “We are sacrificing our own workouts to help you!”
“That’s right,” said Mike. “We’re heroes!”
If I’d had the energy to laugh, I would’ve. Instead, I slipped out of my bags and left them on the ground as I stood up. My legs were definitely tired, but I had that weird weightless sensation, too. My body felt so much lighter without the extra load. I looked up at the rim, still right above me. I guess I had one more jump in me. I knelt down and sprung straight up. And you know what? I almost made it. Even without a running start, my fingertips came pretty close to the iron. Which was good, since a running start was completely out of the question now.
“Pretty close,” said Mike.
“Yeah, you’re definitely getting there,” said Deuce.
I couldn’t believe it. I looked at my friends. As crazy as their methods were, they were onto something. We chilled out for a while, and I got some more water. My legs still felt like wet noodles, but pretty soon I felt good enough to shoot around a little. After a few shots, I heard voices. A group of older kids was heading for the other side of the court.
For a second, I thought about my goggles. I wondered what these older kids would think. But I didn’t sweat it too much. (I didn’t have that much sweat left!) Deuce and Mike thought they were okay, and I didn’t even know these other kids. Plus, the goggles seemed right for a basketball court. That’s where I hurt my eye in the first place.
We shot around until it was time to go. The older kids didn’t say anything about my goggles. Maybe they didn’t notice. Anyway, my shot was falling. I hadn’t dunked yet, but at least I could still put it in the old-fashioned way.
I didn’t want to put the sweaty backpacks back on afterward, but it was the best way to get them home. Plus, my trainers insisted. I was really dragging by the time I reached the yard. Sure enough, Dad was right there unloading his truck. It was too late to take the packs or the goggles off, and I was too tired, anyway.
He looked over at me. I wondered if he was going to say something about me goofing off again, working at playing and all that stuff. His mouth was pinched down into a frown, and it looked like he was considering it. But when he spoke, all he said was: “About time those goggles arrived. Ordered them on Sunday.”
“Yep,” I said, and shuffled into the house before he could change his mind.
I got up a little early on Thursday. I’d decided to wear the goggles. No one had said anything bad about them yet, and I’d always been pretty confident about my style. But part of my brain was still saying, Don’t do it! Just wear the patch. Kids are used to it now. I told that part of my brain to pipe down and get back to picking clothes. If I was going to do this, I was going to do it with a super-fresh outfit.
I stood in front of my dresser and asked myself: What goes with goggles (other than swim fins)? I tried on some different things. Finally, I came up with the perfect combination: my best jeans, crisp kicks, and a cool sweater. Yep, it was the kind that buttoned down the front. If kids were going to call me a nerd because of the goggles, I’d be the coolest nerd they’d ever seen.
Once I got to school, I spotted Deuce in the hallway. I walked up behind him and said, “All right, man, be honest. What do you think?”
He spun around. “Okay, STAT, seriously, a guy as big as you shouldn’t be sneaking up on us little dudes,” he said. “Second, let me have a look.”
He put his hand under his chin, like he was deciding whether or not to buy a car. Not that a twelve-year-old can buy a car, but you get the idea. “Mm-hmm,” he said.
“What?” I said.
“Fresh,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s not too much?” I said, hooking a finger under the front of my sweater.
“On me it would be,” he said. “But if anyone can pull that look off, it’s you.
“Besides,” he added, “you’re too big to be a nerd.”
We headed to homeroom. From this point on, confidence was the key.
Did you ever get something really cool that you just couldn’t wait to show off? Like maybe your favorite player’s jersey or an awesome pair of new sneakers, and you couldn’t wait until you got into school so everyone could see? Well, that’s how I acted with the goggles. I held my head up high — which was saying something at my height — and walked with confidence. I was just like, All right, homeroom, check out my new goggles.
A girl named Lucy stared right at them as I headed for my desk. I could see she didn’t know what to think. So I looked right back at her and gave her a nod and a little smile. “Pretty cool, right?” I said.
The whole room was watching now.
She smiled.
“Yeah, you’re looking good today, Amar’e,” she said.
The whole room looked at me again: the goggles, the outfit, my head and shoulders held up high.
“Are those glasses?” asked my friend Marcus.
“Nah, they’re goggles,” I said. “To protect the eye I hurt playing hoops.”
“Like the eye patch?” said a kid named Joey.
“Yeah, except I can see the whole room now.”
“Cool,” said Marcus.
“I’ve seen those on NBA players,” said Joey.
That pretty much sealed the deal. I kept it up all day: not just wearing the goggles but kind of showing them off. It worked. By last period, a few kids even asked me where they could get a pair like mine.
“I know this lady,” I said, thinking of sour-faced Dr. Guntrum, “but it’s kind of a pain to get in to see her.”
Mike and Deuce cracked up, but no one else got it. I laughed, too. I was feeling pretty good about things — except for my legs, which still felt like Jell-O from the workout yesterday. And as the final bell rang, I knew I wasn’t about to get a break.
“All right, private,” said Deuce, switching immediately into drill sergeant mode. “We’ll see you at the court. I suggest you lose that sweater.”
With the goggles on, the whole class could see me roll my eyes.
We practiced hard on Thursday and Friday. It seemed like it was working. My muscles were definitely screaming at me, but I wasn’t sure exactly how much it was helping my jumping. We did the drill where I tried to touch the rim from a standing jump both days, but there was no way I was going to get the
re with those backpacks on. And by the time I took them off, my legs were too fried.
I really looked forward to just shooting around at the end. And yeah, I would’ve looked forward to pretty much anything that didn’t involve sweltering under double-barreled backpacks at that point. But shooting around was especially sweet. It was nice to just drift around the court with the packs off, nailing J’s, and letting the breeze cool me down after all that hard work.
I was sure that none of the other kids who’d be playing in the tournament were working harder than I was. I felt good about that. Maybe not when I was on my fiftieth set of stairs, or when I woke up in the morning with my legs tied in knots. But at the end of practice, when I faded away and drained a fifteen-foot jumper? Yeah, that felt good.
I’d need it, too. Tomorrow and Sunday, those other kids would be practicing hard. The coach would be watching every move and giving them pointers. Monster would be patrolling the paint like a chained dog, and Jammer would be rising above it all. And me, I’d be pushing a lawn mower or pulling up weeds. I’d already made up my mind: Practice hard all week and help out Dad on the weekend. I could still picture him looking at me with that big, fat frown the other day, and it bothered me.
Deuce doubled the number of times I had to run up and down the stairs again on Friday. “Come on, D,” I said. “I’ve been doing this all week.”
“You’re the one taking the weekend off to work,” he said.
“Taking the weekend off to work?” I said. “That doesn’t even make any sense!”
But he was having none of it. “Get going before I double it again,” he said. He was enjoying this way too much, but I got going.
I worked all Saturday. I really could’ve used a day off after the week I’d had. Weren’t people supposed to relax on the couch or something like that when they were injured? Instead, I felt like I’d been going twice as fast and doing twice as much since the moment I got back from the hospital.
Slam Dunk Page 4