by Jon Scieszka
He’s ready to tap out. I can feel it. But the bell rings, and I relax my hold. Tipper rolls over, then looks down at me, still on my back. This time he reaches out a hand. As he pulls me to my feet, he leans close.
“Great fight, Spider.”
“Thanks,” I say.
And as we wait together for the judges, I know that whatever the decision might be, I’ve won.
THE TROPHY
BY GORDON KORMAN
Every time Lucas closes his eyes, the scene plays out like a YouTube video imprinted on his brain waves:
Shimmy gets the ball in the corner, down by a point. Four seconds left on the clock. There’s a defender in his face. No way can a four-foot-eleven point guard shoot over him. Shimmy’s trapped. Three seconds now … There it is, the trademark shimmy! He head-fakes to the left while moving to the right. A gasp threatens to suck all the air out of the gym as his high-top comes down millimeters—no, what’s smaller than millimeters?—from the out-of-bounds line. The silence of the referee’s whistle not blowing is the loudest sound Lucas can remember.
Two seconds. Shimmy’s pass is on its way. Lucas snatches it out of the air at the top of the key. He charges into the paint. A big body blocks his way, appearing as if by black magic.
Wham! Collision. But—no foul. The ref is going to let this play out.
One second left. A game clock loaded with twenty-four hundred heartbeats has run down to this ultimate tick. Defenders can be beaten, but not time itself. No chance to put the ball on the floor, no move to the left or right. There’s only one option, one direction—
Up.
Lucas isn’t much of a leaper, but in that instant, his legs are superpowered by the screams of the crowd and all the desperation of the final second of the championship game. He springs, feeling the air beneath him—more air than he can ever recall before. The ball leaves his hands a split second before the buzzer sounds. He’s so panicked by the prospect of a block that he gets off a clumsy shot with an awkward high trajectory. The defender swipes at it, fingertips passing barely a half inch below.
Lucas waits for the swish, prays for it….
The clunk of the ball against the back of the rim resounds like a bomb blast. The shot ricochets high—weirdly high. For an instant, it’s frozen there, level with the top of the backboard. Then it drops like a stone through the hoop, snapping the net.
Final score: 43–42 for the Hollow Log Middle School Hammers, city champions.
Pandemonium.
At this point, Lucas’s vision begins to blur. The team is in a raucous, disorganized huddle, bouncing up and down as ecstatic spectators rush the floor. Kids are actually crying—or is that the parents? Maybe it’s Coach Skillicorn who’s crying—this is his first championship in twenty-seven years of coaching.
One memory that’s crystal clear is the trophy: the Interboro Cup. Four gleaming Winged Victory figures holding up a golden basketball. The only thing more beautiful than the cup itself is what it represents. Thirty-two sixth-grade teams enter the tournament; one gets to hoist this prize. Not their finals opponent, the Sunnyside Heat, top seeds at the start of the competition. Not even the five-time champion Revere Raiders, the city’s perennial powerhouse.
Us.
Even now, weeks later, as Lucas and Shimmy pass the gym on the way to their lockers, they always glance to the left, treating their eyes to the sight of …
The pair freezes. The display case stands open. The Interboro Cup is nowhere to be seen.
“Where’s the trophy?” Shimmy demands.
“Relax,” says Lucas. “There could be a million totally normal reasons why it isn’t there.”
“Like what?”
“Like they sent it out to be polished. Or engraved. Maybe we’re going to get our names on it.”
Shimmy is unimpressed. His real name is James Tracey Abandando. James = Jimmy = Shimmy.
At that moment, Coach Skillicorn steps out of the athletic office. The boys can see right away that something is wrong. Coach has been a changed man since the big win: taller, confident. Now he seems changed back again: hunched, nervous, gray in the face. He gestures to the display case. “Do you two know anything about this?”
“You mean the trophy?” Lucas asks. “It’s missing? Are you sure someone didn’t just take it out to shine it up or something?”
Coach shakes his head sadly. “The lock has been picked. It’s a theft. No question about it.”
Lucas is bewildered. “But who would want to steal our trophy?”
Shimmy stares at him. “What are you talking about, man? It’s the trophy! It’s the most valuable thing in our school!”
“It’s valuable to us because we won it,” Lucas insists. “To anybody else it’s just a metal statue on a block of wood.” He turns to the coach. “What do the police say?”
“We haven’t called them yet,” Skillicorn replies. “Principal Updike thinks it’s just a prank pulled by somebody here.” He sighs. “I hope he’s right.”
Sure enough, right at the beginning of homeroom, Dr. Updike comes on the PA system: “Attention, students. Someone has removed the Interboro Cup from the display case outside the gymnasium. To that person, I say perhaps you thought this was a fine joke, but I’ll have you know that the rest of us are not amused. We are all very proud of our sixth-grade basketball team, which has reached a level of excellence never before achieved in the history of Hollow Log Middle School. You have until the end of the day to return the trophy to its place, and no names will be taken and no questions asked. I trust you to do the right thing.”
Shimmy leans over to Lucas. “You know, Updike may have a PhD, but he sure isn’t very smart. If you went to all the trouble to swipe the greatest trophy in the history of the world, would you give it back just because some principal says you won’t get in trouble?”
“I’ll bet it was one of the eighth graders,” grumbles Obert Marcus—power forward—known as O-Mark on the team. “Those guys think they rule the school. They can’t stand anybody else getting attention.”
Shimmy stays on message. “They have to call the cops. Only police have the power to break into lockers and search the whole building.”
“No matter what happens to the cup,” Lucas tells them, “we’re still champions. No one can take that away from us.”
Shimmy isn’t buying it. “And how do you prove that to people? By showing them your trophy!”
As the day progresses, Lucas, Shimmy, and all the Hammers find reason after reason to stop by the gym and keep an eye on the display case. The space where the trophy sat yawns a little wider every time.
“The trophy’s just a symbol,” Lucas repeats. But he’s lying, even to himself, and everybody knows it. The kid who hit the winning shot wants the Interboro Cup back more than any of them—except possibly Coach Skillicorn, who has left school early due to “a migraine.” By the 3:30 bell, Coach has sent his team members six text messages encouraging them not to despair. Each one sounds more despairing than the last.
Lucas passes by the gym on his way out of the building. The case is still empty.
When Lucas picks up the phone, Max Tehrani—shooting guard and team captain—is on the other end. “You’d better see this. Get over here.”
By the time he makes it to Max’s, the whole team is there, crowded around the Tehranis’ computer. He catches a tragic look from Shimmy, but before he can ask, the captain begins his explanation.
“When I got back from school, this was posted on my Facebook wall.” Max pounds the keyboard, and the image grows until it’s practically full-screen.
The boys stare. The picture is distorted by blurry patches, but there’s no question that they’re looking at four Winged Victory figures hoisting a golden ball: the Interboro Cup.
“Our trophy!” Shimmy exclaims in anguish.
The photograph is a close-up, with the pedestal of the cup out of view, so it’s impossible to see what the base is resting on. A dark, indistinct form ru
ns across the top of the frame.
“It’s under some kind of roof,” Lucas observes.
“Or an awning,” Max agrees. “And that pole in the background could be a support for it.”
A four-word message accompanies the picture in block capital letters.
COME AND GET ME!!!!
“Come and get me where?” Shimmy shouts.
Jeff Leventhal—small forward—has a practical question. “Who took the picture? Find the sender, and you’ve found the trophy.”
Max shakes his head sadly and scrolls to the far margin. Under “posted by” is:
4u2findout.
“Cute,” mumbles O-Mark.
“It’s not cute.” Shimmy moans in true pain. “Don’t you get it? This is like a ransom note! It’s like saying: ‘We have the Interboro Cup. If you ever want to see it again, put a million dollars in a Walgreens bag and drop it in the trash can at Seventy-first and Kissena.’”
“It doesn’t mention anything about money,” Jeff reminds him. “It just says ‘Come and get me.’”
Lucas is still peering at the screen as if trying to will a set of GPS coordinates to appear at the top of the photograph. “Wait a minute. What’s all this stuff in the background?”
Max, who’s good with computers, sections off a square from the top right corner of the picture and blows it up. Frowning, he imports the image to a photo-enhancement program. As he skillfully clicks on various controls, the picture gradually becomes more distinct.
Shimmy is bewildered. “It’s just a row of stores.”
“No,” Lucas amends. “It’s a row of stores behind the spot where they stashed our trophy.” His eyes fall on a dark sign with orange lettering:
EPIC JERK
Caribbean Restaurant
“Google it!”
A moment later, the address is on the screen: 224A Sterling Avenue, West Hook.
“That has to be the place,” he decides. “No way are there two restaurants in town called Epic Jerk.”
“So what happens now?” O-Mark asks. “We call Coach, and he goes to the cops?”
Lucas shakes his head. “No cops. No adults, period. By the time they’re done making inquiries, whoever took the cup will move it to the toilet tank in his subbasement. It’s our trophy; we have to get it ourselves.”
“West Hook is all the way on the other side of town!” Jeff protests.
“There’s such a thing as buses, you know,” says Shimmy. “Nobody’s going to make you travel by pogo stick.”
Max has a practical concern. “Even if we can get to the restaurant, that doesn’t mean we’ll be able to find the trophy from there. Come to think of it, there’s no guarantee that the trophy’s still in the spot where the picture was taken.”
Lucas takes a deep breath. “I know. But right now it’s all we’ve got to go on.”
The trophy is just a symbol …
They’re his own words, but Lucas struggles to believe them. Sure, the Interboro Cup isn’t what makes them champions. Its absence from the case outside the gym doesn’t change what happened in the sixth-grade tournament.
You don’t cross the city on two buses and a subway for a symbol—not even the symbol of the greatest thing you’ve ever done.
And that doesn’t even take into account how weird all this is. Who kidnaps a trophy? He knows he’s letting his imagination get the better of him, yet heading off into the total unknown undoubtedly carries a certain amount of danger. Surely the guys see that too. Why else the reluctance of some of them to go along with this?
He shakes his head. No trophy can make you a champion. But what champion won’t man up and take back his prize?
There’s a decent turnout at the bus stop. The starting five—Lucas, Shimmy, O-Mark, Jeff, and Max—plus Dalton Chen, the shrimp of the team, but with a scorching outside jump shot. Also—Lucas’s eyes fall on a tiny red-haired girl hugging a ratty plush bunny that’s been through countless laundry cycles. The kid is Ariella, Max’s six-year-old sister.
Lucas nudges Max. “What’s she doing here?”
The Hammers’ captain shrugs miserably. “My parents both work Saturdays. I have to babysit, no getting out of it.”
“Yeah, but does she need to bring the toy?” Shimmy asks in annoyance.
“Mr. Fluffernutter is not a toy; he’s an elderly rabbit gentleman,” Ariella says defiantly.
“I’m stuck,” Max explains. “If I make her leave the rodent, she’ll rat me out to our folks. I assume I’m not the only one who wasn’t totally honest about what we’re doing today.”
A chorus of nods greets this announcement, along with an accounting of the various excuses, half-truths, white lies, and outright whoppers the boys cooked up to explain what will surely be an errand that takes a good chunk of the day.
At last, the bus pulls up to the curb and the Hollow Log Hammers file aboard, sister and Mr. Fluffernutter in tow.
On the ride to the subway station, Shimmy brings up the question that’s on everybody’s lips. “Do you think we’re going to run into the low-down sleazoid who ripped off our trophy?”
“We have to be ready for anything,” Lucas replies. “Remember the Facebook message—it said ‘Come and get me.’ If that’s not a challenge, I don’t know what is.”
“But we don’t know anybody in West Hook,” Jeff puts in. “And why would anybody in West Hook know us?”
“The tournament covers the whole city,” Dalton points out. “Could these be the guys we beat in the final?”
Max shakes his head. “That team was from Sunnyside.”
“Maybe they stole the trophy and took it over to West Hook just to mess with our heads,” Shimmy suggests.
Lucas looks impatient. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll find out when we get there, and we’ll deal with whatever we have to.”
“Are we there yet?” Ariella whines. “Mr. Fluffernutter wants to go home.” Which means Ariella wants to go home.
“Mr. Fluffernutter is in for a long day,” her brother tells her.
They get off the bus at the subway station and descend two long staircases to the trains. The westbound platform is wall-to-wall people. It’s a physical effort for the teammates to stay together. Max keeps an iron grip on his sister’s arm.
“You’re hurting Mr. Fluffernutter,” she complains.
“He’ll get over it,” Max growls. “He’s a rabbit, for crying out loud.”
The train is even more packed than the station. Lucas can’t reach a pole or a handle. But it’s okay, because it’s impossible to fall when you’re packed in like a sardine. The other Hammers are similarly squashed at various places around the car.
As they clatter through the darkness of the tunnel, Lucas concentrates on the station names. The last thing they want to do is miss their stop. He’s trying to decipher the subway map, when, out of the corner of his eye, he spies a white rabbit exiting the train attached to the Velcro strap on a man’s cell phone pouch.
A shriek cuts the air. “Mr. Fluffernutter!!!”
Ariella snakes across the car and out the door in pursuit of her beloved toy.
“Ariella! Come back!” Max is struggling to follow, but he’s too hemmed in. He’s not going to make it.
The tone sounds. The doors begin to close.
“Awwww—” Lucas jams his way through and hits the platform running. At a level of athleticism that matches his moves on his winning basket, he grabs Ariella with one hand and, with the other, snatches the rabbit off the man’s strap. Then he wheels on a dime and sprints back for the car.
Too late.
The last thing Lucas sees as the train moves on into the tunnel is the terrified faces of his teammates pressed against the windows, staring out at him through the smeared glass.
Shimmy holds his hand over the mouthpiece of his cell phone. “It’s okay. They’re on the next train. They’ll be here any minute.”
The sighs of relief move the air. The five remaining Hammers sit in the back of t
he T-19 bus, which is parked in the station, waiting to begin its route to West Hook. Max’s sigh is the biggest of all. Recovering the trophy is optional; recovering Ariella is mandatory.
“Did they rescue Mr. Fluffernutter?” Dalton asks anxiously.
“What do you care?” Shimmy explodes. “He’s the reason we’re in this whole mess! He’s a rabbit—and he isn’t even a real rabbit!”
“Look!” O-Mark exclaims, pointing back at the station. “Here they come!”
Out of the darkness, a larger figure, a smaller one, and a bouncing white blob are running full tilt for the bus.
“They made it!” Max cheers.
No sooner have the words passed his lips than the doors close, the gears grind, and the bus is moving off down the street.
“Wait!” Shimmy howls. “Our friends are back there!”
“Got a schedule, kid,” the driver tosses over his shoulder. “If I’m late, it’s a mark against me.”
No amount of begging or pleading makes any difference.
The group passes the trip in silence. The sole exception is Shimmy, who updates his teammates on the increasingly agitated text messages from Lucas back at the station, waiting for the next T-19 bus. The others have their eyes out the window, watching for Sterling Avenue. West Hook is a lot older than their part of town, the ancient, fading signs difficult to read.
Suddenly, Jeff is on his feet, pointing and shouting. “Look—it’s the restaurant! From the Facebook picture!”
Max squints at the orange lettering. Epic Jerk. He pulls the cord, and the five Hammers get off. There’s an awkward moment as they stand on the corner, watching the bus drive away. The triumph of reaching their destination fades quickly. Finding the restaurant and finding the trophy are two different matters. All they know for certain is that Epic Jerk is visible from wherever the trophy was when the photograph was taken.
“So,” rumbles O-Mark in his deep voice, “what happens now?”