Comeback Kid

by Steve Moore

  But during the soccer season, in the championship match of a major tournament, Mr. Jimerino totally blew a head gasket. The ref gave him a red card and kicked him off the sidelines—the first time in the history of the league that a parent got ejected!

  After that embarrassing incident, Mother T banned Mr. Jimerino from all Spiro T. Agnew athletic events unless he agreed to one condition: He had to sit directly in front of Mother T.

  On the inbounds pass after Jimmy’s easy layup, Becky stepped in front of a Chaney player and stole the ball. She took two quick steps to the hoop and scored.

  Then Dewey Taylor blocked a Chaney shot and Stephanie Jennison scooped up the ball, dribbled the length of the court, and dunked—dunked!

  We were ahead, six to zip, and it wasn’t even ten seconds into the game.

  The Mighty Plumbers had seized the “Big Mo”—the game momentum—a mysterious phenomenon that suddenly makes everything go your way.

  Meanwhile, back on the pine, my friends and I settled into the internationally recognized Rules of Behavior for basketball benchwarmers:

  We cheered. We jumped up and pumped our fists in the air every time our team scored or blocked a shot or stole the ball. And when the other team scored or stole the ball, we slouched with our arms folded across our chests and looked all sullen and bitter.

  In between all of our official bench behavior, Joey, Carlos, and I occupied ourselves with other unofficial bench stuff.

  We tied and retied our shoelaces, which is sort of an obsessive thing that Joey started. We glanced back over our shoulders to check out the fans in the bleachers. And we swigged Gatorade, even though we were sitting on our rear ends and not doing anything that would deplete even one drop of our essential bodily fluids.

  I was retying my shoelaces for at least the fourth time when I spotted the gym rat.

  Yeah, the same rat I saw at the end of our first practice. Or maybe it was a different one. I don’t know. Rats all look alike.

  Anyway, the gnarly rodent crawled out from under the bleachers and darted under the far end of our bench, where Ricky Schnauzer, the team manager, had neatly stored the towels, water bottles, and tasty protein bars that Spiro players needed to keep their bodies in prime athletic condition.

  I bent over, looked under the bench, and saw the rat grab one of the protein bars in its mouth. Then it dashed back under the bleachers.

  Okay, not only are those protein bars tasty, but they are expensive! The Spiro T. Agnew athletic department isn’t exactly loaded with cash, so that rat basically had committed a felony.

  I told Joey and Carlos about the gym rat. Carlos was really peeved when he found out there was one less protein bar for him to scarf. Joey just shrugged because he knew it was going to happen five minutes before the rat stole the protein bar.

  (Joey is really soft-spoken, so his important predictions are hard to hear.)

  After the gym-rat robbery, all three of us kept our eyes on the pricey protein bars in case the rodent returned to the buffet for a second helping.

  Meanwhile, in the second half, the game took a frightening turn.

  Remember when I mentioned the Big Mo? I hope so, because it was only a few pages back, so it would be really annoying if you already forgot.

  Well, the Mighty Plumbers had momentum for the first half of the game. But the Werewolves started the second half with a major rally.

  CHAPTER 4

  Our halftime lead of 30–2 was quickly shrinking.

  The Werewolves had a steal, a layup, another steal, another layup, and another steal. Then Beast somehow got his brawn and masses of body hair high enough off the ground to slam down a gruesome dunk that rattled the walls of the gymnasium.

  I think the vibration even set off a car alarm out in the parking lot, but that might have been a coincidence.

  The Werewolves had seized the Big Mo.

  Ordinarily, in that situation, Carlos would have ripped one of his famous belches that can boost the morale of his struggling teammates.

  Carlos has enough gas bottled up in his gut to burp the weird names of disgusting vegetables.

  But he couldn’t tap into his amazing gift that night in the gym.

  Our school principal had learned about Carlos’s amazing ability, and she’d banned him from belching during indoor school functions. Mother T apparently was worried that the sonic waves from his epic burps might cause the school’s ancient 1970s structures to collapse.

  When it became obvious that Spiro had lost the Big Mo, Coach Earwax called a time-out to design a strategy that would stop the Werewolves’ rally.

  On the sideline, he knelt down on one knee with his white board and did that basketball-coach thing where he scribbled diagrams that only he could understand.

  At the end of the time-out, Coach Earwax motioned for Carlos and me to go in the game at center and power forward. Substituting players is a common tactic that coaches use to change the momentum of a game.

  But Carlos and I had zero effect on the Big Mo.

  Every time Carlos tried to stop Beast from scoring, the Chaney center would raise the ball overhead and smoosh his hairy armpits into Carlos’s face. That disgusting tactic triggered Carlos’s “gag reflex.” You know. That thing where you retch and almost blow chunks, but all that comes out are dry heaves that sound like a barnyard animal.

  While Carlos retched and bleated like a goat, Beast dribbled around him and scored.

  When I replaced Dewey Taylor as power forward, I was determined to grab rebounds on both ends of the court.

  A key part of my strategy was to put on my “game face” to intimidate my opponent and establish a psychological edge. A game face is pretty much standard in any sport.

  It’s like when a peacock fans out his rainbow tail feathers and puffs out his chest to strike terror into weak and useless predators.

  Or maybe that’s a peacock mating ritual. I’m not sure.

  Anyway, I have my own assortment of game faces that I use in pretty much every sport.

  And here’s the basketball game face I used against the Werewolves.

  I have no idea why, but it didn’t work.

  The Werewolves’ power forward and I were the same height and weight, but he had a slight advantage. His game face was WAY more intimidating than mine.

  And I’m not even exaggerating!

  Every time I tried to leap up for a rebound, he would growl and gnash his teeth. Then I would lose concentration and let the basketball slip out of my grip.

  I did manage to do one thing right. After one of the Werewolves’ baskets, I inbounded the ball to Jimmy without accidentally tossing it to an opponent.

  But that was it. No points. No steals. No assists. No rebounds.

  At the next change of possession, Coach Earwax took me out and Dewey went back in at power forward.

  The Werewolves still had the Big Mo, and we were getting mauled, 80–50.

  I planted my rear end back down on the bench and wiped the sweat off my face with a clean and fragrant towel that team manager Ricky Schnauzer handed me as soon as I walked off the court.

  Carlos was also yanked and put back on the bench, but he was relieved to be far, far away from Beast’s hairy armpits.

  Meanwhile, Joey remained on the bench because Jimmy Jimerino was still at point guard and in control of the Mighty Plumbers’ offense.

  Soft-spoken Joey made another one of his stupefying psychic predictions.

  Sure enough, about ten seconds later, I spotted the felonious rat.

  It dashed out of the bleachers and disappeared under the far end of the bench, where Ricky had stored our clean and fragrant towels, water bottles, and tasty protein bars.

  I didn’t need to duck my head under the bench to see what the rat was up to.

  I jumped up. The gym rat poked its head out from under the bench. It had a protein bar in its mouth. I wasn’t going to let it steal another one.

  There was no time to hesitate, because rodents are alm
ost as quick as Joey. The rat darted for its hideout under the bleachers, and I dove to save the protein bar.

  I slid about ten feet on my belly, like a baseball player diving headfirst to snag a line drive. It was an excellent slide. (No brag. It’s just a fact.) But I missed the protein bar by a fraction of an inch, and the rat escaped with its plunder.

  My excellent belly slide did not go unnoticed. I turned my head toward the bleachers. The spectators were all staring at me. Even Joey and Carlos and Coach Earwax were looking at me.

  Everyone was silent for about two seconds, then burst into cheers!

  I stood up and sort of gave a little bow.

  No one had seen the rat steal the protein bar, so they had no idea why I had slid on my belly. I guess they thought I was pulling some kind of goofy stunt, like when the Mighty Plumbers mascot stumbles all around the court at halftime and acts like a fool.

  But right after I took my bow, something amazing happened.

  Chaney’s beastly center muscled his way in front of the basket and turned to shoot. But Skinny stood his ground against Beast’s brawn and his hairy, stanky armpits.

  He blocked his shot!

  Becky grabbed the rebound and passed it to Dewey. Dewey dribbled a few steps and passed the ball to Stephanie. Then Stephanie flipped it to Jimmy, who scored on an easy layup.

  Spiro had reclaimed the Big Mo.

  The Mighty Plumbers stopped the Werewolves on the next ten possessions. And Jimmy went on a shooting frenzy, scoring every time he got his hands on the ball.

  He scored twenty unanswered points in the final minutes, and Spiro defeated the Werewolves, 89–88.

  It was the biggest comeback in the history of Spiro T. Agnew Middle School!

  After the game, there were the usual fist bumps and high fives. Spiro boosters ran down out of the bleachers and onto the court. But they didn’t just swarm the Mighty Plumbers’ starting five.

  They all believed that my excellent slide had sparked a rally that changed the momentum of the game. Derp!

  CHAPTER 5

  The next day was Sunday, so Joey, Carlos, Becky, and I met up and walked to Goodfellow Stadium to watch an NBA game. The stadium is right smack in the middle of our neighborhood.

  When we’re not at school or home in bed, we practically live at Goodfellow Stadium. It’s got a rickety domed roof that slides open and closed, so it can host pretty much any kind of sport in any kind of weather.

  Since it was basketball season and winter was closing in, the domed roof was closed. That meant two things for the twenty thousand spectators crammed inside the stadium:

  First, they were relatively safe if a freak blizzard suddenly struck during the game. The dome would offer some protection against seventy-mile-per-hour winds, twenty-foot snowdrifts, and deadly hypothermia.

  And second, the stadium air would be moldy and smelly because twenty thousand spectators with bad breath and body odor were crammed inside.

  But my friends and I weren’t worried about snowdrifts or hypothermia. And we had pretty much learned to ignore the moldy stank of twenty thousand bodies.

  We were there to watch the Goodfellow Goons slaughter the weak and useless Los Angeles Lakers, a former hotshot team that had fallen on hard times.

  On the way to Goodfellow, Becky asked me about “that thing” I did during the Chaney game.

  I started to tell her the story of the gym rat and the tasty protein bar and how I tried to stop a felony in progress. But she interrupted me halfway through.

  “Whatever you did, keep doing it!”

  My friends and I entered Goodfellow Stadium without paying for a ticket. Not because we were Mighty Plumbers basketball players and expected free tickets. We earned our way in.

  Before every game, the concession workers unload truckloads of supplies to feed the twenty thousand spectators who stink up the air inside Goodfellow Stadium.

  My friends and I help them carry in the boxes in exchange for a free game pass and a treat of our choice.

  That night, when we were done hauling boxes, Joey selected his usual treat—a churro, which is a deep-fried pastry smothered in sugar. Carlos went for his favorite, a family-size bag of salted peanuts. He likes to suck all the salt off and then eat the peanuts, shell and all.

  Becky and I chose an Eskimo Pie, as usual—our favorite stadium treat in the entire universe. Vanilla ice cream covered in chocolate. It’s nature’s near-perfect food.

  By the way, Becky and I are not “a thing,” if you know what I mean. So don’t even think that. We’re just good friends who both happen to like Eskimo Pies, okay?

  Anyway, after getting our snacks, we all walked up to our seats at the very top level of Goodfellow Stadium, where the lice-infested pigeons roost.

  Some people refer to those seats as the “nosebleed section” because it’s so high up that blood vessels in nasal passages can burst open and spew blood all over the bleachers.

  (I don’t know if that’s true or not. It might be one of those myths that spectators in the lower seats believe so they feel better about paying a lot more money for their seats.)

  The game had already begun by the time Joey, Carlos, Becky, and I made our climb into the polluted upper atmosphere of Goodfellow Stadium.

  Down on the court, the Goons were slaughtering the Lakers. This was something new.

  In past seasons, the Goons were a “doormat” team. They hardly ever won.

  My friends and I supported them, though. Even if they got creamed by a hundred to zip. They were our hometown team. And the players were friendly and generous. They would give you the socks right off their feet.

  But this year, in the off-season, the Goons had forked over about a billion dollars in hard-earned cash for a hotshot player who’d almost single-handedly turned the team from a doormat into a contender.

  His name was Vido Artukovich.

  Quick Time-Out about Vido

  Vido Artukovich is seven feet tall, which is the perfect height to play center, but Vido is a point guard because he is quick and handles the basketball like a magician. He is by far the best player in the league. Maybe even the best player in NBA history, although my dad disagrees.

  Dad believes that Kobe Bryant was the greatest player in the entire universe. But he can’t prove it because Kobe played way back in ancient times, so he’s really old and rickety now.

  There’s no way Kobe could go one-on-one against Vido Artukovich to settle the argument because Kobe probably wouldn’t even be able to bend over and tie his shoelaces.

  (Dad tries to convince me by “comparing career statistics,” but my brain shuts down when confronted with any kind of math.)

  Vido is the star of the Goons, but he has a severe case of hotshot entitlement. He is a ball hog. In a single game, he could get a hundred points and a hundred rebounds and a hundred steals and a hundred blocked shots and a grand total of zero assists.

  And he is a show-off. Every time he scores, Vido pounds his chest like King Kong.

  He isn’t friendly and generous like his Goons teammates. At the end of one Goodfellow game, my friends and I beat cheeks down to the floor and gave high fives to the players as they were walking to the locker room.

  All of the players except Vido. He walked right past and left us hanging.

  You can probably tell that Vido Artukovich doesn’t exactly fry my burger.

  If Vido was to take off his sweaty socks and offer them to me (not that it would ever happen), I would walk away and leave him hanging.

  My friends and I settled in to watch Vido (er, the Goons) cream the weak and useless Lakers.

  Joey did one of his psychic things. I thought he said “Chill.” Becky heard “Dill.” And Carlos didn’t hear anything because he was preoccupied.

  About thirty seconds later, our good friend Bill—Billionaire Bill—strolled toward us. He was pointing an air horn up at the rafters. Bill was on patrol, but he took a break and sat down with us.

  Bill is a gonzo sp
orts fan who lives inside Goodfellow Stadium in a tiny apartment under the bleachers. In exchange for free rent, he works as the official “pigeon-control officer.”

  He patrols the upper deck and blasts an air horn to scare lice-infested pigeons out of the rafters so that spectators down below don’t have to worry about what might drop from up above. If you know what I mean.

  Bill told us he once was a very wealthy and respected man. I think he was either a fighter pilot or a Hall of Fame basketball coach. Maybe a balloon salesman. I forget.

  Anyway, Bill chucked the good life, and now he hangs out in Goodfellow Stadium and scares the poop out of lice-infested pigeons.

  Bill took a seat and looked down on the court where the Lakers were getting smeared by Vido Artukovich. Then he gave us another one of his valuable nuggets of wisdom.

  Whoa.

  That was deep.

  But we had no idea what he was talking about. Not even Becky!

  Bill could tell we were struggling, so he explained that he got the nugget of wisdom from a guy named John Wooden, who coached a college basketball team way back before the World Wide Web was invented.

  Bill was about to tell us the name of the college where Wooden coached, but a couple of lice-infested pigeons flew onto the rafters up above and threatened us. If you know what I mean.

  Bill ran off in pursuit of the pigeons. It was his job.

  He ditched my friends and me because his tiny apartment under the bleachers wasn’t just handed to him. He had to earn it.

  That’s why, next to my mom and dad, Billionaire Bill is pretty much my favorite adult role model in the entire universe.

  My friends and I watched the rest of the Goons’ game. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

  At one point, Vido (er, Goodfellow) was ahead by thirty points. Then the Big Mo changed directions. The Lakers rallied and battled back, and Goodfellow ended up losing to Los Angeles, 101–100.