by Phil Bildner
I stood beyond the three-point line at the top of the key and sized up my five: Zoe was playing the two (shooting guard), Diego was at the three (small forward), Headband was at the four (power forward), and Maya was at the five (center). Yeah, Maya was our center. That’s how tall she now was.
We were going over Black Widow, a play in our half-court offense. I was at the one (point guard). I was running the show. I was the floor general.
“Our minds are working hard,” Coach Acevedo said. “Everyone’s learning every role, everyone’s learning every position.” He pointed to Maya. “Right now, you’re at the five, but when we go small, you may be running the point. Or you might be at the two or three.” He clapped twice and pumped his fists. “Every role, every position.”
For less than a nanosecond, I thought-bubbled the play:
My basketball brain computed:
• I (1) pass to Diego (3) and cut to Zoe (2).
• Maya (5) slides up, pops out, and sets a back screen for Diego to block his man as Diego goes to the hoop.
• Diego dribbles right.
• Maya seals off Diego’s man and rolls to the hoop.
• Headband (4) clears out to free up the lane.
• Diego drives for the layup or dumps the ball to Maya for the layup.
“Here we go,” Coach Acevedo said.
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“Black Widow!” I called.
I whipped the ball to Diego and cut right.
“It’s Vasquez time,” Diego said to Mehdi, who was guarding him. “Later, son.”
He jab-stepped left, waited for Maya to set the screen—a screen Mehdi had no chance of getting around—and then blew by him. As he drove down the lane, Hudson slid over to help, but not before Diego got off the shot and sank the layup.
“Boss!” Diego beat his chest and stomped to me. We did a jumping hip-bump. “We run this floor.”
“Ballin’!” Maya clapped her hands like cymbals.
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“Let’s settle down,” Coach Acevedo said. “You executed a play in practice, but you’re acting like you won the Larry O’Brien Trophy, and if you don’t know what the Larry O’Brien Trophy is, look it up when you get home.”
I knew what the Larry O’Brien Trophy was. Red’s told me a gazillion times. It’s the Super Bowl trophy of the NBA.
“Way to go, Diego Vasquez!” Red cheered.
“Boss!” Diego pumped his fists.
Diego was also part of my Get-Red-to-Come-to-the-Showdown Plan. His job was to include Red as much as possible. That way, Red would realize he’d be missing out if he didn’t go. Red doesn’t like missing out on anything.
“You didn’t draw Hudson far enough from the hoop,” Coach Acevedo said to Headband. “He almost cut off Diego’s lane. Complete your assignments on defense.” He clapped twice. “Let’s run that again. Match up. Here we go.”
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I fired my pass to Diego. Once again, he caught the ball and waited for Maya’s screen. This time, Mehdi fought through it. Well, not really. Diego still got a step on him. In the lane, when Hudson slid over, Diego passed to Maya, who’d rolled around Mimi to the hoop. She sank the layup.
“Ballin’!” Maya shouted.
“Boom! In your face!” Diego thumped his chest again. “We’re two for two!”
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Coach Acevedo pointed at Headband. “You still didn’t draw your man out far enough.”
“Person,” Maya said. “There are guys and girls on Clifton United.”
Coach Acevedo nodded and turned to Mimi, who was guarding Maya. “You can’t lose track of your person that close to the hoop.” He looked at Diego and me. “Way to run the offense.”
Above and Beyond
“You looked great out there today, Rip,” Coach Acevedo said as he rolled the basketball rack past where I was sitting on the floor.
“Thanks,” I said.
He waved for me to join him. I finished putting on my sweats and hoodie, popped up, and followed him to the storage closet by the stage.
“That was some steal you had against Diego,” he said. “I may have to try that move one time.”
I knew exactly the play he was referring to.
I was on defense guarding Diego. We were going over Quicksilver, another half-court offense play. Diego was chirping and talking trash again, but I wasn’t about to let what happened in the schoolyard yesterday happen at practice today. No way. When he tried driving on me, I reached in low, smacked the ball up, and snatched it out of the air.
“The two of you looked terrific out there together.” Coach Acevedo pulled open the closet door and rolled the rack next to the orange cones.
“Thanks,” I said again.
“Now I need you to go next-level.” Coach Acevedo stepped from the closet. “Let’s have a conversation.”
We sat on the front of the stage under the basket.
“I need you to go above and beyond,” he said.
“Above and beyond?”
“We only have a few practices to prepare,” he said, brushing some of the long hair off his face. “We can’t afford any missed assignments. There can be no lapses in focus. Everyone needs to be on point.”
“Got it.”
“Expect a few changes come Thursday,” he said. “I’m already making decisions. I’m looking to you and counting on you out there, Rip.”
“No worries, Coach,” I said.
“I liked what I saw from Elbows and Super-Size.”
“They were both much cooler than I thought they’d be.”
“It’s got to be hard for them,” he said. “They had nothing to do with what went down with their Millwood team last fall. Unfortunately, when anyone looks at them—anyone who knows about it—it’s the first thing that comes to mind.”
With my thumb and index finger, I twisted a lock above my ear. I knew exactly what Coach Acevedo was talking about. Whenever I looked at Super-Size and Elbows, a screaming image of Coach Crazy popped into my head. That’s what I called Millwood’s coach because of the way he always carried on when we played. Red was terrified of the guy. Then over the winter, I heard that Coach Crazy completely lost it and started a fight with a ref. A fistfight. The police had to be called. It made the news.
But here’s the thing: at practice today, when I looked at Super-Size and Elbows, Coach Crazy didn’t pop into my head. Not once.
I was in full basketball mode.
“Make sure everyone’s on board with them,” Coach Acevedo said. “We don’t have time for anyone not to be.” He stared at the empty basketball court. “Red looked fantastic out there.”
“Red looked awesome.”
“He seemed to really enjoy playing with Maya.”
Red and Maya were paired up together at practice. During passing work, Coach Acevedo had them demonstrate the different passes before each drill. Then during rebounding work, they were boxing-out battle buddies.
“How’s it going with him?” Coach Acevedo asked. “Do you think he’ll—”
“He’s coming.” I answered the question before he finished it. “He has to come.”
“Whatever I can do to help, you let me know.”
“Thanks.”
“I meant what I said in the Amp yesterday.” He leaned back on his hands. “I’m going to be pushing you hard, Rip.”
I swung my legs. “I’m up for it, Coach.”
“You ever hear of the author Virginia Euwer Wolff?” he asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“When you get to middle school next year, find her books. Her book True Believer has one of my all-time favorite lines: ‘We will rise to the occasion, which is life.’”
“I like that,” I said.
“I want that to be Clifton United’s mantra.”
“Mantra?”
“Our team motto.” He sat back up and drummed the front of the stage. “I want that to be our rallying cry. We will rise
to the occasion, which is life.”
“We will rise to the occasion, which is life.”
Perky’s Post-Practice
“What kind of dog would you get, Mason Irving?” Red asked.
“A boxer,” I said. “Or a pit bull.”
“Oh, yeah. I love pit bulls.”
“Definitely a rescue dog.”
Red placed a finger on the paper napkin and spun it around on the table. “Definitely a rescue dog.”
We’d stopped at Perky’s on the way home from practice. That’s the coffee shop we go to all the time. Red and I sat at our usual table in the front. Mom and Dana sat at their usual table in the back. Dana’s an assistant principal at another school in my mom’s district. Mom’s been seeing her since the fall.
“What about you?” I asked. “What kind of rescue dog would you get?”
“I’ll know it when I see it,” Red said.
“I like that.”
I’d just finished inhaling a cheesecake brownie. I popped a handful of leftover crumbs into my mouth and checked the barista behind the counter. He had ginormous Batman plugs that made it look like he had holes in his earlobes. They freaked out Red, which was one of the reasons why he had his back to him. The other reason was that he always sat facing the door.
“Practice was sick today,” I said.
“Oh, yeah, Mason Irving. Practice was sick.”
“You sank that free throw and set the tone.” I drummed the table. “Money!”
“You had that steal against Diego.” Red spun the napkin faster. “The play of the day!”
“Who’s your daddy now?”
We both laughed.
“I can’t wait to play in the same backcourt with Diego,” I said.
“Diego Vasquez and Mason Irving are going to be unstoppable.”
“U-N-S-T-O-P-P-A-B-L-E.” I held out my fist.
He gave it a pound.
“You have to be there, Red,” I said.
He hunched his shoulders.
“I’m serious,” I said. “You can’t miss this. You know you want to go.”
He squinched his face and swayed from side to side.
“Everyone wants you there. Diego wants you there. Maya wants you there. I want you there. It’s going to be sick.”
I stopped. I knew better than to press the issue any further.
“You should read this when I’m done,” I said. I held up The Greatest: Muhammad Ali, the book I was reading for choice.
“I like Walter Dean Myers books,” Red said. He relaxed his shoulders. “You should read Fast Sam, Cool Clyde, and Stuff.”
“So do you want a boy dog or a girl dog?”
“A girl dog,” Red said. “Definitely a girl dog.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because boy dogs pee on you!”
I laughed. “No, they don’t!”
“Yes, they do, Mason Irving. Boy puppies lift their legs and pee on everything! Boy puppies lift their legs and pee on fire hydrants. Boy puppies lift their legs and pee on bushes. Boy puppies lift their legs and pee on furniture. Boy puppies lift their legs and pee on people!”
At the exact same moment, Red and I stood up, lifted our legs, and pretended to pee like boy dogs.
Teach Can Ball
At recess the next day, we played four-on-four: me, Diego, Melissa, and this fourth grader, Connor, against Jordan, Declan, Miles, and this other fourth grader, Trevor.
Our four got off to a slow start, but once Diego and I found our rhythm we were unstoppable. We ran a couple sick give-and-gos, and on one play I hit Diego with a backdoor pass that faked out Trevor so bad he scraped his palms on the pavement.
Right now we were up 10–6. Point game. We were on defense. I was doing the play-by-play.
“Declan with the ball up top,” I said. “He dishes to Jordan on the right. Jordan sends it back to Declan. Wow, that offense looks lost out there. Declan passes to Miles in the corner. Miles takes a quick shot … No good!”
Melissa boxed out Jordan for the rebound and whipped the ball to me. As I dribbled out to the top of the key, my basketball eyes spotted Diego cutting baseline. I fired a one-handed pass his way. He caught it under the hoop, shoulder-bumped Trevor, and sank the layup.
“Boo-yah!” I hammer-fisted the air.
“Ballgame!” Diego shouted. “Boom! In your face!”
We did a jumping hip-bump.
“Picking on the little kids, Diego?” someone said.
We all turned.
Mr. Acevedo was jogging onto the court.
“I am a little kid,” Diego said.
Mr. Acevedo clapped for the ball. Diego pump-faked twice before passing it.
“Let’s see you try a move like that on me.” Mr. Acevedo spun the ball on his finger.
“A little game of one-on-one?” Diego said, rolling his neck.
“Careful, man.” Declan slid next to Diego. “Teach can ball.”
Mr. Acevedo could seriously ball. Back in the winter, he played for the teachers in the fund-raiser basketball game against the varsity hoops team. He was the game’s high scorer.
“I can ball, too.” Diego rested his arm on Declan’s shoulder and nodded to Mr. Acevedo. “Let’s see what you got, Teach.”
Mr. Acevedo let the ball spin off his finger and trapped it under his foot. He then slipped off his bracelets, took the larger hoops out of his ears, and handed his jewelry to Miles.
The whole class stood along the baseline. I was between Red and Avery under the basket.
“What are we betting?” Diego bobbed his head.
“We’re not betting,” Mr. Acevedo said.
“Chicken?” Diego flapped his elbows.
Some of the kids laughed.
“No betting,” Mr. Acevedo said.
“No basketball either,” Avery said, wheeling forward. “All I hear is chitchat.” She bumped the back of Diego’s leg. “Play the friggin’ game.”
Diego bounced up and down like he had springs in his sneakers. I thought about what it must’ve been like for him not being able to play ball for so long and what it must’ve been like not knowing if he’d ever run ball again. No wonder he was so amped every time he took the court.
“What are we playing to?” Mr. Acevedo asked.
“First basket wins,” Diego said, still grinning.
“No.”
Diego flapped his elbows again. “Chicken?”
Everyone laughed.
“Not chicken.” Mr. Acevedo kicked up the ball. “Smart. Even you are capable of sinking some ridiculously lucky shot. But you’re not capable of getting lucky like that twice.” He patted his chest. “Not against me. First to two wins.”
“Whose ball?” Diego asked.
Mr. Acevedo backpedaled to the top of the key and took a shot.
Swish!
“Oh!” A bunch of kids shouted.
Mr. Acevedo patted his chest again. “My ball.”
“Way to shoot, Mr. A.,” a kid named Zachary said.
“Teach can ball!” Red hopped from foot to foot.
I cupped my hands around my mouth. “You got this, Diego!”
“Dude, take Mr. Acevedo down!” Avery called.
A few kids started clapping.
“A grown man taking on a boy with cancer,” Diego said. “Yo, that’s messed up.”
“You don’t have cancer anymore, Diego,” Mr. Acevedo said.
“Acute myeloid leukemia. Taking on a boy with AML. That’s so messed up.”
“Talk all you want,” Mr. Acevedo said, smiling. “It’s not going to make a bit of difference.”
Diego rolled his neck. “You know I’m in your head.”
He was in my head. It freaked me out when Diego joked about his cancer.
“Enough with the friggin’ chitchat!” Avery shouted. “Play the game!”
“Check.” Mr. Acevedo underhanded the ball to Diego.
Diego underhanded it back harder. “Ball.”
Mr.
Acevedo lowered his shoulder and blew by Diego. He smacked his hand against the backboard as he sank the layup.
“Nice defense,” Mr. Acevedo said.
“Who’s your daddy, Diego?” I laughed.
“That’s only one.” Diego held up a finger and then pointed it at me. “Only one, son.” He picked up the ball and flipped it to Mr. Acevedo.
“Check.” Mr. Acevedo punched it back.
Diego squeezed the ball. “You want to hear something wack? One time, my uncle’s dog ate his rope toy, and the next day when the dog went to poop, he couldn’t go. My uncle had to pull the rope strings out of the dog’s—”
“Didn’t you hear Avery?” Mr. Acevedo cut him off and motioned to the ball. “Enough with the friggin’ chitchat. Let’s play.”
Diego underhanded it back even harder than last time. “Ball.”
Mr. Acevedo drove again, but this time Diego was ready. He reached in and got his fingers on the first dribble. Mr. Acevedo lost the handle. Diego scooped up the ball and, in one motion, spun toward the basket and threw up a prayer.
Swish!
“Boom! In your face!” Diego ran along the baseline and smacked hands with everyone. He smacked mine the hardest. “Who’s your daddy now?”
Daddy.
The word donged the inside of my head like a clock-tower bell.
My father.
Out of nowhere, Mom had mentioned him the other day. Now I was thinking about him again.
I bopped the side of my head and shook myself back to the schoolyard.
“Next basket wins!” Avery rolled forward. She leaned back in her chair, popped a wheelie, and did a three-sixty.
As cool as it was seeing Diego play basketball, it was even cooler seeing Avery into basketball. Up until fifth grade, she’d never even been to a game. But ever since she went to her first Clifton United game back in the fall, she’s been hooked. This coming summer, she is going to try wheelchair basketball.
“Close it out, Diego!” Xander McDonald called.
“Finish him off,” Attie Silverman said.
Next basket won. Diego had the ball.
“One time when I was in the hospital,” he said, bobbing his head, “this girl projectile-puked all over everyone. The social worker’s face and hair were covered in puke. Covered, Mr. Acevedo!” He bounce-passed the ball to him. “Check.”