by Scott Ostler
NO PLACE TO HIDE
TROOPER BLEW HIS WHISTLE AND SAID, “LET THE FUN begin! Two lines for layups.”
I headed off the court, figuring I would watch for a while, but James grabbed my chair and gently spun it around toward the court, smiling and motioning with his head, like, C’mon!
Of course I airballed every layup. But thanks to a couple things James had showed me, I was getting a bit more height on the shots. Still a mile from the rim, though.
We ran some passing drills. I didn’t mess up too bad there. Then Trooper said, “Let’s scrimmage.”
One of the parents ran the clock and scoreboard. Since there were seven kids, counting me, Trooper scrimmaged with us, along with one of the dads and Hayley’s big sister. They were in chairs, too. They were able-bodied, but I guess because they did this a lot, they could really maneuver, much better than I could.
I flashed back to playground games. When we chose up sides, I was always a captain, or the first guy picked. There was always the kid who got picked last, some uncoordinated dweeb.
Now that kid was me.
I had no clue why, but I was expecting everyone to kind of take it easy, because we were all wheelchair kids. I was so wrong. These kids got after it, crashing and pushing. Lots of contact, chairs colliding.
I tried to stay as far away from the action as I could, but I wasn’t even good at doing that.
On one play, Hot Rod stole a pass. He took off downcourt, dribbling, picking up speed. He was almost to the hoop, about to shoot, when Mia cut in front of him at an angle. They crashed, their chairs went over, and Hot Rod and Mia wound up on the floor.
I froze. What now? Is there a doctor?
“Foul on Mia,” Trooper said. “Good hustle, Mia, but you didn’t establish position. If you don’t have time to get in front of Hot Rod, you have to either contest his shot from the side or try to ride him away from the basket. You can’t just cut directly in front of him. That’s a blocking foul. And Hot Rod, if you see you’re going to get fouled, put up a shot, make it a shooting foul, get yourself two free throws.”
Mia climbed back into her chair, and she and James helped Hot Rod back into his. Like it was no big deal. It was a big deal to me. Now I had something else to worry about: falling.
Trooper must have noticed the look on my face.
“Carlos,” he said, “in a game, if a player falls, the refs do not stop play unless the player is in a position to get hurt, like if he’s in the middle of the action. Otherwise, play continues. You get back into your chair on your own, or with the help of teammates.”
I didn’t have to wait long to find out about falling. A few minutes later, Hot Rod in-bounded the ball to James, who drove around Jellybean and headed to the hoop. All I had to do was spin away from the guy I was guarding, James’s dad, and pick up James. I’d never been much for playing defense, saving my energy for shooting, but I knew the basics.
I spun my chair around and started to push over a couple feet to cut off James, but he was coming too fast. I tried to bail out, back off, but it was too late. James crashed into my chair and knocked it over.
Ever since the accident, people had kind of treated me like I was fragile, and you get used to that. Now here I was crashing to the floor. I wasn’t hurt, and I tried to kind of smile like it was no big deal, but I was shaken up.
“Good idea, Carlos,” Trooper said. “Just a little late, but good idea helping out.”
James and Hot Rod reached down to help me back into my chair. I looked over at the bleachers where the parents were sitting. None of them were paying much attention to the scrimmage; they were all talking—except for my aunt. She was on her feet, her mouth and eyes wide open.
I tried to wave at her, like, I’m fine, but she started onto the court.
One of the moms touched Rosie’s arm and said something to her. The two of them walked out of the gym, Rosie glancing over her shoulder all the way.
James saw me watching my aunt leave.
“Coffee, Carlos,” he said. “My mom’s taking your mom out for a coffee.”
“My, uh, aunt doesn’t drink coffee,” I said.
James said, “When a kid is new here, their parents worry about them getting hurt. The other parents just need to explain the deal—that a few bruises are part of the game.”
I thought, Maybe somebody should take me out for coffee.
We kept scrimmaging. I was getting tired. And confused. Basketball had always been easy. But this? This was hard. It was a lot of work pumping the chair up and down the court. I had always hated to sit on the bench, and hardly ever did, but now all I wanted to do was get off the court and be invisible. Like I was at my new school.
I looked at the clock. The hands still hadn’t moved. Time was standing still.
“Coach,” I said. “Can I go out for a quick rest?”
It sounded weird to hear myself say that. I’d never asked to come out of a game in my life.
“Okay, Carlos,” Trooper said. “Let me know when you’re ready to go back in. The more scrimmage time you get, the better.” And he called in one of the parents to take my spot.
Whew, I was safe. But during the next stop in action, Mia rolled over to me with a big smile and said, “Hey, Carlos, I need to get a bandage on this scratch on my arm. Jump in and take my place, okay?”
“Uh, I’m just k-kind of watching,” I stuttered. And I never stutter.
“Then kinda watch James,” she said, still smiling. “He’s right-handed, but he likes to go to his left.”
Mia pushed past me, then looked back and said, “Carlos? Welcome to the team!”
She turned back around before I could say something stupid about how I’m not really on the team.
The only thing more embarrassing than hiding on the sideline? Backing down from a challenge. So because of Mia, there I was, back on the court—exactly where I didn’t want to be. Every time someone threw me a pass, I got rid of it as fast as I could, even when I was near the hoop and the coach and the kids on my team were yelling, “Shoot! Shoot!”
A minute later, Mia rolled back onto the court. I didn’t see a bandage on her arm. Before I could head for the sidelines, the extra parent rolled off the court. I was stuck.
Mia passed me the ball. I was open from five feet, but I threw it back to her. Hot Rod intercepted the pass and took off for an easy fast-break layup. Dang, that kid is really quick.
We took a water break. Mia rolled up next to me. “Carlos, when you have an open shot, you should shoot.”
“I’m not a very good shooter,” I mumbled.
“If you don’t shoot, the other team will stop guarding you. They’ll double-team one of us, and that will jam us up.”
She rolled away. What was her constant smile all about? And why was I suddenly taking basketball lessons from a girl I barely knew?
Trooper huddled us up and said, “You know what time it is, right?”
Time for practice to be over, please, I thought, looking up at the broken clock.
“Lecture time!” Jellybean said, and everyone jokingly groaned.
Trooper laughed and nodded.
“A friendly reminder about my unfriendly side. For most of you, grading periods are coming up. Whether or not that’s the case, you will get good grades, Cs or better, with zero unexcused absences, or you won’t play.”
The coach looked from face to face.
“You’ve heard this speech before—except for you, Carlos—but please do not tune me out. For kids with disabilities, many teachers will cut you slack for poor performance in the classroom, or for missing school. Many people will do that kind of thing out of sympathy for a disabled youngster. I am not one of those people.”
He looked around the circle.
“If you have any problems, your parents are smarter than you think, and I have a twenty-four-hour hotline. I care, but I don’t coddle. You’ll get more than enough of that. Am I clear on the school thing?”
Everyone nodd
ed.
“Don’t do it for me. Do it for yourselves. And for your teammates. We now return to regularly scheduled programming. Let’s play some more basketball.”
I knew I couldn’t ask Coach for any more breaks. Too embarrassing. Also embarrassing: staying in. I was inventing new ways to screw up—fumbling the ball, losing my man on defense, forgetting to dribble. I could not get the hang of the dribble.
The rule is, you dribble the ball one time, put it on your lap, and take two cranks on your wheels, then you have to dribble again before you can crank again. Bounce-push-push, bounce-push-push. Simple.
Unless you’ve never done it.
One time I tried to bounce twice in a row, and James stole the second dribble. The next time I dribbled, then swerved left to avoid Jellybean coming to guard me. I went one way and the ball went the other. Then I pounded a dribble and leaned over the side of my chair so far that the ball bounced up and clanged off my forehead.
Time was running out on our scrimmage game. My team was down by a point. Mia got a defensive rebound; I was out above the top of the key, trying not to be involved, but my old basketball instincts kicked in: a scoring opportunity.
I spun my chair and sprinted toward the other end of the court. Mia saw me all alone, ahead of everyone, and threw a long, high pass that bounced once before I caught it over my left shoulder. I was concentrating hard. Bounce-push-push. Bounce-push-push.
As I got to our free-throw line, I saw James on my right, sprinting toward me at an angle, going twice as fast as me.
I was toast.
I took one more dribble and gave my wheels a hard crank, but James caught up with me. Just before our chairs collided, I flipped the ball back over my head without looking. I wasn’t showing off, I just didn’t have time to look. Luckily for me, Mia was there, and she made the easy five-footer.
Whistle.
“That’s it,” Trooper said. “Blue wins. Nice pass, Carlos. Nice shot, Mia.”
James rolled over to me, nodding. His team lost, so they had to do five laps, but he still held up his hand for a high five.
Mia rolled over and put out her fist for a bump.
“Great pass, Carlos. Next time I’ll pass to you. And you’d better shoot.”
She was smiling. I think.
My aunt had returned from her coffee trip, and she came right over to me.
“You’re still in one piece, mijo,” she said, looking me over to make sure. “Let’s go get something to eat.”
PANCAKES
THE WAITRESS PUT THE PLATE OF PANCAKES DOWN in front of me. On the top pancake was a happy face—strawberry eyes, banana-slice nose, whipped-cream smile. I was already in a bad mood; now I was getting pancakes for a six-year-old?
Rosie laughed and said, “Look, Carlos, it’s a mirror!”
“Here, I’ll fix that,” Uncle Augie said, reaching over and using his knife to make the whipped-cream smile into a frown. Then he speared one of the strawberry eyes with his fork and popped it into his mouth. “Now your pancake is winking.”
I didn’t want to laugh, but I couldn’t help it.
The Stack Shack was our favorite breakfast place. Augie met us there after his work shift. Trooper had told Rosie and me that usually the team hung out together after practice at a pizza place near the gym, but that place was closed this week. Just as well. It would have been awkward, being the new guy who wasn’t really even on the team.
“That blond girl on your team is a tough little player,” Rosie said, breaking through my thoughts. “What’s her name?”
“You mean Mia?” I said. My mind kind of stuck on Rosie saying “your team.” It wasn’t my team yet—not by a long shot.
“She’s a pretty girl,” Rosie said. “And very determined. She’s got those Danger Eyes.”
Augie cut in with, “My mother always warned me that the cutest ones were the most dangerous. I should have listened.”
“My mother told me the same thing,” Rosie said, fake-glaring at Augie.
“What are Danger Eyes?” I asked Rosie, jabbing my pancake with my fork, right in the middle of its whipped-cream mouth.
“I’ll show you,” Augie said. He took two of his strawberries and made strawberry eyes on Rosie’s pancake. “Look, it’s a mirror.”
“Grow up, Augie,” Rosie said kiddingly. Then, “Carlos, that James is a pretty smart player, don’t you think? He seemed to know what he was doing, on offense and defense. And he passed you the ball a lot, getting you involved.”
My aunt is very tricky. She doesn’t follow “parent” rules. Parents usually ask the obvious questions, so they get obvious answers. Like, “How was school?” “Fine.”
Rosie takes the long way around. The whole ride from the Palace to the Stack Shack, we’d talked about everything but basketball. As if we’d just been to a mall or something, instead of at a strange “palace” where kids played a kind of basketball I’d never seen.
“What happened here?” Augie asked, grabbing my left arm and looking at the bruise forming below my elbow.
“He crashed into another kid and fell onto the court,” Rosie explained casually.
Augie looked worried. “That sounds kinda dangerous, Carlos. Your body is still healing up. Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
“He’s tougher than he looks,” Rosie said.
“It’s cool,” I said to Augie, with more confidence than I felt. “Just part of the game. I wasn’t the only one who fell. The other kids help you back into your chair and you keep playing.”
Augie nodded. He works for the Bay City Parks Maintenance Department. One of our family stories is how he was doing emergency tree clearing during a big storm and a falling tree limb broke his arm, but he kept working. I didn’t want him to think I was wimpy.
“It sounds like these kids really get after it,” Augie said.
“Pretty much,” I said.
“Do you think you can keep up with them?” Augie asked.
I winced. “Well, the falling’s not bad. It’s the playing. I’m not exactly like I used to be back when I was, like… pretty good. At this game, I’m terrible.”
“You had the assist on the winning basket in the scrimmage,” Rosie reminded me, doing her impression of my no-look pass.
I half smiled. “Pure luck.”
“So what do you think, Carlito?” Augie said. On stuff like this, he’s more direct than Rosie. “Did you like the practice? Is this something you might want to try again? Sounds like you felt a little out of your element, but you have to expect an adjustment to a new sport, right?”
When I didn’t answer right away, Rosie pointed to my pancakes and handed me a knife. “Here, let your pancakes answer for you.”
I pushed the whipped cream into a straight line—not a smile or a frown.
“Undecided, eh?” Augie said, nodding. “That’s fair.”
“Maybe basketball is right for you, and maybe it isn’t,” Rosie said. “But you know all we want is to help you find something you will enjoy.”
“You’ve seemed kind of withdrawn lately, Carlito,” Augie said. “Like the psychologist told us, some of that is to be expected. But she also said it’s not good for you to sit around and do nothing, right?”
Rosie and Augie had been my adopted parents ever since the accident that took my mom and dad. Every single day they made me feel like they were blessed to have me, and they never seemed fake about it, not even once. That made me the unluckiest kid in the world, and the luckiest.
“Remember, Carlos,” Rosie said. “The three of us promised to be open with each other. You’re not a baby or a little kid now. You need a hobby or activity, besides school and hanging out with us. If it’s not basketball, you’ll find something else.”
That was a scary thought. I’d never had to go out and look for something. Basketball had found me, and it was a perfect fit. That was then. What about now?
“Watching practice today,” Rosie said, “it reminded me of my first day try
ing out for the Mexican national junior team.” My aunt never brags, but she was a pretty big deal in soccer back in the day. Her parents filled scrapbooks with newspaper clippings, most of them in Spanish, and I’ve listened to Augie gush about how amazing Rosie was on the pitch. Mi estrella, he calls her.
“When I tried out for the team, I was the only new girl. I thought I could play, but the other girls ran circles around me. They showed me no mercy.”
“What did you do?” I leaned forward. I love to hear her stories, even if this time I knew there was a lesson in it for me.
“I quit,” she said, pouring syrup on her pancakes.
“Don’t get syrup in your Danger Eyes, Rosie,” Augie said, and she swatted his hand away.
She shook her head, as if the memory was painful. “I was embarrassed and scared. ‘No más. No more.’ That’s what I told my parents. I said the other girls used dirty tricks, they fouled me and the coach wouldn’t call it.”
“But… how did you still end up on the team?” I asked.
Augie chuckled. “Have you ever seen your aunt quit? I beat her in Scrabble once and we had to play three more games, until she won.”
I nodded. “She’s just like Mom. I remember Dad telling me how Mom got passed over for a promotion at work. She took a night-school class and got the promotion two months later, and wound up running the whole department.”
Rosie ducked her head.
“Well, your mom was twice as tough as I’ll ever be,” Rosie said. “But we are sisters, after all. With the soccer, obviously I had a change of heart.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Not sure,” Rosie said, like she had never stopped to think about it. “I think it’s because I saw something with that team. There was a joy they had playing together, like nothing I had ever felt before. I wanted to be part of that, even if I didn’t think I was good enough. And I just loved the game, couldn’t bear to give up that easy.”
“Spoiler alert,” Augie said, squeezing her arm. “Rosie led the national team in assists that season.” He fixed his eyes on me. “Carlos, you used to love basketball, right? Can you really tell me this isn’t the same as the basketball you played before? After one practice?”