by Scott Ostler
I should have been looking over my shoulder for Stomper.
Twenty-two guys showed up, and the coach told everyone to grab a seat in the bleachers.
“Welcome to tryouts,” he said. “I’m Coach Miller. This is Carlos Cooper, our student manager. Fellas, those of you who are returning know that we finished last in the league last season. The other schools in the league expect us to finish last again, and I would like to disappoint them. And we can—if we hustle and play smart.”
I could see it was going to take a lot of hustle and smart play, because we weren’t going to have much height. The tallest kid was maybe five eight. We were gonna get killed on the boards.
Coach started tryouts with a basic passing drill, then full-court dribbling around cones. He walked around, taking notes on his clipboard.
I’m no expert, but I didn’t see anyone who looked like a superstar. Or even a star. Coach blew his whistle and said, “All right, form two lines for layups.”
Then Coach Miller looked toward the gym door.
“Boys,” he said. “We’ve got one more player joining us. Roland is late today because he was taking a makeup test.”
Everyone turned and stared.
It was Stomper… or was it? I hardly recognized him. He wasn’t sauntering in like he owned the place. He wasn’t waving a squirt gun or some other bully toy. He looked very uncomfortable. Where was the famous Stomper sneer? Was this Stomper’s non-evil twin?
He put down his backpack and walked onto the court, staring down at his feet. The guys all mumbled fake-cheery greetings, like they were glad to see him.
I couldn’t figure out why Stomper looked so nervous, like he was trying to not look nervous. I soon found out why. Dude could not play basketball.
“All right, guys, two lines, simple layups,” Coach said.
Simple to everyone but you know who.
“Carlos,” Coach said, “you set up behind the baseline and chase balls that get away, okay?”
Perfect. A front-row seat for Stomper’s show.
His first time through the shooting line, Stomper fumbled the pass, dribbled too far under the hoop, and shot an airball. Second time he dribbled the ball off his left foot. Third time he jumped off the wrong foot, shot almost without looking, and the ball clanged hard off the bottom of the rim.
In the rebounding line, he threw a pass that hit a kid in his knees. You could tell Stomper was embarrassed. I had to tell myself not to smile at his misery, then I remembered that on my wheelchair team, I was Stomper.
Then I got mad at myself for feeling even a little bit sorry for the jerkface.
Coach called a water break. Stomper got a drink then stood off to the side by himself, hands on hips and head down.
One player said to another, in a quiet voice, “What’s the deal? I heard Stomper was a great athlete.”
The other kid shook his head. “Man, in baseball he is the home-run king, and in flag football he’s a great quarterback, but here? He’ll be lucky to make the team.”
“Fine with me,” the first player said.
It didn’t get any better for Stomper. He did okay in the full-court sprints. In fact, he beat everyone.
But when it came to basic basketball skills, Stomper was lost. He looked like he was concentrating so hard on doing the drills that he was about to bust a blood vessel in his forehead.
“All right, let’s play some ball,” Coach Miller said. “Cooper, grab those scrimmage jerseys and pass ’em out.”
Stomper was on the blue team. When I tossed him his jersey, he seemed to notice me for the first time and shot me a glare. There was the Stomper I knew so well. I had been kind of relaxing while he was struggling, but now I tensed up, like I did whenever I couldn’t avoid him at school.
His team brought the ball down first, and he really stood out, a head taller than everyone else. And, like, twice as strong. He almost knocked one kid down with a hard pass.
“Sorry, dude,” Stomper muttered.
“Take a little mustard off those short passes, Walkman,” Coach said.
A kid on his team shot a jump shot that glanced off the rim and almost hit Stomper on the head because he didn’t have his hands up.
“Nice try, Stomper,” said one of his teammates. “You’ll get the next one.”
Couldn’t blame that kid. Like the rest of us, he knew he’d have to face Stomper in the hallways and on the lunch court. On his turf.
Next blue possession, Coach Miller told Stomper to set up in the low post.
He looked at Coach blankly, his face red.
“Cooper,” Coach said. “Can you show Walkman where the low post is?”
I took a deep breath. Stomper’s going to love this. I rolled over to the hash mark on the lane, near the hoop.
“That’s the spot, Mr. Walkman,” Coach said to Stomper, who was looking daggers at me. “Murphy, pass the ball in to Walkman.” Murphy threw Stomper a lob pass. He caught it with both hands, bent over, and pulled it close to his body. The guy guarding Stomper reached in and grabbed the ball out of Stomper’s hands.
I almost groaned. Coach shook his head.
“Roland, instead of tucking that ball in where anyone can get their hands on it, hold it high over your head, with your elbows out wide. Let’s try it again.”
It went on and on like that, and I wondered why Stomper was even bothering to try out.
Coach turned to me and said, “Wow, Roland can really jump. But I don’t think he’s played much ball, do you?”
I shook my head. “No, sir. Like zero.”
“But he’s fast!” Coach exclaimed. “He doesn’t know what to do when he gets there, but he gets there in a hurry.”
Stomper looked drenched and dejected.
“Fellas,” Coach Miller said, wrapping up. “We’ve got another day of tryouts. I like what I saw today, but we’ve got twenty-two players out here and I can only keep twelve. I’m away for a few days and our last tryout session will be next Tuesday, so you’ve got time to work out on your own and sharpen up. Be here next Tuesday, ready to rip.”
While the guys were grabbing backpacks and heading out, Coach Miller motioned for Stomper to stay. I was gathering up the balls and I was close enough to overhear their conversation.
“Roland,” Coach said, “I can see that you haven’t played a lot of basketball.”
Stomper was beet red. “No, Coach, I guess I’ve always been busy playing other stuff.”
“Well, here’s the deal: I could use a big guy on this team, since we don’t have much size, but size isn’t everything. I’m going to keep my twelve best players, based on tryouts. I strongly suggest you work on fundamentals. I know your father was a fine college player—can you practice with him at all?”
“He’s, uh, pretty busy with his work, Coach,” Stomper said, shuffling his feet nervously.
“Well, you have to show me some improvement, son. The effort is there, I can see that, but it’ll be hard for me to keep you on this team if you can’t make a layup.”
“Yessir,” Stomper croaked.
Coach walked away. Stomper looked dejected, like he’d just been squirt-gunned in the pants by some bully and now he had to walk into his next class.
HEY, STOMPER
I TOOK A DEEP BREATH. “HEY, STOMPER!”
We were alone in the gym. He was picking up his backpack as I rolled over to him and said, “Hey.”
Stomper looked at me as if I smelled bad.
What are you doing? I asked myself. I guess I was thinking about what my teammates said about giving the bully a cookie. I also thought about what Coach Miller said about maybe asking the guys on the team to vote on letting my team use the gym. If I could get Stomper on my side…
“Sorry about the squirt-gun thing at lunch, Stomper,” I said, trying to think fast. “I saw Ms. Stapleton coming and I didn’t want her to sneak up on you.”
He looked like he was trying to decide whether or not to believe me.
�
��So I guess I saved you,” I said, chuckling to show him that I appreciated his tricks. I should have been afraid of the guy, but it was as if he had been exposed to radiation or something that sapped all his bully powers.
He started to walk away, clearly not interested. I blurted out, “I overheard the coach talking to you.”
Stomper stopped cold, turned, and glowered at me, but I had his attention.
“So you heard the coach,” he snapped. “So what?”
“Look,” I said, “you want to make the team, right?”
“Are you kidding?” he said, and his voice got high. “I have to make the team. If I get cut, I am dead meat.”
I forced a smile. “I think I can help you,” I said, casually spinning the ball on my index finger. A nice touch, I thought. I’d been practicing since I saw the old man on the bus do it. I could spin it for a couple of seconds.
That trick seemed to impress Stomper. But he still scoffed, “You can help me? Help me do what?”
“Help you polish your basketball skills. Maybe help you make the team. I’ll work with you a couple days during lunch, where nobody will see us.”
“You?” he said.
I tried to hide my fear. This was new territory for me, working a bully. Fortunately, it was new territory for him, too, being worked, so he didn’t see how nervous I was. I plowed ahead.
“I, uh, I used to play a lot of basketball,” I said. “I was pretty good. I’m kind of what you might call a student of the game. I watch videos on shooting and strategy and that kind of thing. I could give you some tips, you know?”
That part was true. I had been watching basketball instructional videos, hoping they would help me to not be so lost on the court. I still didn’t know much, but compared to Stomper I was like a basketball Jedi Master.
Stomper snorted and said, “No freaking way. I don’t need help from you to make this stupid team.”
He turned and began to walk away. I let him take a couple of steps before I said quietly, “Ms. Stapleton wants to report you.”
Stomper stopped in his tracks and turned, fear in his eyes.
“What are you talking about?”
I paused for dramatic effect, then said, “After she took away my—I mean your—squirt gun, she pulled me aside and asked me what happened.”
Total lie. Sorry, Mom and Dad.
Stomper’s eyes got as big as Frisbees. “Old Staplegun hates me,” he moaned.
She’s in a big club, I thought. But what I said instead was, “Ms. Stapleton said some other kids told her it was your squirt gun and you were nailing kids with it. They told her you squirted me. She said she was going to report you to the principal.”
“To Mr. Deeds?” Stomper said, screwing his eyes shut like he was in pain. “Dirty Deeds hates me, too!”
I was new to this acting thing, but apparently I was pulling it off. I couldn’t believe it. I held up my hand, as if to show everything was cool.
I had struck a nerve, but it wasn’t as if I made a lucky guess by using Ms. Stapleton’s name. I was pretty sure none of the teachers were crazy about Stomper. He acted like he was the king of every class and talked and made stupid jokes at the wrong times. I heard kids say his dad would storm into school whenever his precious son got into any kind of trouble or got a bad grade, and I overheard a couple of kids say when Stomper’s dad came to school, that’s the only time they ever saw Stomper look scared. I was pretty sure Stomper and his dad weren’t going to win any popularity contests with the faculty.
“Yeahhh,” I said, shaking my head sympathetically. “Ms. Stapleton said she was going to report you and get you suspended. I asked her to please not do that.”
Stomper’s eyes got wide again. “Really? Dude! Why’d you do that?”
“Well, I asked her if she would let me handle this myself. I told her my psychologist said it’s important for me as a disabled person, to learn to deal with stuff on my own, you know?”
That part was true, so I felt a little less guilty about my acting.
Stomper nodded slowly. “And Old Staplegun, she was cool with that?”
I shrugged. “Sure. She’s letting me handle it. But she told me to let her know if I needed help with my, uh, problem. So, are you up for some basketball lessons?”
“With you? Why would I do that?”
“Because I need coaching practice and you need playing practice. I’d like to do something to help my school’s team, you know? Also, I heard you’re pretty good in algebra, and I’m… not. Maybe you could help me a little with that, as a trade for the basketball stuff.”
Stomper thought it over for a moment. Then he shook his head and said, “No can do. What if someone sees me getting coached by a, you know…?”
“Okay,” I said, turning my chair. “I gotta go. Old Staplegun told me to check in with her today before I go home. Good luck with the tryouts, dude.”
I was ten feet away when I heard Stomper sigh and say, “Do you really know some things about basketball? I mean, like… you’re in a wheelchair.”
I spun around and was going to ask Stomper what it was about being in a wheelchair that kept me from knowing about basketball. Instead, I took a deep breath, like my mom used to tell me to do. That pause kept me from blowing the whole deal. I watched Stomper scrunch his face into about five different pained expressions.
“Okay,” he finally said, shaking his head. “I doubt you can help me, but I’ll try it. One time.”
“Great,” I said. “Tomorrow at lunch we can meet on the lower court, behind the trees. Nobody ever goes down there.”
“If you tell anyone about this…”
“Me tell anyone?” I said cheerfully. “I don’t really talk to anyone. Except Old Staplegun. See you tomorrow.”
Stomper walked out of the gym, slumped over. I went to the door and watched. His dad pulled up the driveway in a big fancy car. License plate: IBEAM. As Stomper got into the car, I heard him say, “It went great, Dad. Tryouts went great.”
The car drove off. I checked my phone.
Text from Mia:
Thanks for earlier today, Carlos. You totally saved Sarah and me. But please be careful, the Buccaneers need you <3
COACHIN’ HIM UP
BY THE NEXT DAY, I WAS SECOND-GUESSING MY BRILLIANT Stomper plan. What if it all went wrong?
I figured he probably wouldn’t show up, anyway, once he thought about it, then I’d feel like a loser for even trying to help him, and I could forget about the Bulldogs even thinking about letting my team use the gym. But Stomper really did seem super desperate to make the team, and to not get reported for the squirt gun. His dad wouldn’t laugh that off.
He was five minutes late, but there he was, coming down the ramp to the lower playground, looking over his shoulder like he was worried someone might see him with me.
“Hey,” I said.
“Whatever,” Stomper growled. “This better be good.”
“Let’s start with layups,” I said coolly, tossing him my basketball.
“Great,” he muttered. Then, “Yeah, what’s a layup again?”
I closed my eyes and told myself, Stay calm. I opened my eyes and said cheerfully, “A layup is where you dribble to the basket, then you shoot the ball off the backboard and into the hoop.”
I demonstrated.
“I used to be a pretty good shooter,” I said, pushing to the hoop and making a layup. After all my practicing, I could at least make simple shots close to the hoop. “This isn’t pretty, but it will give you the basic idea.”
Stomper was already sweating. “Oh, that one. Yeah, I kinda messed that up yesterday.”
“Start here,” I said, pointing to a spot on the right wing, twenty feet from the hoop. “Take it slow. Dribble in and shoot.”
Stomper walked toward the hoop, pounding the ball awkwardly, staring hard at it like it was going to escape if he looked away. He dribbled too far under the hoop, looked up too late and jumped off the wrong foot, his right. The sho
t clanged off the bottom of the rim and hit him on the head.
Amazing. Stomper had just posterized himself.
It was hilarious to see the guy who dished out so much misery being the one who was suffering. But I couldn’t laugh, not now.
“Uh, couple things going wrong there,” I said, remembering back five years or so to when I first learned to shoot a layup. “Let’s break it down, step-by-step. Try it without the ball first.”
He gave me a doubting look.
“Here’s your takeoff area,” I said, pointing to a spot on the blacktop near the basket. “When you get to this spot, plant your left foot on the spot, jump off that foot, and reach into the air with your right hand, like you’re shooting the ball.”
After five tries, he got it. Left foot down, right hand up.
“Now stand under the hoop and just shoot. Aim for the square on the backboard, and the ball will bank in.”
He finally made one on the fifth try.
“Now we put it all together—the dribble, the jump off your left foot, and the shot. Do it at walking speed first.”
Five of those.
“Now a little faster.”
I had to admit he had some coordination. For a dude who’d never played basketball, he was picking stuff up pretty quickly. He sure was trying. And sweating like crazy.
“Hey,” I said when we took a break. “Wasn’t your dad a basketball star?”
Stomper winced. “Yeah,” he said, like he was admitting to a dark family secret. “He was an All-American at Texas.”
“Does he ever play basketball with you?”
“He tried to a few times, but I sucked. And he’s not the most patient dad on the planet, especially when it comes to his sport.”
“Everybody sucks at new stuff,” I said, thinking about myself and wheelchair ball.
Stomper shrugged. “My mom finally begged him to leave me alone and let me play whatever sport I wanted to play. That just made him madder. Finally, he told me it was embarrassing that his own kid couldn’t freakin’ play basketball.”