by Scott Ostler
“Trooper tells me that this is team time, and I can’t hurt on team time,” Jellybean said to me. “My mom thought that sounded mean, but Trooper explained to us that I need to learn to deal with it. Even though the pains might eventually fade or disappear, they might not. If I have to stay home from practice, that’s one thing. But showing up and then not giving it my all? Trooper won’t accept that. He told me he’s seen people give up and just get super depressed. He says the best way to avoid that is to do your best to fight through.”
We know when Trooper gives that kind of advice, he isn’t preaching. He’s a paraplegic and he gets phantom pains, too. For him to miss practice, we knew it wasn’t something minor. We didn’t want to let him down by not taking practice seriously. We worked hard.
We did a lot of cone drills, with and without the ball. Three parents got into chairs and we did some five-on-five scrimmaging, working on our new offense.
It was actually kind of funny. We still took shots, even though there were no baskets. One parent stood on each end of the “court” and acted as the hoop. After every shot, we argued about whether or not it was good, and the arguments got pretty silly. Eventually we decided to let the parent “baskets” call each shot good or bad.
“And that was yet another airball by James,” Jellybean said in his fake TV-announcer voice, after one shot by James went totally wide of the parent “basket.” “A typically dismal performance for the young man from Bay City.”
Even without baskets or a coach, we managed to get in some good work.
I was dragging by the time we wrapped up. We all were. I think we were proud of ourselves for not going easy and goofing off, but boy, we were tired.
“Let’s get some pizza,” Hot Rod said as we packed up. “Anyone got enough strength to make it up the hill?”
We did, slowly. And since it was a sunny day, we took over a corner of the outdoor patio at Pizza My Mind. Mia checked her phone and sat up a little straighter. “Hey, guys. I just got an email from William, the reporter from the Breeze. When I saw his story in the paper today, I was really down. But listen to this.”
She read the email out loud.
Hi Mia and Carlos,
I was really hoping to write about the Rollin’ Rats and the Rat Palace, because sometimes a story like that can cause people to reach out and help solve a problem. In this case, I guess there isn’t a solution, since your gym seems unfixable.
I wanted to write a story about your team anyway, but the Breeze editor told me he decided we would pass on this story. He said our staff is shorthanded and I’m too valuable as a reporter to spend time on “warm and fuzzy” stories. He’s the boss and I have to respect his judgment.
But I wanted to let you know about something that strikes me as, uh, interesting. When the mayor met with your team, he told you he hoped your gym could be fixed. I checked city records and the official inspection by Barker Projects was conducted and their report delivered during the week before the mayor met with you. If that’s accurate, the mayor already knew the Palace was doomed when he told you he hoped to save it. I mentioned that discrepancy to my editor and he told me not to worry, that it probably was a clerical error at city hall and he would straighten it out with the mayor.
Normally, when an official’s statement doesn’t match the facts, we investigate, but for some reason we didn’t in this case. I have to be careful about second-guessing my editor, since, as I told you, I’m new on this job. Also, my wife and I are expecting a baby!
Good luck to both of you, and to the Rats! You guys have a wonderful spirit, and I hope you find a gym soon.
Best,
William
“Carlos,” Mia said slowly. “William sent us an email that first day, thanking us for coming to the Breeze. He sent it from his Breeze email address. This one is from his personal email.”
James leaned on the table and fake-whispered, “It’s almost like he’s telling us that the mayor and his editor are sneaky!”
Jellybean laughed. “What are we going to do, call the police and get the mayor and the newspaper editor arrested? My dad says every politician is a crook.”
Hot Rod raised an eyebrow. “The mayor is a weird dude, for sure, and that stuff sounds shady, but that inspection report is pretty clear that the Palace is really dangerous. The mayor probably saved our lives by kicking us out of there.”
“Here’s to the mayor,” Beans said, raising his mug of root beer.
“Wait a second,” Mia said. “Walkman Construction… Carlos, could that be…?”
“Stomper?” I said. “Yeah, my aunt looked it up this morning. Walkman Construction is Stomper’s dad’s company.”
“Nice,” Hot Rod said, shaking his head. “This clown Stomper steals your dignity at school, and now his dad steals our gym. That’s just perfect. You know what? There’s a lot of fascinating stuff here. It would make one heck of a newspaper story.”
“Speaking of that,” Jellybean said with fake peppiness, waving a copy of the Breeze he’d brought with him. “It looks like the editor found a hard-hitting story for his young reporter to work on.”
Jellybean showed us the headline on the other story written by William Forrest:
KITTEN FINDS ITS WAY HOME AFTER SCARY NIGHT IN WOODS
“Awww,” said Mia, dripping with sarcasm.
BENCHED
TROOPER WAS BACK FOR OUR GAME THE NEXT DAY against the North County Jets, a two-hour road trip.
He looked pale but said he felt fine. He told us, “The X-ray of my heart came back negative. They couldn’t find one.”
Jellybean said, “Coach, that joke is too corny even for me.”
The laughs stopped when we got to the Jets’ gym. Trooper had warned us that learning our new offense wouldn’t be easy or quick; there would be ups and downs. We started the game on a down. Maybe we were rusty from not practicing on an actual basketball court, or in a funk because of our hopeless gym situation.
As we were warming up, James grumbled to me, “I keep hearing the parents talk about alternatives to basketball, Carlos. I don’t think they get it. Alternatives to basketball? It’s not plural, man, it’s singular. There is only one alternative to basketball.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“No basketball.”
We knew we were lucky to even have a team. Trooper told us that at least 90 percent of kids with disabilities in America have little or no access to organized sports. But the thought of having the Rats busted up, of having no basketball, hung over our heads.
The Jets jumped on us at the start. They cut off our fast breaks and turned our sloppy passes into their fast breaks. Trooper always tells us to play with joy, even when we’re losing, but that’s not as easy as it sounds.
The Jets led by ten points with three minutes left in the first half, and they were shouting and even laughing, and their fans were whooping it up. I threw a couple of passes out the window early in the game, so at halftime I was mad at myself. My contribution to our offense was supposed to be sharp passing. What was I worth to my team if I couldn’t even do that right?
With ten seconds left in the third quarter, Mia deflected a Jets’ pass and the ball rolled toward me. I was so deep in my head about my lousy playing that I didn’t notice the ball coming until too late, then I made a half-hearted reach for it as it bounced off my chair and rolled out of bounds.
The buzzer sounded to end the quarter and I groaned, my cheeks hot from embarrassment.
Mia wheeled over to me and said, “Come on, Carlos, you’ve got to get the ball. You didn’t even try!”
“The quarter was over,” I snapped back. “Even if I got the ball, there was no time left to get a shot.”
“So you hustle only when you feel like it?”
“What are you, the hustle police?” I retorted. “You should worry about your own game. You took about four crazy shots when you weren’t even open. And your man scored half their points.”
Mia’s eyes b
lazed. “So you’re the star of the team now, and you can rip everyone else? You’re the one not hustling.”
Without thinking, I snapped, “I see why they call you the Reject.”
Her expression changed instantly, from anger to hurt. Her Danger Eyes teared up, and she spun away and pushed off the court.
“Huddle up,” Trooper said sharply. We gathered on the sideline, everyone looking down at their feet. I glanced in Mia’s direction, and then quickly looked away.
Usually Trooper talks strategy or defensive assignments, but this time he had a different message, short and not so sweet.
“We are a basketball team,” he said quietly, and Trooper’s quiet can be as powerful as other coaches’ yelling. “We are not just a group of people out here getting exercise. As long as we are in business as the Rollin’ Rats, we are going to be a team and we are going to treat one another with respect.
“If one of our players needs criticizing, that’s my department, not yours. Your job is to support your teammates, especially when we’re down.”
He paused, and I felt my face growing warm again.
“Look, guys, I’ve been there. When I was on the national men’s team, we lost a game and I got into an argument with a teammate. We both said stupid things and wound up in a fistfight, rolling on the floor. Really dignified, right? And this guy was my best friend. We both got suspended for one game. What I’m telling you is you must think before you speak, and don’t ever forget that we battle together.”
The ref whistled for the start of the fourth quarter and I rolled onto the court, but Coach motioned for me to come to him.
“Carlos,” he said. “You’re benched for the fourth quarter. We’ll talk about it after the game.”
My mouth dropped open. “But Coach! I—”
Trooper’s expression told me to shut up. I rolled over to the sideline and tried not to look up into the stands at Rosie and Augie, who had driven all this way to support me, only to see me benched.
For the rest of the team, the fourth quarter went great. Our guys really dug down and played hard, closing the gap, and we ended up losing by only four points. We—they—got the Flow offense going with some fast-break buckets and smooth ball movement.
But our season record was now 8–8. One more game, one last chance to qualify for State.
Mia played the fourth quarter in a fury, even more intense than usual, and she always plays super hard. Whoever she guarded, she shut ’em down cold. She set one pick that knocked the biggest Jet out of his chair.
After the final buzzer, Mia zipped straight to the drinking fountain without looking back, and I had a big knot in my stomach.
After Trooper’s postgame talk, he called me aside and got right to it.
“Do you know what a bully is, Carlos?”
I almost laughed. “Oh, yeah,” I said hollowly.
“So tell me. What is a bully?”
“A bully is a guy that’s bigger than you who picks on you,” I said, wondering what the heck he was talking about.
“But it’s not always about size and physical intimidation,” Trooper said. “Bullying is hurting someone needlessly. Sometimes even with words.”
I stared at him. “Coach, are you saying I’m a bully?”
“I saw what you did to a teammate,” he said.
“But she started it! Coach, I—”
Trooper held up his hand. “You ended it, though, didn’t you? With a personal insult. Do you feel good about that?’
I shook my head and sank in my chair.
“You play hard, Carlos, and the kids respect you,” Trooper said. “You have to choose. You can be a leader and make this team stronger, or you can be a bully. You can’t be both.”
“I’m sorry, Coach,” I said, although it felt really weird being called a bully. Stomper would sure get a laugh out of that.
I was mad about getting benched and mad about Mia calling me out just because I didn’t get that one loose ball. I was also embarrassed, because I let the team down. And I was sad—Mia and I had become good friends, and now… I mean, I’d never seen her even come close to crying before. Not even the time in practice she took an elbow to the forehead that drew blood. She had her mom slap a bandage on it and she kept playing. Afterward, she got five stitches.
“I know you’re sorry,” Trooper said. “She shouldn’t have criticized you, but you took it to a personal level. Until you apologize to Mia, you’re benched.”
My stomach sank. I knew I couldn’t argue with Coach, but I also couldn’t help feeling that he was being unfair. All I could do was nod and say, “Okay,” then follow everyone out of the gym for the long drive back to Bay City.
When we got home, Rosie and Augie wanted to know what was up.
I didn’t feel like talking about it, but what could I do? They saw the whole thing. I told them my version, with me as the victim of an overly bossy teammate and a coach who refused to understand that the whole thing was Mia’s fault.
Augie ran a hand through his hair. “Your coach doesn’t kid around, does he?”
“No, sir,” I said, slightly stung that Augie didn’t seem to be taking my side. “But why do I have to apologize when she started it?”
Rosie jumped in. “Don’t you think calling Mia a reject was a little harsh? I thought you two were friends.”
“We are. We were. But the other kids call her that sometimes, and everyone laughs like it’s a big joke.”
“What does that nickname mean?” Augie asked. “Why do they call her the Reject?”
“I don’t actually know,” I admitted.
“Well,” Augie said, “give this some thought. If you want to talk to us about it, we’re here for you. But this is between you and your coach and your teammate.”
That night, a text from Edgar.
You guys win?
Lost.
Thanks for the detailed account. So you have one more chance to qualify for State?
Yeah, and I got into an argument with Mia and I’m benched until I apologize.
Hmm. Remember the time you and me got into it so serious at halftime? We both apologized and it was all good.
Yeah, but she’s a girl. It’s different.
She’s not a girl, bro. She’s a teammate. And you’re Cooper the Hooper. You’ll figure it out. Go Rats. Don’t forget I’m coming up to see you in a few weeks, and you’d better be back on the court.
DIGGING DEEP
I KNEW WHAT I HAD TO DO, BUT IT MADE MY HEAD hurt to think about it.
Luckily, I had something to take my mind off the Mia situation: my school report on the Palace. It was due Tuesday.
Monday after school, I planned to dig in and finish the report. Rosie set me up in the kitchen, clearing the table to give me room and making me a BLT.
“I don’t want you to use starvation as an excuse for not finishing that report,” she said. “I’m meeting Jenny Walkman for coffee, but I’ll be back in a couple hours. When I get home, I expect that report to be ready to tie a ribbon on.”
“You and Stomper’s mom are getting to be pretty good pals,” I said, raising an eyebrow.
“She’s a very nice person,” Rosie said, taking her car keys off the hook on the wall. “She seems a bit troubled, too, and I think she needs someone to listen to her. We all need that. Besides, I’m trying to get to know more of the parents from your school. So I can catch up on all the gossip about you kids.”
Rosie added a glass of milk to my snack.
“Work hard, mijo,” she said, kissing the top of my head. Just like Mom used to do. Family tradition, I suppose.
I figured I could knock out the report in a couple of hours, then practice my shooting at the hoop in my neighbor’s driveway. And maybe give some thought to how I was going to apologize to Danger Eyes.
I cracked open the library book to the chapter on the Earl C. Combs Armory. Halfway down the first page, I stopped.
“There it is!” I said out loud, circling a date with
my pencil before remembering it was a library book. I grabbed my phone and punched up a number.
“Hey, Carlos,” Diz said cheerfully. “What’s up?”
“Diz, remember when we were talking about the Rat Palace and you told me about Bay City banning asbestos in construction? What year was that?”
“The city outlawed asbestos in 1950,” Diz said. “I remember, because it was the year my grandma was born.”
“That’s weird,” I said, “because this history book from the library says the Palace—the armory—was built in 1954. So how could it be built with asbestos?”
“Hmm,” Diz said. “I guess it’s possible asbestos was added later, but that’s highly doubtful, because that law was a big deal in Bay City. Seems unlikely the mayor’s inspection report is wrong, since asbestos is the biggest danger red flag in the report.”
“You don’t think the report could be, like, phony, do you?”
“Dude,” Diz said, “as one of my law professors said, ‘If there’s a law, someone is trying to break it or slither around it.’ She also told us, ‘Follow the money.’” Diz chuckled and said, “Hey, are you writing a school report or a crime novel?”
“Just want to get the facts right,” I said. “I need an A on this report. My aunt and uncle are worried about my grades, and an A would make them feel better.”
“Well, I gotta get to class,” Diz said, “but call me if I can help, brother. And go, Rats!”
My head was spinning, but I got back to work on the report, and powered by Rosie’s magical BLT, I was making great progress.
Then my email pinged. Rats group message. The family rule was no emailing during homework time, but this was official team business, and I knew my aunt and uncle would understand.
Hayley led off, and I was always amazed at how she almost never talked, but in emails she had a lot to say and sounded so smart.
Hayley: Hi, Rats. I’ve been on the internet, digging around in the Bay City public records.
Mia: Hayley, you really know how to have fun!