by Scott Ostler
That hurt. Because I had been kind of—yeah, dishonest.
“Well,” I said. “From all the information we gathered, me and my teammates, it looked like the mayor was using some, uh, dirty tricks to take away our gym. He told the city council that he didn’t know Mr. Walkman, but Stomper told me they played golf together. So Mia and I thought if we got a picture of them together on the course, that might help William’s story. I guess I was afraid if I told you we were going to try to shoot a picture of them, you guys wouldn’t have wanted me to go.”
“As a matter of fact, you’re right,” Augie said. “We would have said no to twelve-year-olds taking a cart and racing around a golf course stalking adults. Very powerful adults.”
Rosie said, “And you know that was wrong.”
I nodded miserably.
“We’ve always trusted you, Carlos,” Rosie said. “But for us to keep trusting you, you have to be honest with us. And you were not honest today. Thank God no one was hurt.”
I put my head down.
“Whose idea was it to ambush the mayor at the golf course?” Rosie asked. “Yours or Mia’s?”
I shifted in my chair. I didn’t want to throw another lie onto the pile, but there’s no way I could let Mia take the blame.
“Kind of both of us, I guess.”
“Well,” Rosie said, “we think it’s best if you two stay away from each other for a little while. First you get into an argument during a game, and now this? I’m not saying she’s a bad influence, Carlos, because I don’t know who was leading whom in this misadventure, but right now you two are not a good combination. Augie and I will decide on any other consequences.”
I was pretty sure that no punishment they gave me would make me feel worse than I already felt at seeing how disappointed they were.
Augie said, “Carlos, Rosie and I are concerned. We’ve been really happy that you seem to like basketball so much—we think it’s great that you’ve found something that you have a passion for. But getting benched during a game, and then misleading us about this golf-course thing? We know you’re a good kid. And your psychologist told the three of us that we would face challenges and adjustments. We gladly accept that, but it’s vital that the three of us stay close, and that we are honest, and not ninety-seven percent honest.”
We were quiet for a while, then Rosie said, “Carlito, remember when you came to live with us? I think you really needed us then. To help you heal, physically and emotionally. Am I right?”
I blinked hard and nodded.
“Well,” Rosie said, her voice getting thick. “The truth is that we needed you as much as you needed us. We were devastated. I was so heartsick about losing Cyndi and Jimmy that the only reason I got out of bed every morning was because you were here. I could look at you and see that they were still here with us, in a way.”
“And here’s some more truth, Carlos,” Augie said. “The hurting isn’t over for any of us, is it?”
I shook my head, my throat too tight to speak. For the first time in as long as I could remember, tears rolled down my cheeks. Rosie came over and kissed me on the head, her eyes bright with tears.
“Looks like we’re all stuck with each other,” Augie said, wiping his eyes. “We’d all better make the best of it.”
That got me laughing, even though I couldn’t quite seem to stop the tears.
Finally Rosie said, “How about a game of Scrabble? I need a rematch from the last beatdown you gave me, Carlos.”
“I was just lucky,” I said. “I had a Z and you left me that opening.”
“Rosie,” Augie said, “I think Carlos is old enough now that we should stop letting him win.”
“You wish,” Rosie said with a wink.
And just like that we were practically back to normal—whatever normal was now.
STOMPER’S OUT
AFTER THE STRESS OF THE WEEKEND, I WAS RELIEVED to disappear into school on Monday morning. That relief lasted until just before the bell for first period.
“My old man is onto you, dude.”
The voice came from behind me. I didn’t have to look to see who it was. I’d know that growl anywhere, even though I hadn’t heard it for a while. Stomper had been taking a break from bullying. In fact, we had almost become friends, talking in the hall after science class one day, and even during lunch once for a few minutes. I hadn’t seen him giving anyone else a hard time, either. It was like the story where the mouse pulls the thorn out of the lion’s paw and the lion suddenly gets nice.
The school basketball team hadn’t played its first game yet, but Stomper was still riding high from making the cut, and he was looking okay in practice. He was following my advice to stick to the basics—box out, rebound, get rid of the ball, stay low on defense. And hustle.
The coach, desperate for height, was working Stomper with the starting five in practice scrimmages. One day after practice, while I was gathering up cones and clipboards, Stomper walked around and picked up the balls, put them in the rack, and wheeled it into the coach’s office, saving me one task. But now Stomper’s growl sounded the opposite of friendly.
“My old man is onto you and your girlfriend, dude,” he said, walking around my chair to face me.
“What do you mean?” I said, trying to sound casual. “And, uh, she’s not my girlfriend.”
“I should’ve figured that,” Stomper said, nodding. “She’s way too cute for you.”
“Mia and I just happened to be at the golf course taking some pictures for her school report on trees,” I said.
“Hey, man,” Stomper said, “I’m not as dumb as I look. Neither is my old man. He says that you two and your other wheelchair pals have been trying to mess up his big project. And since my dad knows that me and you were practicing together, that makes me a—what do you call it?”
“An accomplice?” I suggested.
“Exactly. My dad’s starting to wonder why I’m hanging with a kid that’s trying to screw up his business.”
I lowered my voice. “Was he… really mad at you for being friends with me? I—I mean, for practicing with me?”
Stomper winced and looked off to the side for a long time, like he knew I knew something he wasn’t comfortable with me knowing. Finally, he shook his head. “No, dude, he didn’t yell at me. Or punish me, or anything.”
Stomper took a deep breath.
“He didn’t say anything to me at the golf course yesterday. I was, you know, kind of waiting for the volcano to explode. But on the way home we stopped at the family billiards place and played some pool.”
“What did he say about my friends and me?” I asked.
“He told me he’s really sorry that your old gym has to get knocked down, but that it’s about to fall down anyway, and he doesn’t want to see any kids get hurt in there. He said it’s not like your team is a real basketball team.”
“Really?” I said. “Seems pretty real to me.”
“I know.” Stomper shrugged. “Look, my dad and the mayor and Mr. Cook told me you guys have the wrong idea about his mall project. It’s not shady or sneaky or anything like that. My dad told me if anything happens to screw up that deal, our family will be in big financial trouble.”
“Your dad and the mayor really are good buddies,” I said.
“And Mr. Cook, too,” Stomper said. “But anyway, I can’t have you show me basketball stuff anymore, or even email workouts to me. My old man will check. I’m telling you, I gotta lay super low. You better, too.”
Stomper looked around.
“I thought my dad was going to kill me. But he said that if I work with him and make sure you stay out of his business, he’ll send me to a summer basketball camp—instead of to a military school.”
“Military school?” I asked, stunned.
“Yeah,” Stomper said. “You know, those schools where the kids clean toilets and march all day and get shoved into dorms with about a thousand other kids.”
“Maybe military school would
n’t be so bad,” I said, dead serious. “At least you’d be away from your dad for a while.”
Stomper looked up and puffed his cheeks, then let out the air. “Yeah, but then I wouldn’t be around to be with my mom when my old man has his… well, my mom calls them emotional episodes.”
My stomach felt queasy. I thought back to when I was seven or eight and my dad got really mad and scolded me for being rude to someone. A while later he came to me and apologized for losing his temper. Now I was sick thinking how some kids—like Stomper, apparently—have to deal with stuff I could hardly imagine. They can’t feel safe even in their own homes.
“Sorry, dude, I’m out,” Stomper said. “And please don’t mess with my dad’s business anymore.”
I said, “I’m glad your dad was at least sort of nice to you yesterday, Stomper.”
He dropped his head. “Yeah, but it’s funny. It’s almost better when he’s mad.”
LOCKDOWN
BAD NEWS KEPT COMING.
I was on restriction. So was Mia. Or, as she called it, “house arrest.”
Augie and Rosie considered making me sit out the next game. But they knew it might be our last chance at State, and they didn’t want to punish the team. Besides, I had apologized to Mia.
I was glad I had the game to look forward to. Sunday we were playing the Humboldt Owls, about three hours north of Bay City. With our last home game now officially canceled, Humboldt would be our final regular-season game, our last chance to qualify for State. And, if we lost, maybe our last game ever.
We had all our players, but we were short one coach. Trooper was out again. He had pneumonia, and the doctors were worried it could affect his heart, so he would be in the critical-care unit for another week or two. BARD called the team’s former coach, Mr. Meeks, who had coached the team for part of the season two years earlier, when Trooper was away playing for the national team. Mr. Meeks agreed to fill in until Trooper returned.
“Trooper told me to tell you Rats to give Coach Meeks your full effort and attention,” Trooper’s wife told us by email. Rosie and Augie had let me keep my phone, but only for “official business.”
When we met up in the parking lot Sunday morning to caravan to the game, the three Rats who had played for Mr. Meeks two years earlier did not seem happy. I wasn’t happy, either, since he wouldn’t know our new offense.
“Mr. Meeks is awesome,” Jellybean said, rolling his eyes, and Mia laughed.
“Awesome. That’s his favorite word,” James said. “He’s a really nice man. But everything is awesome.”
Mia rolled up and joined the group. We hadn’t had a chance to talk about the aftermath of our golf course adventure, so it was a little awkward, but I was glad we were at least still teammates. And friends.
“Come on, Mr. Meeks isn’t a bad guy,” Jellybean said. “For sure he won’t get mad at us. He’s always happy.”
“He won’t coach us, either,” James said darkly.
“That’s true,” Jellybean admitted, then said to me, “He treats us like he’s afraid we’ll break.”
Just then Mr. Meeks jumped out of his car, did a quick head count, and said, “We’re all here? Awesome!”
James and Jellybean cringed.
But I couldn’t be too down. I was loving the road trips. Jellybean brought a Mad Libs word game to play in the car, and we laughed so hard that James snorted water out of his nose, then we laughed at that.
“Man,” James said. “Imagine how much fun we’ll have if we make it to State, and then all the way to the Nationals! A whole week in Kansas City, and with our own hotel rooms.”
The car got quiet.
“Do you think we really have a chance, James?” I asked. “I mean, to at least get to State?”
He looked at me and said, “Oh, we’re going to State. We’re winning today. After that…”
There was a long pause. Then, “But we’re going to have to really dig.”
“Then we’d better Zen up and worry about this game,” Hot Rod said.
“Man,” James said. “It’s almost like Trooper’s here with us.”
“He’s here in spirit,” Hot Rod said.
The Owls had a brand-new gym with a big scoreboard (all the bulbs were lit!), a shiny floor, bleachers, a snack bar, and nice locker rooms. It reminded me of my old team’s home gym.
After warm-ups, we huddled up and Mr. Meeks told us, “Kids, I didn’t get a chance to talk to Trooper, so I’m not really familiar with what offense and defense you’ve been playing. So we’ll keep it simple. Man-to-man defense. On offense, let’s pass the ball around and take the first open shot.”
I glanced at James, who looked disappointed.
“Coach,” James said. “Uh, first, thanks for taking over the team. But, well, Trooper has us playing a new offense, and we’d kind of like to keep running it, if that’s cool.”
“Awesome, James,” Mr. Meeks said. “What’s the offense?”
“Basically,” James said, “we run whenever we can, and if we don’t get a fast break, we pass the ball a lot and everyone keeps moving.”
Mr. Meeks nodded enthusiastically. “Sounds great, James! That’s what we’ll do!”
And we did. We got our fast break going early, thanks to Hayley’s and DJ’s rebounding. They were firing great outlet passes—rebounding the other team’s missed shots and whipping the ball out quickly to a teammate before the other team could react and get back on defense.
Trooper tells us that the quick-strike layups really kill the other team’s spirit. And they sure feel good.
We were ahead 8–2; it was like we were playing circles around the Owls. Then we made a couple of turnovers and got a little wild with our passing, just like Trooper warned us can happen when you’re playing at a faster pace.
Hayley grabbed one defensive rebound and threw a nice outlet to me near midcourt. On my left, James was streaking wide-open to the basket, but I threw the pass just a little too far in front of him. Instead of a killer fast break, it was a killer turnover.
James smiled at me and yelled, “Close, Carlos, close. Right idea.”
I shot a grin back, but then—
“Time-out!” Mr. Meeks called it from the bench.
The Owls had come back to tie us at 8–8, and in the huddle, Mr. Meeks clapped his hands and said, “Okay, Buccaneers, you’re doing fine, but we’re getting a little sloppy. Let’s slow it down, take our time. Haste makes waste. Bring the ball up-court slowly.”
James closed his eyes and his shoulders slumped. He wasn’t always very good at hiding the way he felt. He started to say something to Coach, then he shook his head and pushed back onto the court.
“Mr. Meeks,” Hot Rod said politely, “we’re the Rollin’ Rats now, not the Buccaneers.”
“Right!” said Mr. Meeks.
I tried not to let my frustration show. A couple missed passes and the coach was calling us sloppy?
“At least we can still work our half-court Flow offense,” James said as we set up our defense. “But you’ve got to talk, Carlos, keep everyone moving, cutting. Take charge. Mr. Meeks isn’t going to tell these guys what to do, you and me have to.”
That felt good. Even if Mr. Meeks didn’t seem to trust me, James did.
But what could we do? Coach said slow it down. DJ got a rebound, zipped a pass to me, and I put on the brakes, dribbling slowly into the front court.
“Awesome, Carlos!” Mr. Meeks called out. “Easy does it!”
We were safer going slow, less chance for mistakes, but it didn’t feel right. We already thought of ourselves as a running team, and the slowdown seemed to kind of deflate us.
The Owls were pretty good. Because they had their own gym, they practiced a couple of times a week, and that makes a big difference. Like, we had two basic defenses—zone and man-to-man. But the Owls had about five different defenses.
At halftime we were trailing 24–20.
“You guys are doing fine,” Mr. Meeks told us. “I l
ike the way you slowed it down. Fewer turnovers, no craziness. Just keep battling.”
When Mr. Meeks left us to go talk to some parents, Jellybean said, “That’s it? That’s our strategy for the second half?”
“Look, guys,” James said, “we can’t just complain about the coach. Trooper’s not here—we still have to play hard. Our trip to State is on the line.”
“And our pride,” Hot Rod said.
“But we also need to play fast,” Mia said, sounding frustrated. “That’s when we’re at our best.”
“Tell that to Mr. Meeks,” James said with a frown.
The slow pace worked well for the Owls, who weren’t as fast as us. Three minutes into the third quarter, the Owls scored and I called time-out. We were down 28–22.
I rolled straight to Mr. Meeks, who was organizing our water bottles. He looked at me and smiled.
“Coach,” I said, “we’ve got to run. We can’t beat these guys playing slow, that’s their style.”
Mr. Meeks looked surprised, but he kept smiling.
“Well, Carlos,” he said finally, “I’m still concerned about turnovers, but your enthusiasm is persuasive.”
He huddled the team, smiled, and said, “Maybe you guys know your team better than I do. Go ahead and pick up the tempo, we’ll see how that works. But don’t get careless.”
James’s eyes lit up. Everyone was grinning.
Mr. Meeks walked over to check something at the scorer’s table.
“Awesome!” James said, giving me a low five that stung my hand.
As we rolled back onto the court, Hayley tapped my arm to get my attention and gave me a thumbs-up.
The Owls brought the ball up-court slowly. Their guy hit a twelve-footer and then they all turned and started back on defense, slowly. They had no reason to hurry, since they knew we were playing slow.
Trooper had told us, “A lot of teams like to save their energy getting back on defense. That’s our opportunity.”
James caught the ball as it fell through the net from the Owl’s shot. He scooted behind the baseline, spun his chair, and threw a sidearm pass to me along the right sideline. I heard Hayley whistle and I barely looked before throwing her a pass at midcourt. She caught it going full speed and cruised in for a layup. The nearest defender was fifteen feet behind her. Now we trailed 30–24.