by Scott Ostler
Their coach called time. “Ref,” he said, “make sure they’re taking the ball all the way out of bounds. No way that player had time to get all the way out and make that pass.”
As I rolled past the Owls’ bench, I heard their coach tell their point guard, “They’re going to try to run on us. They’re desperate.”
Hot Rod, next to me, said, “Yeah, but we’re a good desperate.”
The Owls brought the ball down and missed a shot. Hayley rebounded and passed to me. I dribbled downcourt fast, but the Owls got back. Too far back, hurrying to prevent a layup. I heard a “Whoo!” behind me. It was James, trailing the play, and I flipped it to him at the free-throw line. With all the Owls sagging back near the hoop, James was wide open for a fifteen-footer. Swish. The Owls’ fans had gone silent, and in the quiet gym that swish was all I could hear.
That cut their lead to 30–26.
I heard a couple of Owls argue about who let James get the easy shot. That was a good sign. They missed their next shot and the rebound came out long to Mia at the top of the key. She turned and outsprinted everyone back to our basket for a layup. Down by two. Now the Owls knew they were in a game, but they were tough, and at the end of the quarter they led 32–28.
I got a couple of assists in the fourth quarter, to Hayley and Jellybean, and the two teams battled back and forth. With two minutes left in the game, we were down, 38–35, and Mr. Meeks called time-out.
In the huddle, before Coach could say anything, James said, “Coach, I got this one, okay?”
Mr. Meeks shrugged and nodded.
James said, “Anybody tired?”
We were all exhausted. But everyone sat up straighter and said, “No!” I opened my eyes wide to look extra fresh. Like Edgar used to tell me, “Acting is part of the game.”
“Good,” James said. “They’ve got the ball. Carlos, on defense you stay out near the top of the key. When they shoot, you take off downcourt. Just take off. The rest of us will go for the rebound. Whoever gets it, throw it downcourt to Carlos. They won’t be expecting him to leak out like that. They’re getting tired, they’re not fighting for rebounds like they did earlier.”
It was risky. If I took off and the Owls got their own rebound, we’d be a man short on defense.
But it worked. Well, sort of.
They missed a five-footer, Hayley got the rebound, took a quick glance toward me, and heaved a long pass. There was just one problem: One of the Owls saw me sneak out early and took off after me, and now he was on my right, almost up to me.
I crossed the top of our key, but I had already given my wheels two cranks, so I had to either dribble or pass, and I couldn’t dribble to my right because of the defender. I heard a shrill whistle.
Hayley.
While everyone else was watching the race to the hoop between me and the Owl defender, Hayley had alertly busted downcourt to be my trailer, to help out. I was almost to the basket, with the defender all over me, and I didn’t have time to turn and look for Hayley. I flipped the ball back over my head, toward the sound of her whistle. Not a crazy pass, but risky.
It was a little off-line, but Hayley caught it and sailed in for the layup.
Their coach called one last time-out. Owls, 38; Rollin’ Rats, 37. Forty seconds left, and the Owls would have to shoot within thirty seconds.
“Okay,” Mr. Meeks said. “Whether they score or not, we’ll have time for one last play.”
As Coach picked up his dry-erase clipboard, Hayley put out her hand and looked at Coach as if to say, May I?
Mr. Meeks tilted his head, thought for a moment, then handed Hayley the clipboard and marker. She drew up a play. I would have the ball at the top of the key. Hayley, on the left wing, goes to the baseline to set a pick for James. James fakes coming off the screen toward me, then cuts to his left along the baseline, and I lob a pass to him. DJ and Mia clear out to the far right to take their defenders away from the hoop.
Hayley looked around the huddle and everyone nodded. Including Mr. Meeks.
The Owls had the ball. They worked it inside to their big scorer, and with twenty seconds left on the clock, he put up a nice hook shot from eight feet out. I held my breath. The ball hit the front rim, then the back rim, then bounced off to the side. Hayley and an Owl both reached for the rebound, but Hayley snatched it, almost pulling the other player out of her chair.
Our ball, one last chance, fifteen seconds on the clock. Hayley tossed an outlet to me and I came down quickly and stopped at the top of our key. Hayley hustled downcourt and set the pick on James’s man. The kid guarding James expected him to come around the pick toward the ball, so he moved to block that path, but James cut left along the baseline.
I glanced at the clock. Six seconds. If this didn’t work, I probably wouldn’t even be able to get off a desperation pass.
Hayley’s man saw James cut baseline and tried to spin and pick him up, but Hayley moved just enough to block the girl.
I hit James, just like Hayley drew it up. He shot the layup as casually as he would in pregame warm-ups.
Rollin’ Rats, 39, Owls, 38; two seconds left.
The Owls called time, but all they could do was in-bound the ball and take one dribble before the final horn.
Then it was all a blur, as seven Rats crashed together in a big clump of celebration. We whooped and yelled, and James shouted, “San Diegoooo!”
“First let’s let this one soak in,” Hot Rod yelled happily.
Jellybean poured a cup of water over Hot Rod’s head, and James bent over laughing.
That night I got a text from Edgar.
Well? Did you guys do it?
We won! By one point. We’re going to State.
YEEESSS! How many you score?
Three. Hit a free throw.
Just three? Refs kick you out of the game in the first quarter?
Bunch of assists. That’s more fun than scoring.
Carlos the passer, LOL! When’s State?
Starts a week from next Saturday, so we have two weeks to practice. Wish we had a gym.
Two weekends from now—that’s when I’m supposed to come up to see you.
My aunt is going to talk to your mom, see if you can meet us in San Diego instead. Maybe give my teammates some tips on using their elbows. How’s the team doing?
We’re 5–0, brother.
Dang, it’s like you guys don’t even miss me;)
Guess not. See you in San Diego, homes. Check this out.
His next text was a photo of all the guys sitting on the bench. Each player was holding up a sneaker. On the side of each shoe, in magic marker: CARLOS.
THE PALACE’S DAYS ARE NUMBERED
WITH EVERYTHING THAT WAS HAPPENING, I ALMOST forgot about the golf course adventure and how much trouble Mia and I had stirred up. I was on my best behavior, hoping to convince Rosie and Augie that I wasn’t some kind of hardened criminal.
After school on Thursday, I was watching basketball videos in my room when I heard the back door slam. When Augie comes home from work, he usually sits down in the kitchen with Rosie and they talk about their day. He never slams the door.
Rosie was surprised, too. Her voice carried all the way to my room. “What’s wrong, hon?”
“Mayor McCheesey,” I heard Augie grumble.
They talked for a few minutes in voices too low to overhear. Then Rosie called out, “Carlos, come on out here for a second, would you?”
Augie’s khaki work shirt, with the Bay City palm-tree logo on it, was drenched in sweat. He has an office, but he spends a lot of time in the parks, supervising his crews. Rosie says the people who work for Augie respect him because he’s not afraid to get dirty.
“Come on in, mijo,” Augie said. “This is adult stuff, but it involves you, and you’re old enough to know what’s going on.”
He took a long drink of the lemonade Rosie poured for him, then began.
“The head of the parks department stopped by my office this afternoo
n. His name is Al, a good guy. Al told me the city is making layoffs next month, eliminating some administrative jobs, to cut costs. Al told me that somebody high up thinks my family is getting too involved in official city business. He told me to please be careful—he didn’t want to see my name on that termination list.”
Rosie was pacing, an angry look on her face.
“A spotless record, thirty-two years,” she fumed.
Augie waved his hand. “I’m pretty sure a lot of people would go to bat for me. What’s interesting is how upset certain people ‘high up’ are about a bunch of kids. It’s almost like people have something to hide.”
I felt sick. I just wanted to play some basketball, and now my uncle’s job was threatened. That seemed too crazy.
Augie saw the horror on my face. “Carlos,” he said, “it seems like the stuff you and your friends uncovered is making the mayor uncomfortable.”
“Uncle Augie,” I blurted out, “I swear, I won’t do anything else! I’ll stay out of all that stuff!”
My uncle leaned back in his chair and his face softened. “That’s not the point, Carlos. You’ve been straight with us—except for the golf-course thing. You haven’t done anything wrong, unless it’s a crime for kids to write school reports, or to go online and read the minutes of public city council meetings.”
Rosie nodded. “Just make sure you keep us in the loop, Carlos. That means no more NASCAR races at the golf course.”
She gave me a stern look, but her eyes were smiling.
It felt good that my uncle and aunt were sharing this adult kind of stuff with me. But I wondered if I was old enough to handle it, because I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that the mayor was trying to intimidate my uncle. Forget about Stomper’s stupid tricks, this was, like, big-league bullying.
“Let’s all take a deep breath,” Augie said. “We didn’t want you to worry, just letting you know what was going on. Whatever happens, good or bad, we’ll get through it together.”
I went back to my room and checked the school website to see if my homeroom teacher had posted grades for the city history reports. Nothing yet, but I emailed copies of my report to Diz and William. Diz had helped me with the asbestos info, and William maybe could find something useful in the report when he was writing his story for the Independent.
My phone buzzed with a text message: Dude, it’s me.
Considering my most recent meeting with Stomper, I figured this would not be good news.
What’s up?
I think you should know that my dad’s company is going to tear down your gym this Saturday.
I nearly dropped my phone. Then I started typing back so quickly that I had to rewrite the message three times.
You sure? The newspaper said they weren’t going to knock down the Palace until a week from Saturday.
Schedule change. Dad says the mayor is worried that troublemakers will cause delays and make the whole deal more expensive. They’re keeping this a secret. They’re just going to crank up the wrecking ball at 8 Saturday morning, without telling anyone.
Wrecking ball???
Until then I hadn’t thought about how they would actually tear down the Palace. I got a mental image of a huge wrecking ball hurtling toward our gym like a giant meteor.
Yeah, Big Bertha. Sorry. I know you love that gym. I just thought you should know. Whatever you do, don’t tell anyone I told you, or it will be military school for my butt.
Thanks.
My heart thudded. With William working on his story, the Rats had been holding out faint hope that something would happen, especially since we were pretty sure the Palace wasn’t as unsafe as the phony report said it was.
Like Hot Rod said, “Maybe the mayor won’t want to get exposed for doing all the fishy sweetheart deals, and he’ll junk the plans for the strip mall and fix the Palace instead.”
Jellybean said, “Hot Rod, you’ve been watching too many movies.”
Now there was zero chance of saving the Palace. When it got crushed, our team’s future would go down with it. We were going to practice at the Shoe Barn Saturday to tune up for State, and now we’d have to listen to our Palace getting pulverized a couple of blocks away by Big Bertha.
The mayor was a genius. Once the pieces of the Palace were hauled away, no newspaper story was going to save it. I sat in my room fuming, then…
A text from Diz:
Carlos, congrats on making State! Hey, don’t get your hopes up because this is a super long shot, but I was talking about your team with one of my law professors. She grew up in Bay City and used to go to punk rock concerts at the old armory when it was called the Punk Palace. She says it might be possible to delay the demolition by getting a judge to designate the building a historical site.
OMG, that sounds too good to be true!
It might be too good to be true. She said the filing process would take about a week. Which, if it worked, would buy you guys some time.
Nooo! The schedule just changed. They’re tearing down the Palace this Saturday.
Ohh, man, now I’m really sorry I got your hopes up. And mine, too. Well, all I can say is, go kick some butt in San Diego.
Now I was really down, but I figured I should let my teammates know the bad news I got from Stomper, so I shot out an email. I even told them about Big Bertha.
Mia: They should use Big Bertha to smash the mayor’s new office.
Hot Rod: Even after the Palace is torn down, can’t the mayor still get in trouble if William’s story exposes, like, dirty tricks?
Carlos: Maybe, but that won’t help us. They won’t rebuild the Palace just because the mayor is a liar.
There was a long pause. Then:
Hot Rod: We’re mad, right?
James: Heck yes! We’re getting cheated, man!
Hot Rod: Remember what Trooper tells us when we get mad at the refs, or at ourselves because we’re playing lousy?
Hayley: He says “Get past mad.”
Hot Rod: Right. DO something—like play harder or work harder.
James: They’re smashing our gym to smithereens. What can we do to get past that?
Hot Rod: We can stop worrying about the Palace and just work our butts off to get ready for State. We can go out in a blaze of glory.
I sighed. The “blaze of glory” part sounded great, but not the “go out” part.
Our discussion ended and, in total boredom, I picked up the big book on Bay City history that I hadn’t gotten around to returning to the city library. I opened it at random, to a chapter on the 1960s, when there were famous “free speech” protests by students at the local university. One photo was of a group of students who chained themselves to the front door of the university’s administration building.
Hmm. I snapped a picture of the photo and sent it out on the group email.
Five minutes later:
DJ: You guys thinking what I’m thinking?
Hot Rod: My dad has a bunch of chains in our garage.
James: This is genius! If we chain ourselves to the door of the Rat Palace Saturday morning, they won’t be able to tear it down.
Mia: Cute idea, fellas, but think about it. The demolition people would call the police, right? They’d shoo us away and we’d have to stand back and watch Big Bertha do her job.
Hot Rod: Maybe. But what if a photographer from William’s newspaper came to take a picture of us chained to the Palace, before the police shoo us away? The mayor’s tearing down the gym Saturday because he wants to do it quietly, with no one noticing, right? If he knows there’s going to be a picture in the Independent, he might be forced to stick to the schedule and wait a week on the demolition. Time for Diz’s professor to get a delay, maybe.
Mia: Wait, wait, wait. What if we got arrested? My parents won’t be thrilled if they have to bail me out of jail. They still haven’t forgotten the golf-cart adventure.
Hot Rod: The college students in Carlos’s picture got arrested because they refused to leave.
If the police tell us to leave, we’ll leave. We won’t break any laws.
Jellybean: This idea is crazy, but what do we have to lose?
Suddenly I thought of what I had to lose: My uncle’s job.
Carlos: Sorry, guys, I’m out. The mayor threatened to fire my uncle if I keep butting into this stuff. I can’t do that to my family
James: But this was your idea, Carlos!
Carlos: I’m really sorry.
Jellybean: We understand, Carlos. How about the rest of you? Are you in?
Everyone else was in.
I buried my head in my hands. There can’t be many feelings worse than abandoning your teammates. I knew I was doing the right thing, but it felt wrong.
THE OLD HEAD FAKE
FRIDAY AFTERNOON WHEN I GOT TO THE GYM EARLY for the Bayview Bulldogs’ first game, Stomper was already there, sitting alone on the bench in his uniform, looking miserable. I brought out the rack of balls, the stack of towels, and the warm-up jackets, and set up the scoreboard console.
Then I rolled over to Stomper and flipped him his warm-up jacket. “You feeling okay?”
“No,” he said in a loud whisper. “I’m not ready for this, dude. I think Coach plans to start me, and I’ve never even played in a real game. What if I’m a total clown out there?”
“Won’t happen,” I said firmly.
“How do you know?” Stomper barked, then looked around to make sure nobody was there to hear him.
“Because your job is simple,” I said. “You’re not the big star, so nobody expects you to do much, right? Just do the basic stuff. The dirty work. Four things. Plus hustle. You’ve been doing fine in practice.”
Stomper shook his head. “My dad will be here, and he gets super pissed when I mess up in sports, know what I mean?”