Bouncing Back

by Scott Ostler

  “Uh, not really,” I said. “My dad only got upset with me if I was a jerk. Like, once I had a bad game and I wouldn’t do the handshake line. That was the only time my parents didn’t stop on the way home at the ice-cream shop.”

  “Really?”

  I could see he couldn’t imagine living in my world any more than I could imagine living in his.

  “What does your dad say to you when you mess up?” I asked.

  Stomper scuffed the toes of his sneakers against the floor. “I don’t know. I just pretend to listen, and wait for the storm to blow over.” He bent down and tied the laces on his raggedy skateboard shoes, which looked like they might not survive the game. “It’s worse now, because basketball is his sport and he gets embarrassed if his kid sucks at it. Can’t blame him, I guess.”

  I could blame him, but I didn’t say it.

  Stomper got up and started to walk away, then stopped and said quietly, “Sorry about your gym, dude.”

  “You never know,” I said, thinking of my friends and the plan I helped set in motion. My plan. “Maybe something good will happen.”

  He gave me an almost pitying look. “Right. Have you ever seen Big Bertha in action? It’s awesome!”

  Stomper saw the pained expression on my face and said, “Sorry, man.”

  The other players were starting to drift in, along with the fans. Before long, the Bayview Middle School gym was full, the ten rows of bleachers packed and students standing at both ends of the court. The school pep band was tuning up in one corner, and the cheerleaders were practicing in another.

  My phone pinged with a message. From DJ, who goes to Piedmont, the school we were about to play.

  Carlos, a quick scouting report. Watch out for Tree. He can really jump, and loves to block shots.

  Thanks, DJ. What does Tree look like?

  A Tree.

  The excitement level picked up when the Piedmont team sauntered into the gym. I watched Stomper watch their entrance with wide eyes. They had two players as tall as Stomper, and one skinny guy two inches taller. That kid walked slower than the other guys and was chewing gum with his mouth open. Tree.

  Coach Miller huddled our team, named the five starters, and said, “Roland, we’re counting on you to dominate the boards.” Stomper looked ill. “And when we throw you the ball on the low post, I want you to shoot.”

  Now I felt ill. I knew Tree would guard Stomper and that could get ugly. It did.

  First play, our point guard passed to Stomper, who was on the low post with his back to the basket. Tree was sagging off, so Stomper thought he was open. He turned and shot. Tree jumped and swatted the ball away, then posed for a second with his arm in the air, smiling and chewing his gum.

  The ball rolled toward the hoop. Stomper hustled over and shot from two feet. Tree, recovering from his pose, blocked that shot from behind.

  The Piedmont fans loved it, shouting, “Treee!” Stomper’s dad, sitting near our bench, shook his head.

  Coach Miller subbed Stomper out and he sat at the end of the bench, away from Coach and next to my chair.

  I exhaled. “Wow, that Tree dude can really jump.”

  Stomper shot me an angry look.

  “So here’s what you do,” I said, and Stomper looked at me like I was nuts. But he listened.

  “Next time you get the ball, give Tree a head fake. Remember when I showed you that?”

  “What if he doesn’t go for it?” Stomper said.

  “He will,” I said, trying to sound more casual than I felt. “Jumpers love to jump. That’s what the TV announcers say, anyway.”

  Coach called time-out and put Stomper back in. Coach said in the huddle, “Guys, for right now, don’t pass the ball to Walkman. He’s a little nervous.”

  But our point guard immediately forgot and lobbed the ball in to Stomper.

  The pass surprised him but he caught it, half turned toward Tree, and gave a jerky head fake. Not the greatest fake ever, but Tree sprang about ten feet into the air.

  It took Stomper a split second to realize what he had done. Then he dribbled around Tree, missed the layup, but got his own rebound and put it back in. I’m not sure who looked more stunned—Tree or Stomper. Or Stomper’s dad.

  Now Stomper had a tool, and a tiny bit of confidence. He faked Tree off his feet twice more. The second time Tree went up and came down on Stomper’s back for a two-shot foul, then fell to the floor and swallowed his gum.

  Our fans were going nuts, and the Piedmont coach jumped off the bench and yelled, “No, Tree, no!”

  There must be a basketball god, because Stomper made both free throws.

  Their coach switched defensive assignments, and Stomper scored only two more points the rest of the game, but he was so fired up that he grabbed almost every rebound at both ends of the court.

  With Stomper owning the boards, we won by four. In the handshake line, Tree wouldn’t look Stomper in the eye.

  Stomper looked dazed but happy. His classmates, no doubt glad to see him put some misery on kids from another school, slapped him on the back as he made his way to the drinking fountain. His dad cut him off.

  “Pretty nifty head fakes, Roland,” Mr. Walkman said coldly. “Where’d you pick up that move?”

  Stomper shrugged. “Out on the playground,” he said.

  “Not from that nosy wheelchair kid, I hope,” Mr. Walkman said. “I warned you about him. I’ll be outside, in the car. Don’t keep me waiting.”

  As the gym emptied out, I started picking up the towels. Stomper walked over to me and stuck out his fist for a bump.

  “You’re going to have a good season,” I said.

  “A short season,” he said quietly. “I’ve only got two more games. Then it’s semester break and I’m out of here.”

  “What?” I asked, aghast. “You’re quitting the team?”

  “I’m leaving school, dude.”

  “What?”

  “Transferring,” he said with a sad sigh. “You told me your wheelchair team needed a gym to practice in, and you said Coach was going to have the players vote.”

  I nodded.

  “So I talked to some of the guys, then I told Coach we wouldn’t mind practicing outside and letting your team use the gym to get ready for your State tournament. Well, Coach Miller said no can do, because there were too many issues.” Stomper rolled his eyes.

  He was seeming more like an actual human being all the time.

  “You really talked to Coach Miller?” I asked. “Thanks—I appreciate you trying.”

  “No worries. Problem is, Coach mentioned all that to my dad. Probably thought my dad would think it’s cool that I wanted to help your team.”

  I grimaced. “I guess that didn’t go over too well.”

  Stomper shook his head. “Nope. Dad flipped out. He said I’m running with a bad crowd and I’m out of control, so he’s sending me to military school.”

  I could hardly believe what I was hearing. “Because you’re running with this bad crowd?” I asked, pointing to myself.

  “Nah. That’s what he said was the reason, but I’m smarter than he thinks I am. You and your girlfriend are just his excuse. You know what I think? More and more, when my old man blows up at me or my mom, I… stand up to him. At least, sort of. I’m getting bigger and stronger, and you know what I figured out the other day? I’m not as scared of my dad as I used to be. Maybe I’m getting to be too hard for him to handle. Sending me to that place, that’s his way of controlling me, you know?”

  “I guess I don’t know,” I said. “But hey, I’m sorry about you leaving school.”

  And how crazy is this? I really did mean it.

  “It’s super messed up, man,” Stomper admitted. “My old man is putting an end to my basketball season, just when I was, like, not sucking.”

  He paused, then added, “And he’s putting an end to your team, too, with that stupid mall.”

  “Not your fault,” I said. “Nothing anybody can do now. My t
eammates are going to protest at the gym tomorrow morning, but we know it’s pretty hopeless.”

  Suddenly I realized I shouldn’t be telling anyone about the protest, especially not the son of the man who was tearing down our Palace.

  “You have to keep that secret, right?” I said, almost begging.

  “Hey, man, I’m not saying anything to my old man. Did you see him just now? That’s what I deal with.”

  Then Stomper looked worried and said, “Tell your friends to be careful. You can’t mess with Big Bertha.”

  He was holding a basketball and squeezing it so hard I thought he might pop it. Instead he handed it gently to me, turned, and walked out the door, with his head up.

  THE NIGHTMARE

  BEFORE DINNER THAT EVENING, ROSIE CAME INTO MY bedroom and said brightly, “Family meeting, Carlos!”

  It was a warm evening, so we were eating on the patio, and Augie was putting hamburgers on the grill. He got right to the point.

  “We know about your teammates’ plan for tomorrow morning,” he said. “The kids all went to their parents. The parents talked about it late last night and gave the kids permission. Everyone is planning to go. Everyone except you.”

  Uh-oh. Did my aunt and uncle think I was keeping another secret from them?

  Rosie put her hand gently on my head. “Don’t look so worried, Carlos. We know you told your teammates you weren’t coming.”

  Augie leaned against the brick barbecue. “But why didn’t you say anything to us?”

  I shrugged, embarrassed. “I guess I thought there was nothing to say, since I’m not going.”

  “Because of what the mayor said about my job?” Augie asked.

  I nodded.

  “We love it that you are concerned about Augie,” Rosie said. “But this is a big deal, something we should discuss as a family. Did you think we wouldn’t support you in this if you asked us?”

  “It’s not that,” I said hurriedly. “You guys have been great. “It’s just that… it’s just that sometimes I worry that I’m like a… well, a…”

  “A burden?” Rosie suggested.

  I shrugged.

  She picked up her phone, thumbed through her photos, and handed the phone to me. It was a photo of Augie in a dirty T-shirt and Levi’s, standing in front of the wheelchair ramp on the front porch, tipping his baseball cap.

  Rosie said, “Carlito, Augie sent me that picture on your fifth day in the hospital. A couple of the guys in his crew came over and helped him build the ramp. We haven’t talked to you about this, but at that time the doctors were very worried about possible brain damage, and it was no sure thing that we’d ever bring you home. As you can see, Augie knew something the doctors didn’t. Does the man in that picture look burdened?”

  I reached for a napkin and wiped my eyes.

  “Carlos,” Augie said, “I think this is your aunt’s roundabout way of saying that if you want to go with your teammates tomorrow, you have our permission and our blessing, and whatever happens, we will happily deal with it.”

  “But the mayor,” I said. “What if he fires you?”

  “The mayor could try to make trouble for me, but my work record is solid and, worst-case, I’ve had other job offers. The thing is, the mayor wouldn’t be making his threats, he wouldn’t be worried about a bunch of kids, unless he was hiding something.”

  Augie flipped the burgers on the grill and said, “Carlos, you know my parents were farmworkers. They came here from Mexico and they worked very, very hard. Under brutal conditions, for very little money. When the farmworkers went on strike, my family marched. It was a peaceful protest, at least on the part of the strikers, but a lot of people were angry. It became almost a war.”

  Augie sat down at the table and looked hard into my eyes. “Carlito, my parents are long gone, but if I don’t support you in this, or if I let you back down, someday, somehow I will have to answer to them.”

  Rosie rested her hand on top of mine. “You know, the city almost certainly will tear down your gym. But a peaceful protest can still have impact.”

  “If you go,” Augie said, “you have to promise not to break any laws or rules. If the police show up, you do exactly as they say.”

  “And no bus,” Rosie said. “We’ll drive you, and we’ll stay nearby.”

  “Thanks,” I said quietly.

  “Ketchup or salsa on your burger?” Augie asked.

  “Both, please,” I said.

  “Geez,” Rosie said, “you really are multicultural.”

  After dinner, rolling back to my room, I noticed a new addition to the family photo gallery in our hallway. It was the picnic photo of my mom and dad, in a frame made from driftwood.

  “Hey,” I called out. “When did you guys put up this new picture?”

  “Just this morning,” Rosie said, walking into the hallway. “It was a gift.”

  “From who?”

  “Mia,” Rosie said. “I thought you knew. So thoughtful. She said she got the photo from you.”

  In my room I texted Mia.

  I’m in! I talked to my aunt and uncle.

  Whoo! The other Rats will be thrilled. You should let everyone know.

  Hey, thanks for the picture, Mia. Where did you get that cool frame?

  My moms and I took a walk on the beach the other day and collected driftwood. One of my moms does woodworking, she helped me make it.

  Wow. I don’t know what to say.

  Good. I like it when you’re tongue-tied. See you tomorrow! Go Rats!

  I didn’t sleep much that night, and when I did, it was nightmare time.

  A fierce-looking man in a red hard hat sat in the cab of a construction crane. The arm of the crane stuck high up into the clouds. Dangling from the arm was a thick steel cable, and hanging from the bottom of the cable was the wrecking ball—Big Bertha.

  The man in the cab was smoking a fat cigar. He wrapped a gloved hand around a huge lever and gave it a yank.

  With a metallic shriek, the gigantic wrecking ball swung free of the crane arm and down toward the Palace.

  Augie shook me awake just as the ball was about to hit home. “Carlito,” he said, “it’s time.”

  Getting ready in the morning takes me way longer than it did before I became disabled. Rosie always tells me to slow down and be patient, but not this morning. Forty-five minutes later we were out the door, into the cold and foggy morning.

  BIG BERTHA

  MY NIGHTMARE WASN’T FAR FROM THE REALITY.

  The wrecking ball was scary. Big Bertha was huge, as big as a refrigerator, steel-gray and all dented up from pulverizing a thousand Rat Palaces.

  I could see the crane through the fog from the top of Railroad Avenue when Rosie and Augie dropped me off. By seven, everyone was assembled on the sidewalk in front of the donut shop.

  “It’s just a steel ball, but it looks so mean.” Mia shuddered, looking down the hill at the crane and wrecking ball. “I wonder how much it weighs.”

  “Probably about three thousand pounds,” DJ said. “I googled it.”

  Through the window of the donut shop, I saw another guy behind the counter, not Diz.

  Hot Rod’s dad had the chains and padlocks in his pickup truck, and he handed them out.

  “Let history record that the Rats went down swinging,” Hot Rod said dramatically, waving his chains.

  My phone buzzed with a text, from Diz. I got my teammates’ attention and read it.

  Carlos, I didn’t want to get your hopes up, but my law professor actually tried to get that historical-site designation. The judge said the Palace doesn’t qualify. But yesterday I showed my professor your report and she tried to reach the judge again. She said there was a slim chance the judge would order a delay of the demolition to give her time to study irregularities in the inspection report. The judge granted my professor an emergency hearing at city hall in half an hour. That’s good, but fair warning: Even if the judge grants the delay, it will be too late. That would lea
ve us with only a moral victory. Sorry, my friend.

  “We really were onto something, weren’t we?” Mia sighed.

  “Where is William?” James said. “I thought he was going to meet us here.”

  “He just texted me,” Mia said. “He was helping his wife, who is due any day, but he’s on his way now.”

  “Well, the wrecking ball’s not going to wait,” James said. “With or without a photographer to record it, let’s go make history.”

  The Rollin’ Rats rolled down Railroad Avenue. The street was deserted, as usual, and as we neared the gym we saw a police officer standing at the gate between the sidewalk and the outdoor basketball court.

  “Oh no!” James moaned.

  “Why in the world is there a policeman here?” DJ said. “Nobody even lives around here.”

  “Do you think someone warned the demo guys that we were coming?” Mia said.

  “No way,” I said. “Nobody else knew.”

  Then I got a clunk in the pit of my stomach. I told Stomper!

  “Well, we won’t be able to get near the Palace now,” Jellybean said dejectedly.

  The officer watched us roll down the hill. He stepped forward and raised his hand.

  “Sorry, boys and girls, this is a dangerous demolition site. Nobody is allowed within a two-block radius.”

  The Rollin’ Rats’ gallant last stand was a bust.

  We had been so excited, but now we were a sad and quiet group as we rolled past the gate. At the corner, we stopped and everyone phoned their parents to tell ’em to meet us at the old Shoe Barn. We’d be starting practice earlier than expected.

  We made a left at the train tracks and were a block away from the Palace when I realized I didn’t have my jacket. It must have slipped off my lap when I was phoning Rosie.

  “I gotta go back, guys, dropped my jacket,” I said. “I’ll meet you at the Shoe Barn in a few minutes.”

  “I’ll go back with you, Carlos,” Mia said. “Buddy system, you know?”

  As we reached the corner of the train tracks and Railroad Avenue, Mia gasped.

  “Carlos! Look! The mayor’s limo.”