by Scott Ostler
“James passes to Mia near the left elbow. Mia passes to me on the right elbow. When Jeff leaves her to double-team James, Mia cuts straight to the basket.”
Mia nodded. She had that look. Danger Eyes.
James clapped his hands twice and said, “Let’s do it.”
Trooper leaned in and we all put our hands together in the middle.
“Go, Rats!”
As we rolled back onto the court, one of the Sailors pointed at James and said to a teammate, “I’ll come over to help.”
Perfect. But what if I had just drawn up a dumb play?
Hayley had just come in, she in-bounded to James, and he brought the ball down the left side. Two defenders attacked him just as he got near the midcourt line. They were on him so fast I wasn’t sure he would have time to get off his pass. But James is a quick thinker. He saw the two Sailors coming and flipped the ball to Mia, who turned and passed to me at the free-throw line.
“Don’t let him shoot, Magic!” their coach yelled, and she charged toward me, leaving the middle of the key open again.
“Five seconds!” Trooper yelled.
Jeff spun away from Mia and came out to double-team me, and Mia instantly took off for the hoop. I barely touched the ball before looping a pass back to her. So far, so good, but the guy who was guarding Hayley in the right corner read the play and instantly left Hayley to pick up Mia. Mia saw the defender closing on her and bounced a pass to Hayley, now under the hoop.
Hayley never misses an open layup. She didn’t hesitate.
Swish!
Before the ball hit the floor, the horn sounded.
I rushed over to hug Hayley, who had a look like, No big deal. I felt someone hug my neck from behind. It was Mia. Then it was just a major traffic jam of seven chairs.
The roar of our fans seemed to shake the arena. I looked into the stands and saw Rosie, Augie, Edgar, Stomper, and Stomper’s mom all hugging and jumping and waving their arms.
I looked at our bench. Trooper was enjoying the scene, a small smile on his face. I caught his eye and he pointed at me.
When we finally made it off the court, DJ’s mom handed him his boom box.
He looked at Trooper. “Is it okay, Coach?”
Trooper nodded. DJ hit “play.”
Then all the Rats and all our families and friends sang along with that weird old song that had seemed so strange when I heard it at my first practice, before I knew what Nationals were, or where they would be. Now the song meant something.
“I’m goin’ to Kansas City, Kansas City, here I come…”
BASKETBALL
SIX MONTHS LATER, WE WERE BACK IN THE PALACE!
The old building looked pretty much the same from the outside. They did fix the neon sign over the front door, so THE PALACE burned bright blue through the morning fog.
I was the first one to arrive. Well, the first player, after Trooper. Everyone else arrived early, too, and we were so busy chattering that nobody was even shooting around. Same old crew, except that James was aging up to the fourteen-to-sixteen team, which practiced and played in the high school gym, but he came just to hang with us for one practice, and to check out the “new” Rat Palace.
“We’re really going to miss you, James,” Mia said, “but we’re glad you came by this morning.”
“Can’t believe I’m leaving you guys,” James said quietly, then quickly changed the subject. “This new floor is amazing.” He took a dribble. “Remember how the old boards sounded like they were cracked?”
“Yeah, that’s because they were cracked,” Jellybean said.
“That’s the coolest new thing,” DJ said, pointing at the banner hanging on the wall next to the windows that were no longer patched with cardboard. “State Champions—Rollin’ Rats. Can you believe it? That’s us.”
“Hey, Carlos, I hope you brought something for Captain Hook,” DJ said.
I held up my donut bag.
As we were yapping and laughing, I glanced toward the front door and saw a kid roll into the gym. The woman walking with him must have been his mom. The mom was smiling, or trying to. The kid, as he looked around, was not smiling. He said something to his mom; they talked. He shook his head once, then again. Finally, the woman shrugged, and they both turned around and went back out the door.
I saw Trooper watching, too, and he followed them outside. A few minutes later they all came back in. Trooper and a team dad helped lift the kid from his wheelchair into a basketball chair, and from the look on his face, it could have been the electric chair. Trooper gave him a ball, patted him on the shoulder, and pointed to the court.
The kid pushed over to a side basket where nobody was and just sat there, his back to the gym, looking up at the hoop.
I glanced at James, and he gave me a nod.
The kid didn’t look happy to see me roll over to his basket. His eyes were sad and tired. I recognized the look; I’d seen it on faces of kids in the hospital and in rehab. And, not that long ago, in my mirror.
“Hey, I’m Carlos. What’s your name?”
“Gabe.”
“Wanna shoot?”
“Uh, I don’t think I could even reach the rim.”
“Tell me about it. Last year I set a world record for airballs. Have you played?”
“Used to play… basketball. Never… this…”
“Let’s just play catch. Where do you go to school?”
IT REALLY DOES TAKE A VILLAGE.
Gabriel Ostler contributed the kind of thoughtful reading and insights every author should have. Kristie Kershaw’s creative thinking saved the day more than once. This book was Kathy Ostler’s idea, then her gift was ongoing ideas, discussion, and support.
There is a real BARD. It is called BORP—Bay Area Outreach & Recreation Program, based in Berkeley, California. It is a model for disabled sports and recreation programs. BORP folks Rick Smith, Greg Milano, and Tim Orr were generous with their help and encouragement.
Many thanks to the kids on the Bay Cruisers, BORP’s youth team. They don’t want to be inspirations, so don’t tell them that’s what they were for this book. They shared their stories and experiences, and I hope their love for basketball found its way into the story.
Thanks to Bay Cruisers coach Trooper Johnson, the kind of coach we should all have when we’re kids, in any sport.
Thanks to Richie Bennett, Trooper’s assistant, prep-team head coach, a legend in disabled sports, and a fantastic dude.
Books get published because people believe. I tip my sportswriter fedora to literary agent Andy Ross, whose encouragement pushed me beyond chapter three, and to Lisa Yoskowitz, the editor at Little, Brown who made this book a reality. As editors, Lisa and Hannah Milton performed the literary equivalent of teaching me to ride a unicycle while juggling chain saws.
Thanks to Zimra Zigoda for careful reading.
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SCOTT OSTLER is a sports columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle, and previously for the Los Angeles Times. He has been voted California Sportswriter of the Year fourteen times. Ostler has covered major sports all over the world for four decades, and his freelance writing has been published in national publications from Sports Illustrated to Parenting. He has published five nonfiction books, including Winnin’ Times, which has been optioned for film. Bouncing Back is his debut novel.
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