Other Books by Matt Christopher
The Lucky Baseball Bat
Baseball Pals
Copyright
COPYRIGHT, ©, 1957, BY MATTHEW F. CHRISTOPHER
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. NO PART OF THIS BOOK
MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM WITHOUT
PERMISSION IN WRITING FROM THE PUBLISHER
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com
First eBook Edition: December 2009
ISBN: 978-0-316-09544-0
Contents
Other Books by Matt Christopher
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
To Duane
1
KIM looked at the scoreboard. ARROWS—41, COMETS—43.
He turned back to the, game and leaned his elbows on his bare knees. He had played the first quarter and had scored six points. That wasn’t bad. But he could not understand Coach Joe Stickles.
The coach had started Bobbie Leonard in Kim’s place in the second quarter. The third quarter had just begun, and Bobbie was still in the game. However, the coach must know what he was doing.
Allan Vargo, the Arrows’ center and tallest player, dribbled the ball down-court. Just before the foul line and to the right of it, he came to a quick stop. The Comet player who guarded him flashed by. Allan lifted the basketball above his head, his fingers and thumbs spread far apart. With a spring of his long, thin body the ball left his hands and sailed in an arch for the basket.
The ball dropped in without touching the rim! For a second it fluttered against the net, then fell through.
The crowd’s yell filled the school gym. Allan’s shot had tied the score!
Kim felt a tingle of excitement. So far the Arrows had lost two games and won one. If they took this game they would have two wins and two losses, and they would be in third place in the Small Fry Basketball League.
But Kim didn’t really care too much about that. He didn’t even care too much whether they ended in first place, or last. What he wanted more than anything was just to play basketball.
“Kim!”
He met Coach Joe Stickles’s sharp gray eyes. The coach was a small, chunky man with very little hair on his head.
“Report to the bench, Kim, and take Bobbie’s place!”
“Okay!”
Kim reported to the scorekeeper. A few seconds later the referee blew his whistle and Kim ran onto the court.
He tapped Bobbie on the shoulder. “Your turn to warm the bench, Bobbie!” He smiled.
“Okay!” said Bobbie. He was a small, husky-legged boy with a crew cut. He pointed to the man Kim was to cover, and ran off the court.
The whistle blew again for time in. The referee tossed the ball to a Comet player standing outside the white line. Since he was Ron Tikula’s man, Ron covered him.
Kim tried to watch the boy with the ball and the boy he guarded at the same time. His man was on the go every second, darting every which way like a rabbit. Kim tried to keep between the two players so that if the ball was thrown to his man he could catch it.
All at once his man leaped in front of him and caught the ball! Kim scampered after him. His sneakers slipped and he almost fell. He caught himself and went after the Comet player, who was running upcourt. Kim’s solid white legs looked like bright winking lights. His thick blond hair bobbed on his head as if it would shake off.
He couldn’t let that man make a basket. He just couldn’t. The Comets would shoot ahead and Coach Joe Stickles would blame him.
Kim caught up with the Comet player. He tried to get his right hand around the boy’s waist to hit the ball. A loud smack! sounded. He had slapped the boy’s wrist instead of the ball.
“Shr-i-e-k!”
The referee’s whistle pierced the hall. A finger went up high.
Kim stared. A foul!
2
SOMEONE squeezed his arm. “Come on, O’Connor!” an angry voice snapped. “Watch what you’re doing! This ain’t no choir!”
Kim caught Ron Tikula’s disgusted look. Ron was taller and heavier than Kim. His hair was coal black, like his eyes.
Kim’s face reddened. He looked away.
“Get down there, Kim!” a voice shouted. “Get down there!”
The voice jerked him out of his thoughts. He glanced toward the bench. Coach Stickles was making motions for him to move upcourt. He sprang into a run. He got into position under the backboard, and kept his toes just outside the white line. The referee held up his hand. It came down like a signal arm at a railroad crossing. At the same time his whistle shrilled.
The Comet player shot. The ball sailed directly through the hoop, hitting the net like a whisper.
Jimmie Burdette, who stood across from Kim, ran behind him and gave him a friendly tap on the hip. “Don’t let that bother you, Kim! We’ll get ‘em!”
“Yeah,” Kim murmured. He knew that Jimmie was just trying to perk him up.
Dutchie McBride dribbled the ball halfway down-court, then passed to Allan. Allan shot to Jimmie, who faked a pass, then leaped for a hook shot. The crowd screamed as the ball banked against the backboard, touched the rim, and rolled over.
“Tough luck, Jimmie!” cried Kim.
He rushed in to get the ball. He fell on it. At the same time a Comet player tried to pull it from him. The whistle shrilled for a jump ball.
The referee tossed the ball into the air. The Comet player outjumped Kim and tapped the ball. Allan Vargo snared it from a Comet’s hands. He pivoted, then shot a short pass to Ron.
Kim was in the open. “Here!” he shouted.
He didn’t think Ron would throw the ball to him. Ron and Dutchie were two boys who teased him about singing in the church choir. But Ron did throw the ball, and Kim caught it.
Kim stood, puzzled, inside the white circle in the middle of the court. No one was near him. Somebody in the stands shouted, “Shoot! Shoot!”
Kim looked at Jimmie, Allan, and the others. They were well guarded. He looked at the basket.
It was a long way to throw. But at any second the quarter might end.
The Arrows were one point behind. He was responsible for that point. If he shot and made it the Arrows would go into the lead. A lot of guys made shots from the middle of the court.
Kim brought the big, round ball up against his chest, both his hands spread wide behind it. One of the Comets saw he was going to shoot, and sped toward him. Kim leaped. The ball shot from his hands. It just missed the tips of the Cornet player’s fingers.
The ball sailed through the air close to the white ceiling, then curved down toward the basket. There was a hush in the gym. Then a terrific roar as the ball sailed over the backboard!
Ron’s voice screamed at him. “Pass that ball! Who do you think you are? Wally Goodrich?”
Wally Goodrich was a professional basketball player with the Seacord Lions. Kim always talked about him.
Time was called. A familiar horn sounded from the bench. Bobbie Leonard was coming back in to replace Kim.
Kim ran off the court. He kept his eyes down. He hardly noticed the sweat that rolled into them.
“That’s pretty far to shoot, K
im,” Coach Stickles said. “Try to pass when you can.” Then he leaned over and patted Kim on the knee. “Don’t let it bother you, kid. Cheer up.”
Then the quarter ended.
3
THE two minutes went by quickly. The sweat on Kim’s body had hardly dried.
A Comet player threw in the ball from outside the out-of-bounds line. His teammate caught it and heaved a long pass upcourt.
“Get up there! Get up there!” Coach Stickles shouted. Kim wondered if anybody could miss hearing that strong, powerful voice.
A Comet player, alone under the basket, caught the pass and made a perfect layup shot. Kim saw that the player was Bobbie’s man.
The scoreboard flashed the score: ARROWS—43, COMETS—46.
The game was close. But the Arrows still had a chance. Kim wished he could get in again. He would never have let his man be alone as Bobbie had.
A Comet player caught a pass Allan had meant for Ron Tikula, and dribbled down to the circle in the middle of the court. Jimmie Burdette made a few stabs at the ball, then hurried upcourt to cover his man.
Kim grinned. Jimmie Burdette was a good player. Not only that, he was a nice kid too. You never heard him argue. You never saw him play dirty.
Kim was glad that Jimmie Burdette and he were good pals.
The Comet player was standing in the white circle—the same spot in which Kim had stood a few minutes before.
The Comet player glanced at the basket. He was tall, about five feet six or seven. He set himself for the long shot. His knees bent, then straightened. The ball flipped from his hands. It was a perfect throw. It hit the backboard and bounded through the hoop for two points.
Everybody—even the Arrows’ rooters—gave him a hand.
The Arrows showed some fight after that. Kim got in and scored a set shot. Then Ron made a neat break, followed by a quick drive in which netted them two more points.
On the next play Ron fouled. Coach Stickles took him out because it was Ron’s fourth foul. One more and he would be out for good.
The Comets made the free throw, putting them ahead 49 to 47.
Dutchie passed the ball from out of bounds to Kim. A Comet player swept in like a bolt of lightning, caught the ball, and dribbled upcourt. He stopped suddenly and hurled the ball to a teammate waiting under the basket. The player caught it and dumped it in easily.
Kim took out the ball, tossed it to Dutchie. The Comet guard rushed in and tried to pull the ball from Dutchie’s hands. They pulled and tugged, but neither let go of the ball.
The whistle shrilled.
“Jump!” cried the referee, the whistle bouncing against his chest as he ran forward.
The thin, long-legged Comet player outjumped Dutchie easily. He tapped the ball to a redheaded teammate who dribbled part way up the court, then passed the ball. Another Comet snared it, stopped quickly, and tried a set shot. The ball sailed through the air and into the basket.
Kim groaned.
“Go in, Ron!” said Coach Stickles. Ron went in. Jimmie Burdette passed the ball to him. Ron dribbled to the center of the court and bounced the ball to Dutchie, who threw it to Kim. Kim snapped it to Jimmie, who was running toward the basket. A Comet player intercepted it, dribbled upcourt, then passed.
The ball hit Dutchie’s outstretched hand and started bouncing toward the out-of-bounds line when the horn blew, ending the game.
The Arrows lost, 53 to 47.
4
AFTER supper Ron Tikula and Jimmie Burdette came over to Kim’s house. Kim could hear them talking as they approached on the cement walk.
“Hi,” he said, as he opened the door.
“Hi, Kim,” Jimmie said. He and Ron wore dungarees and jackets. Both were carrying sneakers. Ron was bareheaded, but Jimmie was wearing a blue baseball cap with the letter B on it. B stood for Brooklyn, Jimmie’s favorite baseball team.
“Can you come down to the gym?” Jimmie asked. “Or are you still tired?”
Kim smiled. “No, I’m not tired. Going to practice?”
“Naturally,” spoke up Ron. A crooked grin spread on his lips.
Kim looked at him, then looked back at Jimmie. “Wait a minute. I’ll ask my mother.”
He left the door part way open and started for the dining room. He stopped as his mother came into the kitchen. She was wearing a white lace apron over a blue house dress.
“What is it, Kim?” she asked. Her blue eyes were exactly the color of his.
“Jimmie and Ron are here. They want me to go down to the gym with them.”
She came closer and ran her fingers through his thatch of blond hair.
“Did you tell them you couldn’t go tonight?”
He lowered his eyes from hers and looked straight at the wall. “I told them I’d ask you.”
She laughed softly and rumpled his hair again. “I’m sorry, darling. But you know what Mrs. Kelsey said about your singing lessons.”
Kim pursed his lips. He wished she would not talk about his singing. He didn’t want the boys—especially Ron—to hear. But they were just outside the opened door. They must have heard.
“Okay,” he said, before she could say any more. “I’ll tell them.”
He went to the door. “I can’t go tonight,” he said.
Ron laughed. “Got to practice singing, huh? What’re you trying to be—a TV star?”
“Pipe down,” Jimmie said. He waved to Kim. “Okay, Kim. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
“‘Night,” said Kim.
He closed the door. When he turned, his mother was still standing there. He saw her eyes blink quickly a few times.
He was a little angry. He wouldn’t have cared if Jimmie had come alone. Jimmie was broad-minded. He never kidded Kim about his singing. But Ron had been with him. You couldn’t say anything about Kim’s singing in front of Ron. Ron took it as a big joke. He razzed Kim every chance he could.
Kim wanted to ask his mother not to speak about his singing in front of Ron again. But from the expression on her face and in her eyes he knew he could not ask her. She was feeling bad already. She must have heard Ron’s sarcastic remark.
Kim went to her and put his arms around her waist. A big smile came to his lips.
“Don’t feel bad, Mom,” he said.
She laid her cheek against his head. “Feel bad? Who says I feel bad?”
He raised his head then. Her eyes looked a little blurry.
She squeezed him tightly, then let him go.
“Okay,” she said. “We’d better start. It’s Saturday night, and your Aunt Carol and. Uncle Jim may come with Barbara Mae.”
5
KIM’S mother sat at the black upright piano and played the introduction of a hymn. Kim stood beside her. He really did not feel like singing. He would rather be at the gym practicing basketball. In order to play as well as his teammates, he had to practice as often as they did too. But his singing lessons interfered. Sometimes he wished he had never started singing.
His mother paused at the end of the introduction. He took a deep breath, and started to sing.
Kim sang easily, without strain or effort. It was one of the nice things Mrs. Kelsey said about him. “Kim has the most beautiful soprano voice I have ever heard in my choir,” she had told his mother and father one day. “I don’t know what I would do without him.”
There was a round mirror on the wall to the right of the piano, and in it Kim could’ see his father’s reflection. Mr. O’Connor had laid the newspaper he was reading on his lap, and was listening to Kim while he puffed on his pipe. He caught Kim’s eye in the mirror and winked.
“We’ll do another one,” Kim’s mother suggested, “then we’ll practice that new piece Mrs. Kelsey wants you to learn.”
“Okay,” he said.
He sang another song, then practiced the new one. His mother played it through a couple of times. He didn’t like the song very much. It was slow. After a while he tired of it.
“Let’s quit, Mom,” he
said.
She looked at him, and smiled. Her eyes flashed like a rainbow with extra blue in it. “All right. It’s time to stop, anyway.”
“See where the Lions won last night, Kim?” his father asked, as he picked up the paper again.
“Sure,” replied Kim. “They beat the Knicks, ninety-seven to ninety-four. That must put them within two games of second place!”
“Right,” said his father. “Since you’ve read all about it, I suppose you know how many points Wally Goodrich scored?”
“Sure! Twenty-eight! He’s good, you know it, Dad? I think he’s the best in the league!”
His father grinned through the smoke that curled up from his pipe.
6
KIM lay on his stomach on the living-room rug, the sports page of the Sunday newspaper spread before him. It was early and his mother and father were still in bed. Kim was in his pajamas.
The first thing he looked for was the story about yesterday afternoon’s Small Fry Basketball game. He wanted to see if his name was mentioned.
At last he found what he was looking for. WINGS, COMETS, WIN IN SMALL FRY, the headline read. A short paragraph told about some of the leading point makers. He saw that Jimmie Burdette had led with twelve points in their game against the Comets.
Underneath were the line-ups of all the teams which had played in the Small Fry League. Their game was third down the list.
fg ft tp
Tikula f 5 0 10
Burdette f 5 2 12
Vargo c 4 3 11
Leonard g 0 1 1
McBride g 1 2 4
O’Connor g 4 1 9
Jordan f 0 0 0
* * *
19
* * *
9
* * *
47
Kim got a pair of scissors and clipped out the column. Then he took it to his room and placed it in his scrapbook. Flopping in front of the paper again, he began to read about the Seacord Lions. Boy, that Wally Goodrich—thirty-nine points!
Basketball Sparkplug Page 1