by Rich Wallace
That got Dunk to thinking about his own “credentials.” He’d played a good game this morning, but he knew that he had a long way to go before reaching the level that Jared and Fiorelli and Spencer were on. Those guys could hold their own with the best players in the state. Dunk was still pretty average.
He knew what he needed to work on:—Speed. That was one thing he could certainly improve. It was a matter of getting into better condition. Running after school. Keeping up the hustle on the court.
—Flexibility. Especially his jumping ability. This was still his weakest aspect. But he knew where he could work on it. The guys would never let him hear the end of it if they caught him, but Aunt Krystal’s aerobics classes would definitely limber him up.He laughed at that, picturing himself dancing and bounding and bouncing around the gym to the salsa and rock tunes Krystal played. But if it would make him a better athlete, he’d be willing to give it a try.
—Basketball. As long as he kept playing, he’d keep getting better. There was always a pickup game to jump into outside the Y or at a play-ground. He’d never get tired of that.“Who’s playing tomorrow?” Dunk said loudly. “Ten o’clock at the Y. Who’s up for it?”
“Not me,” said Fiorelli. “I got blisters on the bottoms of my feet. And football practice starts in a couple of days. I need a break.”
“I’ll be there,” said Willie.
“Me, too,” said Lamont.
“Now shut up about basketball,” David called. “It’s summertime. Time to chill out on the beach.”
Dunk met Krystal at the food stand while the others ran toward the water. He’d join them later.
“My turn to buy?” Dunk asked. “You got the Chinese food the other night.”
“I can handle it,” Krystal said. “You must be just about tapped out anyway.”
Dunk’s parents had given him forty dollars for food and he still had a few bucks left. He shrugged. “I’ll get it next time then. There’s a few cars I can wash this weekend to make some money.”
“You can wash mine.”
“Bring it over.”
They drank big cups of icy lemonade and shared a plate of fried clams and onion rings. Then Dunk had a sausage sandwich.
“Lot of grease,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
“Tell me about it,” Krystal said, patting her narrow stomach. “That was my one indulgence for the summer.”
Krystal paid the bill and said she’d better get going.
“One more thing,” Dunk said.
“You’re not full yet?”
“Not food,” he said. “Follow me.”
They walked a short way up the Boardwalk and stopped at the basketball shoot. Dunk paid a dollar and said, “Watch this.”
His first shot had the nice, true arc. It bounced lightly on the back of the rim, rolled slightly to the left, then dropped through the net.
“Nice touch,” Krystal said.
Dunk took the second ball, crouched slightly, and flicked his wrist with confidence. This one fell cleanly through.
“We have a winner!” shouted the guy in charge. “Take anything in the booth!”
Dunk turned to Krystal and grinned. “Whatever you want,” he said.
She laughed. There were purple gorillas, a green moose in a Knicks jersey, and dozens of big teddy bears and tigers.
“That moose looks a little like you,” she teased. “I guess I’ll take that one.”
Dunk grabbed the moose and handed it to her. “Thanks, Aunt Krystal,” he said.
“What are you thanking me for?” she asked. “You’re the one giving me a gift.”
“You know why,” Dunk said.
She gave a sly smile. “The lemonade?”
Dunk rolled his eyes. “Give me that moose,” he said. “I’ll carry it to your car for you. And really—thanks for everything. For believing in me. It means a lot coming from you.”
They walked back to the Sea Breeze Motel. The car was boiling hot from sitting in the sun, so Krystal opened the windows and turned on the air conditioner, then stepped outside and gave Dunk a hug.
“Drive carefully,” he said.
“Have a great afternoon. Put on your lotion.”
“I already did.” Dunk set the moose on the passenger seat and clicked on its seat belt. “He’ll keep you company,” he said.
And as he walked back toward the beach, Dunk felt taller somehow. More of a man than when they’d left Hudson City, just a few days before. He could hear the music from the Boardwalk and smell the salt air of the ocean, and the sun on his shoulders was hot and penetrating.
Cars were parked in every available space on these side streets. The beach would be packed with vacationers. Among them were a dozen Hudson City basketball players and their coaches.
Dunk walked faster now. He couldn’t wait to rejoin his teammates. A couple of hours of splashing in the waves. Joking, hollering, feeling the wet sand between their toes. Maybe an ice-cream cone or a milk shake. More sunburn.
Then back to the bus, in their damp shorts and with sand in their shoes. Back up the Parkway. Back to familiar ground.
Back home to Hudson City.
I
Could anything be harder than this? Donald sat with his back against the gymnasium wall, eyes shut and sweat streaming down his face. His legs hurt. His shoulders ached. His left foot was starting to cramp.
He opened one eye and looked at the clock on the wall: 4:27 P.M. Coach Mills had said practice would end at five. Three minutes of rest and then thirty more minutes of conditioning drills.
There was an inch of water left in his bottle, and he sucked it right down. The water was warm but it quenched his thirst a little. The corner of his mouth stung where the bottle had touched it. He put a finger to his lip. When he pulled it away there was a dot of red. He curled his tongue to that spot and tasted blood.
I’ll live, he thought.
He felt a shoe against his leg—not quite a kick, but a rather hard nudge. Freddy Salinardi was standing there, peering down at him. Freddy was an eighth-grader and one of the team captains. “Let’s go, wimp,” he said. “Nap time is over.”
Donald scrambled to his feet. Freddy called everybody wimps, at least all of the seventh-graders. This was the first day of practice, so the newcomers were getting tested by the veterans. Donald stepped toward the mat. Freddy was already hassling Mario and Kendrick, making them stand up, too.
What a jerk, Donald thought, but he’d never say that out loud.
He had already started to figure things out. Coach worked the wrestlers hard but he was a nice guy, and he certainly seemed to know his stuff about the sport. But he let the eighth-graders push the younger guys around. That seemed to be how he kept order.
They’d learned some basic wrestling moves earlier in the session, but the past half hour had been all about conditioning. Jumping jacks, sit-ups, running in place. Donald knew this sport would be difficult, but he hadn’t envisioned anything like this.
“Line up!” Coach called. “The fun starts now.”
Donald joined the others in a straight line against the wall.
“What now?” asked Mario, tugging on Donald’s arm.
Donald turned and shrugged. Mario was one the few kids here who was shorter than Donald, but he was stockier. His dark curly hair was matted to his forehead with sweat.
“Some new form of torture,” Donald whispered.
Coach was looking over the thirty or so wrestlers, sizing them up with a smug smile. He was young—three years earlier he’d still been wrestling for the college team at Montclair State—and had the build of a solid 140-pounder. “Nobody said this would be easy, right? You new guys are getting a taste of how tough this sport is. You can’t even begin to be a good wrestler until you get into shape. The whole key is conditioning. Without that, you’re nothing.”
Coach pointed to Kendrick, a quiet newcomer to Hudson City who sat next to Donald in English class. “What’s your favorite sport?�
�� he asked.
Kendrick looked around and scrunched up his mouth before answering. “Wrestling?”
“Is that a question or a statement?”
“A statement, I guess.”
“Good answer.”
Now Coach looked at Donald. “What’s your least favorite sport?”
Donald put a finger to his chest as he asked weakly, “Me?”
“Yeah, you.”
At this point Donald could have said wrestling and he wouldn’t have been lying. But he said “track,” which would have been true any other time. His best friend Manny Ramos was a standout distance runner, but Donald had wanted no part of that sport, despite Manny’s frequent urging to join him at it.
Coach’s smile got broader. “That’s too bad,” he said, “because guess what? Wrestlers run their butts off.”
Coach made a circular motion with his hand. “Laps around the gym,” he said. “A nice steady pace. We’re not racing here, just staying in motion.”
There was a collective groan from the group, but all of them started jogging. The gym was small and the corners were tight, but the jogging did seem easier to Donald than all those calisthenics.
That changed in a hurry when Coach gave his next directive. “Every time I blow my whistle, I want you all to drop and give me five push-ups. Then pop up and get right back to the running. Start now.” And he blew his whistle.
Donald dropped with the others and managed the five push-ups, feeling the strain all the way from his shoulders down to his fingers.
Why am I doing this? he wondered.
He kept wondering that for fifteen more minutes as they alternated running with push-ups. But when the session finally ended and he looked around at the exhausted wrestlers making their way to the locker room, he couldn’t help but feel more than a little bit proud to be one of them.