“Dude, are you serious right now?” Sham barked. Paul was just standing there, breathing hard, with his body tense, like he half-expected me to hit him or something.
But I wasn’t mad. The kid was right, and pretty brave, too. “Yeah, man, I agree,” I told him. “See you around.”
Paul looked shocked. “See you around too,” he said, and then took off down the hall.
I’ve been practicing a lot of basketball, like every day for hours. I watch the team’s games from the last row of the bleachers, where no one can see me. The guys are hanging in there. It hurts to watch.
Guitar is going pretty well. I taught myself “Purple Rain” the other day. I’m getting okay at chords, but I will never allow anyone to hear me attempt a solo.
Eddy has been tutoring me in math, and I’ve been paying attention this time. I got a 71 on the last test. The right way.
My dad is still looking for a job. Rico said he’s trying to find a project for him, but nothing has come through so far.
My mom is still working double shifts at the assisted living center, so I barely see her. She still smiles when she sees me, and hugs and kisses me, and says she loves me, but I know I broke her heart a little. The only thing she ever said to me about it was, “You made a mistake. Learn from it. And never do it again.”
I haven’t spoken to Alfie Jenks since the day it happened.
AUSTIN
Turns out that my dad was right—Clay Elkind getting injured was really good for my game.
Without Clay in the lineup, I’ve had to pick up the slack offensively, and I’ve been shooting the ball well. I scored 21 points against Ackerton, which is my all-time high, and at the steakhouse after the game, my dad forgot to tell me everything I did wrong. He wanted to go over every basket, and the ice cream sundae was delicious.
He didn’t seem to care that we’d lost, 51–43.
On AAU, Coach Cash has been starting me at the point, which basically means my job is to dish to KJ, our massive center, or Darian, our two-guard who barely ever misses from three. I think pretty much everyone on the team knows that this kid named Alonzo should be starting ahead of me, since he’s the best ball handler I’ve ever seen and a lightning-quick passer, but no one says anything, because I think word is out by now that my parents are one of the main sponsors of the team. Coach Cash even lets my sister, Liv, sit on the bench at the end of games, if we’re winning by a lot. And we usually are. This team is really good, even without Carter.
We’re 9 and 3 after we beat Runs’n’Guns, a program from upstate. In the postgame circle, Coach Cash makes an announcement. “Guys, we’ve got our first overnight tournament coming up in a few weeks, the Mid-Atlantic Invitational. We’re going to be playing teams from the tristate area—some terrific competition. I know some of their coaches, these are some really good clubs. We’re going to be sending out an email with hotel information and costs, but I’ve got some great news to get us started; we’ll be traveling in style, courtesy of a luxury coach bus provided by the Chambers family. Three cheers for that!”
Yells and whistles echo through the gym, and guys start high-fiving each other, but when I go to fist-bump KJ, he mumbles “Nah, I’m good,” and turns away.
Darian sees the whole thing. “Don’t worry about him,” he tells me. “He’s good buds with Alonzo, and, you know, that puts him in kind of a tough spot.”
“Yeah, I get it.”
As the rest of my teammates chatter excitedly about the upcoming tournament, I realize that even though everyone’s totally fired up about the idea of a luxury bus, it just makes me look even more like the spoiled rich kid who’s only on the team because of his rich parents.
I wish they were wrong.
5:57 pm
12 People
HEY EVERYONE
JUST BACK FROM THE DOC AND I FINALLY
HEARD THE WORDS I’VE BEEN WAITING
TO HEAR FOR THREE MONTHS
YOU ARE CLEARED TO PLAY
☺
JUST IN TIME FOR THE GAME AGAINST SOUTH
LET’S DO THIS
7:13 pm
Austin
YO, CLAY, THAT’S AWESOME NEWS!! ☺
YEAH, I KNOW, PRETTY COOL RIGHT?
ALMOST CAN’T BELIEVE IT
SO THE DOC SAID YOU CAN START PRACTICING
RIGHT AWAY?
PRETTY MUCH.
I’VE BEEN WORKING OUT ON MY OWN A LOT
BUT SHE SAID I CAN PRACTICE WITH THE TEAM
AND I’M GOOD TO PLAY AGAINST SOUTH
THAT’S SO AWESOME
YEAH
WE WIN WE’RE IN THE PLAYOFFS
I KNOW
IT WILL BE GREAT TO HAVE YOU OUT THERE.
YUP
HEY ARE YOU DOING ANYTHING RIGHT NOW?
NOT MUCH WHY
WANT TO MEET ME AT TOMPKINS PARK?
MAYBE SHOOT AROUND A LITTLE BIT?
I DON’T KNOW MAN, I GOT HOMEWORK
JUST FOR A LITTLE WHILE
I WANT TO SEE YOU WITH A BASKETBALL IN YOUR HANDS.
MAN I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW YOU WERE PRACTICING ON
YOUR OWN
I DIDN’T WANT TO SAY ANYTHING IN CASE I DIDN’T
MAKE IT BACK
JUST BEEN WORKING ON SOME THINGS
AWESOME.
SO YOU IN?
MEET THERE IN 30?
YEAH SURE I GUESS SO
COOL!!
SEE YOU THERE
AUSTIN
My dad used to take me down to the Tompkins Park courts when I could barely walk. They have a seven-foot hoop that I used to shoot at, and by the time I was eleven I could dunk on it.
I’m pretty sure that was the last time I ever felt tall on a basketball court.
It’s a cold day, so no one is around when I get to the courts to meet Clay. I start shooting threes at the short hoop.
Swish. Swish. Miss. Swish. Swish.
My shooting percentage is high on that basket.
I start dunking.
My percentage goes up even higher when I dunk.
I start daydreaming about being six-five and dunking on a ten-foot basket. I think about the Bryce Jordan Center, the awesome, fifteen-thousand-seat arena at Penn State where my dad takes me when he goes back for reunions and stuff. I think about what it would be like to play on that court. Chambers slides between two defenders and goes up for the Tomahawk Jam . . . And the Nittany Lions win the NCAA championship! Listen to that crowd—
“Who you talking to?”
I turn around and Clay is standing there, smiling. It feels like a long time since I’ve seen him smile—at me, anyway. He’s been around the team all season, on crutches at first, then in that giant ski-boot thing, but he hasn’t been doing a lot of laughing. And he and I never really figured out how to get things back to the way they were before he got hurt.
But now seems like a good time to try.
“I guess I’m just talking to myself,” I tell him. “In my head, I’ve been playing for Penn State since I was about five years old.”
“And let me guess—you guys always win.”
“Pretty much.”
Clay holds his hands up in the universal sign for Pass me the ball. I zip it over to him, and he jams it in the short hoop without even jumping. I try to imagine how it must feel to be able to do that, but I can’t. I feel a jolt of jealousy pass through my body, as I realize my days as the best player on Walthorne North—or any team, ever—are probably over. I tell myself to not think that way, but watching Clay make a few moves and do a few reverse jams, I realize it’s not going to be easy.
“Yo, you look totally ready to go,” I say.
“Yep, I’m good.”
“Just in time, too.”
Clay tosses the ball back to me. “Let’s go play on the big boy hoops,” he says. “A little one-on-one?”
“Totally.”
We start playing, and sure enough, it’s clear that Clay is still way better than me. He’s a little rust
y at first, but before long he’s got it all working: the inside moves, the soft touch on the jumper, the quick hands on defense. For a few minutes, the resentment lingers, as I admit to myself once and for all that I’ll never be the player he is.
But then, as we keep playing, the most amazing thing happens.
It stops bothering me.
The jolt of jealousy is gone. On this court, just the two of us playing one-on-one, I stop thinking about all the stuff I usually think about, like why I’m not as tall as Clay, or as talented as him, or as talented as my dad, or even my little sister.
I’m just outside in the park, playing ball, having a blast.
We play to twenty-one. I play Clay pretty tight, and when I hit a three (which counts for two points in one-on-one), I close the gap to 18–14. But after Clay blocks my next shot, he hits a three, then backs me down to the hoop and finishes me off with a sweet baby hook.
We slap hands.
“Nice game,” Clay says. He’s bent over, his hands on his knees, and he’s breathing hard.
“Well, if nothing else, I made you work for it,” I tell him.
He laughs. “Got to get in game shape. If only for one game.”
We go to the sideline and take long swigs from our water bottles. Then Clay says, “Remember when we used to come here? Like, four, five years ago?”
“Sure, yeah. Why?”
“I don’t know, I just thought of it for some reason.” He points at a bike rack near the restroom area. “We used to park our bikes right over there. And we’d play pickup games for hours. It was so fun, especially that one summer. Remember?”
“Yeah, of course I remember. That was awesome.”
“Yeah.”
We sit quietly for a few minutes.
I wonder if he’s thinking about what I’m thinking about.
How different things were back then.
No parents, no coaches, no leagues.
Just ball.
SUMMER
Four years ago
It’s one of those hot, humid summer days that’s too brutal for everyone except a bunch of kids who just want to play hoops in the park.
The courts are crowded, like always. Some kids know each other, some don’t, but everyone is there for the same reason.
To play basketball.
The old church bell on the corner strikes once, and everyone knows what that means. The adults and older players have to clear the court, and the elementary school kids have it to themselves. It’s called Free Shoot, it’s every Saturday from 1 to 3, and for a lot of them it’s the best two hours of the week.
Free Shoot always starts with twenty minutes of crazy running around, shooting at both baskets, mostly boys, a few girls, everyone crashing into each other, that kind of thing. Two adults are in charge of managing the courts, but as long as no one is bullying and no one gets hurt, they don’t get involved.
Finally, a boy who’s no more than three feet tall holds his hand up. “Yo! We need to choose sides. Who wants to be captains?”
All the kids seem to step back and make a circle around two kids in the middle.
It’s unspoken, but everyone agrees that they’re the two best players.
One boy has intense blue eyes and wears a throwback Allen Iverson jersey. The other boy is a little shorter, with shaggy blond hair and glasses that he keeps pushing up the bridge of his nose.
The two boys nod at each other. “You should get those sports goggles they have,” the boy in the Iverson jersey tells the other boy.
“Yeah, maybe,” says the boy with the glasses.
The captains pick teams. At first they pick their friends. But then the boy in the Iverson Jersey points at an extremely tall boy he’s never seen before. “K, I’ll take you.”
The extremely tall boy glances at the boy with the glasses, who’s his friend. The boy with the glasses nods. The tall boy goes to stand next to his new teammates. He doesn’t know any of them.
From that point on, each captain picks some friends, some strangers. There are seven boys and one girl on one team, six boys and two girls on the other.
The game begins. The teams are even. Substitutions are made when the players on the sidelines just run onto the court and tell another player to take a break. Fouls are called by the person who commits the foul, not by the person who is fouled. There’s the nine- and ten-year-old version of trash talking. There’s laughter. There’s competition.
At one point there is a dispute, when the ball goes out of bounds and no one can agree on who touched it last. “It’s off you!” shouts a boy on one team. “No, it’s off you!” shouts a girl on the other team. Everyone argues for a minute or so, until the boy with the glasses steps up and says, “I have an idea. Let’s just do rock paper scissors to decide. One takes it.”
Everyone agrees that this is a very good idea. The boy shoots it out with the girl. The boy takes paper, the girl takes scissors. The girl wins. Her team gets the ball. Argument over.
After that, everyone agrees—whenever there is a dispute about a foul, or who touched the ball last when it goes out of bounds, the players will resolve it the same way: rock paper scissors. One takes it.
They end up playing four games. The teams are switched around several times.
Finally, after two hours, one of the adults blows a whistle.
Free Shoot is over.
The kids are exhausted and dripping with sweat, but they’re joking around.
By now, they’re all friends.
As the kid with the Allen Iverson shirt and the kid with the glasses walk off the court side by side, they realize two things: one, that they never played on the same team, because they were the captains; and two, they never learned each other’s names.
The blond kid with the glasses sticks out his hand. “Hey,” he says. “I’m Carter.”
The kid in the Allen Iverson shirt squints, his eyes shining in the afternoon sun. “Nice to meet you,” he says. “I’m Austin.”
They nod at each other.
“See you next week.”
They play basketball with each other for the next seven Saturdays.
Then summer ends, and they don’t see each other again for a long time.
AUSTIN
It hits me, all of a sudden—Carter Haswell was the other captain.
The kid with the glasses.
“Hey,” I say to Clay, as we sit there. “Is that kid Haswell still suspended from the team?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I hope so. We’ll beat them easy if he is.”
I shake my head. “I hope he plays. Both teams should have their best players. And we have ours.”
It takes Clay a second to realize I’m talking about him.
“You’re right,” he says, “I hope he does play.” After a second, he adds, “And thanks.”
It’s amazing how, sometimes, just a day playing ball in the park can make everything cool.
CARTER
I’m walking down the hall at school, trying not to look at all the pep rally posters on the walls for the upcoming game against Walthorne North, when Principal Marshak stops me.
“Mr. Haswell. Nice to see you.”
“It’s nice to see you, too,” I say back, even though it’s never nice to see the principal.
She looks serious, but her eyes are soft, not hard. “I’m sure you know that a petition has been circulating, asking for your reinstatement to the basketball team.”
“I do know that.”
“I’ve been impressed with the student body for taking this initiative.”
I’m not exactly sure what she’s getting at, but it sounds promising and I don’t want to jinx it by saying the wrong thing, so I just say, “Me too.”
“I know this has been a difficult time for you,” Principal Marshak says. “I know you miss doing what you love. I would like your parents to come in tomorrow to talk with me and Coach Rickson about the situation, and perhaps we can put this incident behind us once and for
all.”
I can feel my heart beating. “Are you . . . are you saying I might be able to play?”
She puts her hand gently on my shoulder. “I’m saying, let’s have a conversation and see what happens.”
So that’s how I end up sitting outside Principal Marshak’s office, in between my parents. My mom is looking at her watch because she had to ask for an early lunch hour. My dad is wearing the only tie he owns, and he keeps pulling at it. What I think he really wants to do is yank it off and throw it in the trash.
I realize that parents are just as uncomfortable in the principal’s office as kids are.
Finally, Principal Marshak sticks her head out of her office. “Carter? Mr. and Ms. Haswell?”
My mom smiles and says, “I actually go by my maiden name now. It’s Raines.”
“I see, my apologies. Why don’t you all come on in?”
We file in quietly. Coach Rickson is sitting there, and so is Mr. Rashad, the guidance counselor guy, and my math teacher, Ms. Vallone. Everyone introduces themselves, and then Principal Marshak says, “Mr. Haswell, Ms. Raines, I wanted you to come here today so we could discuss Carter’s situation. As you will recall, we all met after the incident in math class, and it was decided at that time to suspend Carter from the basketball team indefinitely. His infraction was very serious, the most serious a student can commit. But now, as the season is drawing to a close, and after having follow-up conversations with both Ms. Vallone and Mr. Rashad, I thought it might be a good time to revisit that decision.”
My mom raises her hand, like she’s back in class. “May I say something?”
“Of course,” says the principal.
“Thank you.” My mom clears her throat nervously. “I think Carter has definitely learned his lesson.”
Mr. Rashad leans forward. “Can you explain what you mean?”
My mom hesitates, so my dad jumps in. “I can help with that. We’re not a rich family, as I’m sure you know, and I lost my job not too long ago, so I’ve been out of work. And well, I think somewhere along the way, Carter got the idea that he needed to use his god-given ability at basketball to help the family, by getting special treatment, and maybe one day getting a scholarship to play in college and making it all the way to the pros. So, that’s why he was so desperate to pass math. So he could stay on the team.”
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