Basketball (or Something Like It) (12 page)

Keys. They must be the keys to his grandmother’s car. Anabel stole a look to see if Mrs. Binder had seen. But she was just clapping wildly like she always did.

Then it all came together. It all made sense, like a perfect handshake.

“Look,” Anabel said to Jeremy’s grandmother. “He’s going in.”

Mrs. Binder sat up and strained to look down onto the court.

“Oh, yes. He’s going in to play,” she said. She started clapping louder.

The boys all looked real tired. Anabel saw her brother and recognized the face. Tired. Nervous, and being so nervous makes you more tired. Michael was bent over, with his thumbs hooked in the armholes of his jersey. His arms dangling, trying to rest. Tyler Bischoff looked miserable. The more his father yelled, the more he put up bad outside shots. Air balls.

Anabel looked down at the court again. Jeremy was playing great. He moved the ball around. You could hear him shouting out directions. He was taking control of the team and it was working.

North Bridge scored on their first possession. The whole place cheered even though Hollis was still ahead by ten points. Another cheer went up from the spectators as North Bridge blocked a shot and got the rebound. Jeremy was bringing the ball back down carefully. He set up his players. Suddenly the crowd around them was stamping their feet and shouting. North Bridge had scored two times in a row. They were only down by six. Anabel reached down for Jeremy’s grandmother and took her arm.

“Get up,” she said.

Jeremy’s grandmother looked up. “Why. Is it over?”

“No,” Anabel said. “We’re going to win this time.”

N
athan still hadn’t gone in. He made sure to keep his eyes on the game. Maybe his father would notice his great concentration skills. And that would be that.

And then Matt King fouled out. Hank was already out. Jeremy was playing because Hank had set it up to happen that way. The only one who didn’t realize this, of course, was the coach. However, what this meant was that Nathan was the only one on the bench who hadn’t gone in yet.

And then Tyler Bischoff twists his ankle.

They were down by one point and there were five minutes left on the clock. This is not how Nathan had imagined it. The coach of the other team was certainly not his Uncle Troy. He wasn’t black. He was short and bald and very white, pink, in fact. And Nathan’s father had certainly showed no signs of recognition when this Hollis coached strutted across the floor to his side of the gym.

“Thomas, go in for Tyler.”

He almost didn’t hear it. Mr. Bischoff had to say it again. Making Mr. Bischoff say something twice is not a good idea. Hank slapped Nathan on the back.

“Go in,” Hank said. “You’re in.” He gave Nathan a push.

“I can’t,” Nathan said. He stood up.

“You can,” Hank said. “Look, Jeremy’s out there. Just watch for the ball. Get open.”

“Who am I guarding?”

“That kid, number fifteen.” Hank called out. Nathan was almost at the scoring table, checking in.

While he waited to go in, Nathan glanced over to the other bench. Number fifteen was the kid with the mustache. Nathan took one look up into the bleachers just as the timekeeper buzzed him into the game.

“Subs,” the referee called out.

Nathan saw his father about midway up. He was smiling and clapping with one hand against his knee. In his other hand he had his digital camera with the ridiculous long lens, poised like someone from
ESPN
magazine. Nathan’s mother was holding the baby on her lap and making her hands clap, too. It was like a surreal joke. On him.

After that everything moved in slow motion and it happened all at once.

Nathan’s leg immediately felt like rubber. And he tasted a funny taste in his mouth, like metal.
Adrenaline or lactic acid buildup in his muscles.

So fear does have a taste. Nathan made a note of that in his mind as the game resumed play.

Jeremy passed the ball to Nathan. It slammed into his hands hard, but somehow Nathan caught it. All he could see were the kids around him. Moving. Trying to take the ball from him.

Pass it. He had to pass it.

Players were moving all over. Shouting. Calling out.

There. There someone was open. Nathan threw a good hard chest pass. He was relieved. The ball was out of his hands. The kid who caught the ball puts it right up.

Score.

Good. Now move, Nathan thought.

Cut across. Get open.

But suddenly the referee blew the whistle. “Timeout!”

The North Bridge team hurried over to the sideline. Someone from Nathan’s side had called the time-out.
What for?

“Nathan! What are you doing? What the hell was that?” Mr. Bischoff screamed.

“Me?” Nathan asked.
What was the coach talking about?

“You … you passed the ball to the other team.
You just passed the ball….” You could just tell Mr. Bischoff was holding the rest of his sentence inside and it wasn’t going to be pretty. He was controlling himself. Barely.

Nathan looked up, trying to remember what had just happened. How could he have done that? What was he going to do now?

Finally Nathan said, “He was the only one open.”

G
ame.

North Bridge @ Hollis. League play-off.

The North Bridge coach has just called for a timeout. Apparently one of their players lost possession by passing the ball to the other team. Hollis scored. North Bridge now has no time-outs remaining. There are three and a half minutes left.

50–47 Hollis.

There now seems to be some general confusion on the court. The North Bridge players appear disheartened by that last turnover. This is understandable, since Nathan Thomas, number three, passed the ball to the other team. Their coach has taken a seat on the bench and is holding his head in his
hands. Hollis takes advantage of this moment by stealing the ball from number fifty-four, Harrison Neeley. They make their way down the court. North Bridge seems to have regained some energy under the direction of their point guard, number five, Jeremy Binder. You can hear his voice directing his teammates. His confidence is infectious. All they need are three points to tie up the game. So far North Bridge has been extremely effective in keeping Hollis out of the paint. Hollis is playing a game of catch with each other, unable to get an open shot. Jeremy Binder is running back and forth under the net, forcing the trap and forcing Hollis to pass each time.

The strategy works: Hollis loses the ball on a bounce pass. King throws the ball up court to Binder. Hollis is back on defense in a matter of seconds. They are determined not to give North Bridge this chance to score.

Neeley sets a screen at the three-point line, Binder uses the screen, pumps, fakes, and takes the shot. The ball arches in the air, hits the rim, and bounces in.

It is all tied up. 50–50. Forty-five seconds remaining.

The crowd is on its feet, stomping and shouting.

Hollis has possession. They are wasting the clock hoping to get the last shot off without leaving North Bridge any time to score again. Hollis is passing the ball back and forth at the three-point line. A dangerous
crosscourt pass, and suddenly Binder jumps in and steals the ball. Binder throws a baseball pass down the court to Nathan Thomas. There is no one around him. Thomas dribbles the ball twice and turns to the hoop. He has a wide-open shot but he seems to hesitate.

He lifts his arms and then
bam!

Number fifteen for Hollis blocks the shot. But wait … with ten seconds left the whistle shrieks and the referee calls a foul. The coach for Hollis is running up and down the court.

“Two shots?” he is yelling. “Are you kidding? He wasn’t shooting. That kid never shoots. He hasn’t made one shot all year.”

The Hollis coach is thrown out of the game. The North Bridge coach has taken his head out of his hands but is attending to one of his players, apparently his son. The player is holding his ankle and is refusing to return to the game. Nathan Thomas is now standing at the foul line.

Thomas looks down at his feet. He shifts his toes toward the basketball. The referee blows the whistle and hands the ball back to Thomas. This is it. Last chance.

It seems every great game comes down to a moment like this. Thomas lifts his right arm slowly, balancing the ball with his left. He stares hard at the
basket as if he is visualizing his shot. He is thinking of something. He smiles. He bends his knees and jumps.

Someone in the bleachers has a camera and has just set the perfect angle and depth of field to capture the shooter, the basket, the court. Even the scoreboard with its yellow glowing numbers can be seen through the viewfinder. The clock stopped at three seconds. But just before the shutter snaps, a toddler in the next seat kicks out his foot in one quick jerking motion, tapping the camera just a tad. What is revealed when the photo comes up on the computer screen is a slightly tilted image of two hands poised in the air in perfect form; just behind them and somehow out of focus is the ball, hitting inside the rim of the basket before it drops into the net.

Hollis has two seconds left, but they never get the ball past the half-court line.

North Bridge wins. 51–50.

Amazing.

N
athan’s parents knew all along. At least, his mother did. Hank heard them talking about it after the game. He figured Nathan was going to have
to face them. He wondered what Nathan’s dad must be thinking. He must have seen Nathan play. Or not play. And then play. Sort of. Badly.

Nathan’s dad must have figured it out.

Maybe not.

Parents don’t see the most obvious things half the time. Most of the time. They see what
they
think is important. They see what they want to see. Hank figured his parents probably saw him play the worst game of his life and get pulled out for good. They were probably dying right at this very moment. Planning to sell the house. Or hiring a professional at-home basketball coach. Or investing in some lacrosse equipment.

Hank could see Nathan’s parents standing together by the door, waiting for Nathan to come out of the locker room. He could just barely hear what they were saying. His dad looked confused. His mom didn’t.

“He was having fun,” Nathan’s mom was saying.

“That didn’t look like much fun,” his dad answered.

“He made the winning shot.”

“What game were
you
watching. Yeah, he made his second foul shot. It was a miracle. He’s terrible, Denise. He’s really terrible.”

“Yeah, he’s pretty terrible,” his mother said quietly.

And then all of a sudden, they started laughing. Hank could hear them. They seemed to share a secret between them that made everything funnier than it was. Even their little baby starting giggling. They moved on toward the exit. Hank stopped walking.

“What’s going on?” Nathan came up beside Hank.

“Your parents,” Hank said.

“Yeah, they must know about me now,” Nathan said.

The crowd for the next game were starting to pour into the gym. More parents climbing up the bleachers checking out the situation, looking for the right place to sit. A whole new set of kids took their seats on the bench. They looked like fifth graders, maybe. Ten and eleven year olds. Their coach was talking to them.

“This is it,” the coach was saying. He was kneeling on the floor in front of the bench with his clipboard resting on his knee.

“You’re not worried about telling them the truth anymore?” Hank asked Nathan as they started walking, making their way past the bleachers.

“Na,” Nathan said. “They don’t look too upset, do they? I think they knew all along anyway.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.”

The fifth-grade coach was still talking to his young team. “I don’t want any stupid mistakes out there. Connor! Are you paying attention? Listen up. This isn’t fun and games….”

Hank and Nathan looked at each other.

“What about you?” Nathan asked his friend. “What about
your
dad?”

Hank looked around. His parents weren’t in the gym. They must be waiting for him out in the hall or in the parking lot, even.

“What?” Hank asked, although he knew exactly what Nathan meant. It had been Hank’s chance. It would have been one of those games his dad was always talking about. It might have been one of those games for Hank, five seconds on the clock, fans on their feet, tied score….

Just like his dad always said when he was watching that one guy, that one moment, on TV

“Will your dad be mad at you?” Nathan interrupted his thoughts.

“He’ll get over it,” Hank said.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Hank and Nathan caught up to Nathan’s parents.

Hank watched Nathan’s dad put his arm around
his son. They said hello to Hank, shook his hand, and then turned into the hall. Hank followed behind.

“Good game, son,” Nathan’s dad said. He was tall, Hank noticed.

“Dad?” Nathan started.

“You sure came through in the clutch,” his dad went on.

“Dad?”

“Yes? You have something to tell me?”

Nathan couldn’t see it, but Hank did. Right then, Nathan’s mother jabbed her elbow into her husband’s ribs. He sounded with a puff of air.

“Dad, I—” Nathan began again.

“You were wonderful, Nat,” his mother interrupted. “I’m so glad we came.”

“So am I,” his dad said. You could tell he really meant that.

When they headed out to their car, Hank could see they were all smiling and it made him smile, too.

Until he saw his parents’ car.

The engine was running. They were already inside. Not a good sign.

H
ank knew his dad and mom weren’t going to be “mad” at him. They never got mad. It would be worse than that. They’d be disappointed.

As Hank walked toward his car, he thought about that.

Disappointment.

He coulda been a hero.

But then sometimes there is a moment when you decide there
has
to be, in fact, there
is
something more important than winning. More important than even
playing.
Hank opened the car door and slid into the backseat knowing he was right.
Knowing
he had done the right thing.