Night Hoops (6 page)

I'd barely made it inside when Mom started waving a piece of paper in front of my nose. "What is this, young man? What is this?"

"I don't know," I answered. "I can't even see it."

She thrust the paper into my face. "All right. See it."

Bothell High sends home midterm grades. They don't really count for anything; they're sort of a preview of coming attractions. What was coming for me was a horror film.

"Four D's," she fumed, her eyes wide with shock. "Four! And in all your important classes. English, history, science, math."

"I'll start studying," I mumbled. "Don't worry."

"You bet you'll start, young man. From now on, when my car pulls into the driveway, Luke goes home and you go upstairs and hit the books."

"But Mom..."

"No buts. You're lucky I'm letting you shoot around at all. If you spent a quarter of the time and energy on schoolwork that you do on basketball, you'd have straight A's."

I stomped up to my room, but when I cooled off I had to admit she was right. I did have to bring my grades up to C's or I wouldn't be playing on any team—varsity or junior varsity. When I broke the news to Luke the next day, he shrugged, saying, "Won't matter. In two weeks daylight-saving time ends. It'll be too dark to shoot hoops much past five anyway."

The good thing was that our P.E. games kept going great. We were winning almost all of them, right under the eye of Coach O'Leary. The only team that gave us a battle was Trent's. And it really wasn't his team; it was him. It was hard to get in a flow when Trent was guarding me. Sometimes I'd be so worn down by his constant pressure that I'd get rid of the ball too soon, putting Devencenzi in the role of play-maker, a role he couldn't handle. Other times I'd get caught up in the one-on-one challenge and try to do too much on my own. That frustrated Luke. He'd clap his hands together, meaning:
Get me the ball! Get me the ball!

Saturday morning Dad called. Mom had made me promise I'd study that morning, but when he said he wanted to spend the day with Scott and me, she relented. "No television tonight though," she said.

I waited for Dad in the front room. Not Scott, though. He stayed downstairs in the den with Mom. While I checked over the sports page, I could hear the two of them arguing.

The pick-up pulled into the driveway. The truck door opened and slammed shut. I opened the front door as Dad, smiling ear-to-ear, came up the porch steps and into the house. "Hey,
Nick," he said, first shaking my hand and then pulling me to him. "What's up?"

"Not much," I answered. He let go of me, and we stood looking at each other as Scott, with my mother behind him, came up the stairs and into the room. My father nodded to him, smiled. But there was no hug, no handshake even. "How are you, Son?" he asked, his voice formal.

"I'm doing fine," Scott replied. "How about you?"

"Can't complain. Can't complain." The four of us stood awkwardly until Dad spoke again. "I've got nothing big planned. I thought we'd just hang out together, the three of us. Maybe shoot some hoops in the back yard, then bike the Burke-Gilman. What do you say?"

"I can't," Scott answered. "Katya's coming over."

"You think maybe you could cancel that?" Dad asked.

Scott shook his head. "We need to work on some songs."

For a moment Dad was silent. Then a false cheeriness came to his voice and face. "Well, if you can't, you can't." He turned to me. "How about you, Nick? Does that sound like a plan?"

"You bet," and now it was my voice that was too happy.

"All right then, let's go shoot around. I bought a new ball."

Mom spoke. "I'm going to be out most of the day, Nick. So take your key in case no one is here when you get back."

"Okay," I said, realizing for the first time that Dad no longer had a key to our house, and never would have one again.

Dad's new basketball was one of those outdoor balls that feel like leather but hold up on asphalt. It felt nice in my hand, and I was stroking the jumper from everywhere. Dad was praising me too, telling me how good my game looked. Even when I told him about my grades, he only shrugged. "You'll pull those up. You're a smart kid."

It should have been fun, and it would have been, only we could hear Scott, and then Scott and Katya, practicing. I don't know the name of the song they were playing. Something by Miles Davis probably, because Scott was always talking about Miles Davis. Whatever it was, it was about the saddest song in the world. Sometimes I'd say something and Dad wouldn't answer at all.

We'd been playing about an hour when Steve Clay appeared at the back gate. My father invited him into the back yard. "It's holding up great," Dad declared, his eyes scanning the court. "No cracks, the support straight as an arrow."

"It does look good," Steve Clay answered, proud of the work he'd done.

I took a shot, missed, and the ball bounded to him. He caught it, but instead of shooting or passing, he held it. "Listen, if I can get Trent to come over, would you be interested in a little two-on-two?"

"Sure," Dad answered eagerly, without even asking me.

Steve Clay smiled broadly. "Great. I'll go get him."

As soon as he left the yard, I turned on Dad. "What did you do that for? I don't want Trent around here."

He shrugged. "Why not? It'll be fun."

"I'm sick of Trent Dawson. I have to play against him in P.E. all the time."

"Stop complaining, Nick. We'll kick their butts, and that'll make you feel better."

I didn't say anything more, but inside I was seething. All I'd wanted was to spend one day with Dad. Just one day. And instead I was going to spend a good part of it with Trent Dawson.

Then, the unexpected—Steve Clay returned without Trent. He leaned over the gate and called to us. "Trent's gone off somewhere with Zack. Sorry."

Dad nodded. "Some other time, then."

It was lunchtime, so we loaded my bike into the back of the truck and drove to the Ranch Drive-in, where we had burgers and fries. Then we biked all the way to Matthew's Beach on the Burke-Gilman trail. On the way back we saw Trent on the railroad trestle with Zack and Zack's friends. They were smoking cigarettes, drinking beer, and throwing rocks at the ducks swimming in the slough.

Things settled into a routine. Every day after school I'd shoot around with Luke until Mom drove up. As soon as she pulled on the emergency brake, Luke would grab his sweatshirt, give me a wave goodbye, and I'd go upstairs to my room to study. About an hour later Mom would call Scott and me down for dinner, and afterwards it was back to the books.

Every time a teacher posted scores, my percentage went up. Unless I totally bombed the finals, I was likely to end up with C+'s and B's. Nothing that would please my mom, but plenty good to keep me eligible. The Sunday night before tryouts officially began, Luke phoned. "Your grades a problem?"

"No," I said. "Not anymore. How about yours?"

"I told you, Nick. Nothing but A's for me. Always and forever."

Neither of us spoke for a moment. Then I said what we were both thinking. "You think we can make the varsity?"

Luke laughed. "No way we're playing JV's. We're going to make the varsity and we're going to play serious minutes."

I had trouble sleeping that night. You see other guy's games, guys like Matt Markey or even my brother. You watch them play and you can spot weaknesses right away. But you can't see your own game, or at least not clearly. You never know what you look like to a coach.

Monday dragged. I couldn't pay attention in class, and my stomach was rolling over. I started worrying that I was coming down with diarrhea. I could imagine myself during try-outs racing to the toilet every five minutes.

Classes finally ended and I headed to the gym. I walked slowly, trying not to seem too eager. On the way I checked out the other guys heading to the gym. Some of them were returning starters like Carlos Fabroa and Tom McShane, who'd played center and power forward. But there were lots of guys I didn't know.

I swung open the locker room door and stepped inside. Immediately I spotted Luke. From the way he'd talked on the telephone and acted at P.E., I thought he'd be completely cool. But I could see he was as nervous as I was. His brown skin looked less brown, and his eyes darted around. "Hey, Luke," I croaked, but he barely nodded back to me.

I understood. My mouth was too dry for me to do much talking either. I opened a locker, yanked off my pants and shirt, and pulled on my gym clothes. I was about to close up the locker when I got the shock of my life. In walked Trent Dawson.

What he was doing there was a total mystery. Okay, so he played tough defense and could create his own shot off that stutter-step dribble of his. But the guy had none of the other stuff you need to succeed. He never stuck with anything; he didn't know how to follow rules or play as a member of a team; he was flunking all his classes. For him to think he could make the varsity was a total joke. Only it wasn't funny, because I had a sinking feeling that somehow, some way, he'd mess things up for me.

I wasn't the only guy stunned to see Dawson suiting up. The whole locker room hushed as he entered. I guess he could feel all the eyes on him, because without warning he turned on Brian Chang, a junior guard. "What are you staring at?" he snarled. Chang looked away quickly.

When I stepped on the court, all I heard was the sound of basketballs bouncing and shoes squeaking on the hardwood floor. It seemed as though there were one hundred guys trying out, though the real number was closer to thirty.

I stayed away from the court where Carver, Fabroa, and the other varsity players were shooting, instead choosing a basket off to the side where Luke was warming up. When he spotted me, he fed me a bounce pass. I took the ball in for a lay-in. Just seeing one shot go down made me feel better. After that it was jumpers, runners in the key, a few free throws.

Eventually Coach O'Leary blew his whistle and called us together. "Good to see you out here!" he boomed. His big face was bright red and little beads of sweat had formed on his forehead. He held a basketball in front of him, and he swatted it hard with his open palm. He smiled. "Now I know what you're thinking, especially you new guys. That I'm a fat, freckled Irishman with a beer belly. And it's all true. But I know this game, gentlemen. I know this game. And if you listen to me, I'll teach it to you." He bounced the ball. "Three lines, everybody, pass and cut, pass and cut. Let's see if you know how to run a fast break."

In a game you want to be the one to finish off a fast break, to rack up the easy two points and improve your shooting stats. But that first time through the line, guys would pass and pass until we were on top of the hoop and finally somebody had to shoot. Everybody was competing to seem the least selfish player—everybody except Trent.

His first time down he took a pass at half court and then dribbled all the way in for the lay-in, leaving his teammates totally out of it. It was comical, and I saw a grin crease O'Leary's face. I don't think he'd ever seen that done before. He blew his whistle, explained the point of the drill to Trent, and play resumed.

Next came a rebounding drill, keeping the ball alive off the glass. Eight lines, four guys per group—nothing fancy. O'Leary was looking for some legs that could elevate. It was a chance for Luke to show his athleticism, and he did.

After that it was chest passes and bounce passes, the boring stuff. While we were doing those drills, O'Leary came around and took down our height, weight, and the position we were trying out for. "Point guard," I said, when he came to me.

"So you want to run the whole show?"

"No," I said quickly. His red eyebrows went up quizzically. "I mean yes." The eyebrows went higher. "I mean no."

He laughed. "Relax, Nick. I'm just having a little fun." He started to walk away, then turned back. "Your brother isn't turning out?"

I shook my head. "He's playing his trumpet instead."

Coach O'Leary nodded. "That's what I'd heard. Is he any good?"

"I don't know much about music," I said, "but he sounds good to me."

"Well, we're going to miss him. He was a good guy to have on the team. Kept other guys steady, always gave his best. You tell him I said that."

"I will," I replied, thinking how surprised my father would have been to have heard O'Leary praise Scott.

A couple minutes later O'Leary blew his whistle and called us to him. "There are thirty of you out here, but there are only twelve uniforms in my office. To make this team, you've got five days to prove to me you want a uniform more than the guy standing next to you." He motioned to the other side of the court. "Over there is Darren Nolan, our team manager. If you want to stay on this team, you treat him with respect. Those little pieces of paper he's sticking on the wall are your squad assignments. Find your name and pick up the right color jersey." He stopped, and a little smile came to his eyes. "Okay, gentlemen, time to show what you've got."

It was chaos then. Guys crowded around the slips of white paper stuck up on the wall underneath the farthest hoop. It took me a while, but finally I found my name. I was on the Red team. I scanned the list of names. A rush of adrenaline came when I saw Luke was on my team, but it disappeared when I saw Trent was on the Red team, too.

I couldn't believe my bad luck, then realized it hadn't been luck at all. O'Leary wanted us comfortable on the court, so he'd teamed us with guys from our P.E. class. It cut down on the time it would take to get used to teammates. For most guys the set-up probably worked. For most guys.

I was the point guard, our team's main ball handler. Only I couldn't get going. My hands didn't feel as if they were mine. The ball kept getting away from me, off my knee, my toe, my thigh, as if it had a will of its own.

Luke was feeling the pressure too. When he was wide open, he short-armed his shots, barely hitting the rim. When he was closely guarded, he flung up wild shots instead of passing off. Part of his trouble was my fault. I wasn't getting the ball to him in rhythm.