Road Trip (2 page)

“Speaking of which – not that I want to get rid of you – but you better get going,” my mother said.

She climbed slightly into the van and wrapped her arms around me.

“Be good, be safe, and help take care of each other,” she said as she kissed me on the cheek.

“We'll be okay, Mom, don't worry.”

She gave me one more squeeze, then released her grip, retreated from the van and slammed the door closed. She then circled around to the other side, leaned in the driver's window and gave my father a hug and a kiss.

“You be sure to call as soon as you check in,” she said. “Promise?”

“I don't like making promises that I can't keep,” my father said. “You know how I sometimes forget.”

“I'll worry until I hear from you.”

“We'll really try to remember,” my father offered.

“Please do more than
try
!”

“Don't worry, I'll remind them,” Kia offered. My mother gave Kia another big smile. I would have said something in protest, but it was more likely that it would be Kia who remembered than either my father or me.

“Now you really better get going,” my mother said.

My father nodded his head in agreement, but instead of going he fumbled around in his seat.

“What's wrong?” my mother asked.

“We can't go.” “Why not?” she asked.

“I forgot my keys,” my father said sheepishly. He jumped out of the van and ran up the path of the house.

My mother leaned into the van one more time. “Kia,” she said. “I'm counting on you.”

Kia just smiled in reply.

My father looked at his watch and then checked the time against the clock on the dashboard. There was a one-minute difference between the two, but both indicated that we were a tiny bit early. It was two minutes before eight, the time we were supposed to meet Coach Barkley and the rest of the team.

All the time we'd been driving around picking up the other guys I could tell that my father was anxious about us being late. He hadn't said anything, but I knew by the frequent glances at his watch and the way he was driving just a little faster than usual. I had to agree that it probably was important to be on time.

Coach Barkley was a fanatic about being on time.
Practices started and ended right on schedule. Anybody who wasn't there on the dot could count on having to run a dozen extra laps. Even worse, if you weren't there thirty minutes early before a game – even an exhibition game – you'd be watching the whole first half from the end of the bench.

“I wonder where your coach is?” my father asked.

“Technically he's not late yet,” I pointed out.

“But he's always early,” my father said.

He was right about that. It seemed that no matter how early we got to a game or practice he was already there. I once asked L.B., his son, about how early they arrived. He just shook his head and told me I wouldn't believe him if he told me.

“Maybe somebody wasn't ready,” Kia piped in from the back seat.

“Maybe
Coach
wasn't ready,” Tristan added.

There were a few seconds of quiet and then everybody broke up laughing.

There were now seven of us in the van. Along with me, my father and Kia, we'd picked up Jamie, Mark, Tristan and David. This was the third year the six of us had been together on the same team, and after that length of time you've gotten to know each other pretty well. I guess the real important part of this trip was for us to get to know the other
six players just as well.

“Maybe while we're waiting we better set down some ground rules,” my father said as he turned around in his seat.

“What do you mean ground rules?” I asked.

“Rules for the drive.”

“Rules? How complicated can it be?” I asked. “You drive, we sit.”

“It's a little more complicated than that.” “How much more complicated can it be?” I questioned.

“It's a long trip, so we need some rules so we don't drive each other crazy,” my father explained.

“We won't drive each other crazy,” I argued.

“Okay, so we need rules so you all don't drive
me
crazy,” my father said. “Remember, this is a very long drive.”

“How long is it?” Tristan asked.

“If we drive straight through it's about seven hours, so when you throw in food, getting gas and washroom breaks, it's probably going to take us closer to nine hours.”

“Nine hours!” Tristan exclaimed. “So that means we're not going to get there until, like, five o'clock.”

“That's if everything goes right, and that's why we need to establish those rules.”

“What did you have in mind?” I asked.

“Some basic things,” my father replied. “Stay in
your seats, don't throw things around the van, try not to spill food or drinks, pass your garbage forward to go into the garbage bag. And, most important, the first person to ask ‘are we there yet' or to start singing about bottles of beer on the wall will be walking! Everybody understand?”

“Understood,” I said as everybody else mumbled agreement and nodded their heads.

“Good, because it looks like we're just about ready to get started,” my father said as Coach Barkley's vehicle pulled in just in front of us.

It came to a stop and the coach got out and walked back toward our van. He leaned in the open window of the driver's door.

“Any problems?” he asked my father.

“None. You?”

“Not much. Sorry we're a bit late. I had to double back because one of the guys forgot his bag.”

Kia burst out laughing. She was the only one other than my father who knew about me almost forgetting my bag.

“I asked L.B. twice if he'd packed everything, and he had, except he forgot to put the bag in the car. Can you believe that?”

I could see the start of a smirk on my father's face in the reflection in the rearview mirror. Was he going to say something about me doing the same thing?

“The important thing is that he's got it now,” my father said. “People forget things.”

Coach Barkley leaned even farther into the van. “Does everybody
here
have their bags?”

There were a few chuckles and everybody agreed they had their stuff stowed in the back.

“In that case we should hit the road. How about I lead and you follow for the first while?” Coach Barkley suggested.

“Works for me,” my father replied. “I was thinking we could go until around noon or even one and have a late lunch.”

“Sounds good.”

My father started the van as the coach walked back toward his vehicle.

“Here we go. The first step to winning a tournament is getting there.”

The first thirty minutes or so hadn't been so bad. Then it started to drag more and more, and now it felt like even the van was moving slower. Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if the batteries in my CD player hadn't died. I had some extras in my bag – buried at the back beneath everybody else's bags – but I really couldn't get those until we stopped. How long would that be?

I looked at the dashboard clock – two whole minutes had passed since the last time I had
looked. That meant we were now two hours
and
two minutes into the trip – which of course meant we only had six hours and fifty-eight minutes to go.

“Dad?” I called out. “How long before — ”

“Ground rules!” he barked at me. “Don't forget the ground rules!”

“I wasn't asking about how much longer the trip is,” I explained.

“But if somebody was to ask,” Tristan piped in from the back, “just suppose they were… what would the answer be?”

“Six hours and fifty-eight… no, make that fifty-seven minutes,” I answered before my father could cut me off.

“Come on, that can't be right,” Kia argued. “We've already been in this van forever.”

“It just
seems
like forever. Actually, it's only been two hours and three minutes,” I said.

“Nope, has to be longer,” Jamie argued.

“Stop it!” my father bellowed. “Just stop it! I'm not going to listen to the six of you complain about the drive for the next seven hours!”

“Seven hours! I thought it was only six!” Tristan protested.

“It is six hours
and
fifty-seven minutes,” I said.

“No, it's less!” Kia yelled. “Look, the clock just changed! It's only six hours and fifty-six minutes!”
A cheer went up and filled the van with noise.

“Everybody quiet down!” my father yelled, and the van fell silent.

“I think that it might be good — for everybody, if we took a short break.”

My father eased the van into the exit lane and we slowed down, finally pulling into an empty parking spot right in front of the service center. Coach Barkley and the rest of the guys pulled in two spaces over.

“Everybody stick together and remember this is only a short stop!” my father shouted as the doors popped open.

I climbed out and stretched. It felt good to unfold my legs and body.

Coach Barkley and the rest of the team walked over and joined the seven of us. We all strolled toward the door.

“Stopping was a good idea,” the coach said. “These guys were just starting to drive me a little crazy. How come you got all the quiet ones?”

“Me?” my father protested. “I thought you had the better part of this deal!”

“Not me. I'd trade you kids for the next part of the trip.”

“Now that's a deal!” my father exclaimed.

“Don't we have any say in that?” I questioned.

The coach cocked an eye at me. “What's wrong, Nick, don't you trust my driving?”

“No, I trust your driving.”

“Then it has to be my company. Is that what it is?”

“No, no! Of course not!” I protested.

Coach started to laugh. “Good, then it's settled. You'll be in my van for the next part of the drive.”

I was the last to get into the van, which explained why I was sitting in the front seat, right beside Coach. As I turned around to face the guys I could see the smirk on Kia's face.

“Does anybody mind if I put on a little music?” Coach Barkley asked.

“No… of course not,” I said, and the others voiced agreement. My CD player and headset were in my father's van.

“I always find it makes the time go a little bit faster if you have good music playing,” Coach Barkley said.

“Music is great… depending on what sort of music,” Kia piped in from the back.

“How about if I let you choose?” Coach Barkley offered.

“We can put on any CD we want?” David asked.

“I was thinking about any of
my
CDs,” Coach Barkley said.

I had a sinking feeling. The coach and my father were always exchanging CDs so I knew what sort of music we could expect.

“I think I'd rather we just drove without music,” I suggested.

“Are you sure that's such a good idea?” Coach asked. “Music relaxes me, and when I'm relaxed I'm much,
much
easier to be around.”

“All in favor of music raise your hand!” Tristan said loudly from the very back corner.

Six hands shot up in the air.

“That's more like it,” Coach Barkley said. “Go ahead, Nick, look through my CD case and make a choice.”

I reached down and unzipped the case. There had to be two dozen CDs. I started to scan the covers. Grover Washington Jr., Dave Koz, Miles Davis, George Benson, Warren Hill… I knew them all. Every single one of them. Nothing but jazz.

“Bet you recognize some of them from your father's music collection,” Coach Barkley said.

“Not some of them. All of them.”

“Good, then you can select the one that the guys will like the best.”

I looked over my shoulder at the guys. “Anybody have any
favorite
jazz performers?”