Road Trip (6 page)

“Forget that! It'll be like walking on stilts and… you have stilts, Kia.”

She shrugged. “So?”

“Your stilts are really high and you hardly ever fall off them. What's so different about these?” I asked.

“They're a lot different. Besides, the reason I don't fall off the stilts is because I concentrate.”

“Then maybe you have to concentrate when you wear these sandals,” I sug gested. “Don't think about anything but walking. It might work.”

Kia shrugged again. That was her way of saying that maybe I was right without actually
saying
that maybe I was right.

My father held open the door and Kia exited the stairwell. I trailed behind. The door entered onto the main lobby. The place was packed. Everywhere I looked there were little clusters or large groups of boys — guys our age. Most seemed to be dressed pretty much like we were — shirts that looked too tight around the neck and badly tied ties. Some wore uncomfortable-looking dress shoes, but others were just wearing their basketball shoes.

As we moved around the groups, it quickly became apparent that Kia was being watched. Kids
and adults stopped talking or joking around and turned and watched as she passed by. I think Kia was so busy concentrating on walking without tripping that she didn't seem to notice. That was a good thing.

We caught up to the coach and the guys standing in front of a big set of double doors.

“Okay, everybody, let's do this as a team. We walk into the banquet hall in twos… I lead. Follow me to our table. Kia… Nick, you're the first two right behind me.”

I opened my mouth in awe of the room we'd just entered. It was gigantic and filled with large circular tables. The ceiling stretched up into the heights — at the very center it became a dome that must have been three or four stories high. I didn't think I'd ever seen a room this fancy, except for maybe on television.

The tables were starting to fill up with people. Each table was set with dishes and glasses and lots and lots of knives and forks and had a big centerpiece made of flowers set around a miniature basketball. At the top of each centerpiece was a sign that identified who was supposed to sit at that table. It had the name of the club and where it was from. As we passed I looked at the signs.

Of course I didn't recognize the names of the clubs, but the cities were hard not to know: Detroit, Philadelphia, L.A., New York. I didn't actually know anybody who lived in any of those cities, but I did know that a whole lot of the very best players in the NBA were born and raised in those places. Which meant that at one point those NBA players were kids my age who had maybe played for rep teams like these kids did. It was sort of exciting to think that I might be playing against some kid who'd be in the NBA some day. Exciting, but scary.

As far as I knew our city had produced a couple of pretty good hockey players, but no big-league basketball superstars. About as close as we came was our coach — my dad said he would have been a star if he hadn't been injured and forced to retire.

“Here's our table,” Coach Barkley said.

It was right up close to the front, right by a long, raised table with a platform that looked sort of like a stage, and a podium with a microphone.

“Everybody take a seat,” my father said.

The table was gigantic and had room for four-teen. We all scrambled for seats. I almost pulled Kia's chair out for her. That would have been really stupid.

“At least I can't fall off the chair,” she said as she sat down beside me.

“You did well,” I said. “You didn't even stumble once.”

“I just hope none of the games we play will be as hard as walking to this table.”

“Look!” Tristan yelled, pointing at the name in the middle of the table. “They spelled Mississauga wrong!”

Right there on the table it read, The Magic – from Misisaga.

“That's insulting,” Kia said.

“They don't even know where we're from,” Jamie agreed.

“Maybe they know, but can't spell it,” L.B. suggested. “I was living there for almost three months before
I
could spell it.”

“Either way,” Coach said, “I'm going to fix it.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pen. He removed the sign from the centerpiece and flipped it over to hide the writing and reveal a blank surface. He started to write — big, dark, capital letters.

“This is better,” he said as he held it up and showed it to us.

THE
MISSISSAUGA MAGIC, it read.

Everybody gave a little round of applause as he took the sign and put it back in place with the flowers.

“I betcha nobody got
their
name wrong,” Tristan
said as he pointed to a table directly behind me.

Without turning around, I knew which table he meant. It was just behind us and had two signs — one identified them as being the “Wild Cats from New York City.” The other sign — bigger than the first — said “Defending Champions.”

“New York is a lot easier to spell,” I said.

“And a lot better known,” Kia stated.

“Not to mention the defending champions,” Tristan added.

“Not just the defending champions,” Coach said. “The
four-
time defending champions.”

“The four-time champions?” I questioned. “But this tournament is just for our age group… right?”

“That's right,” Coach confirmed.

“So it can't be the same kids,” I reasoned.

“That's right. Every year it's different kids from the same club, but with the same coach.”

“He must be a pretty good coach,” L.B. said.

Coach nodded his head. “Must be… although it doesn't hurt that he draws from a developmental program and house league that has over four hundred teams.”

“That is pretty big,” my father admitted. “How many teams are there in the Magic organization?”

“I'm not sure exactly, but if you look at both girls' and boys' teams from beginners to the top level, there probably are around eighty teams,” Coach said.

“So that means that the New York coach has about five times as many kids to choose from,” my father reasoned.

“Five times?” Coach questioned. “You don't understand.”

“What do you mean?” my father asked. “We have eighty and they have four hundred, so that's five times as big as — ”

“I'm not talking about four hundred teams in the whole Wild Cat organization,” Coach said. “I'm talking about four hundred teams of kids the
same age
as our boys.”

“You're joking, right?” my father asked.

“No joke. They have leagues across the whole city, and it's the biggest city in North America. Mississauga may have six hundred thousand people, but compared to New York it's just a village.”

“But a nice village,” Tristan added.

“I like it,” Kia agreed.

“Best place in the world to live, even if it is hard to spell,” Jamie said.

“I don't think those guys would agree,” I added.

Coming toward where we sat was a large group of large guys. Each wore an identical outfit: red, white and blue warm-ups with N.Y. emblazoned in big letters across the front. They had on sparkling white basketball shoes that looked like they were brand new. And to top everything off they all were wearing shades — dark, mirrored
shades. It certainly didn't seem that bright in here to me.

“They're our age?” David asked.

“If they're here, they're your age,” Coach said.

They did seem big – awfully big. A couple of our guys, like Jordan and Al, and maybe Sean, could match up to them, but they were
huge
.

“Are they putting something in the drinking water in New York?” L.B. asked.

“You have enough kids to choose from you can get some pretty big players,” Coach said. “But just because they're big doesn't mean they can play.”

“But it doesn't mean they can't play, either,” I replied.

“How come they got to wear warm-ups and we have to dress like this?” Jamie asked.

“We could have worn warm-ups too,” Coach Barkley said.

“Then why didn't we?” Kia asked.

“Because I think warm-ups are for warming up, not for a reception. It just doesn't look professional.”

“But it does look cool,” L.B. said.

“Especially the sunglasses,” Tristan added. “How about if we get some like that?”

“They'd be perfect,” Coach said.

“They would?” L.B. questioned.

“Sure… if we were the Mississauga Magic
beach volleyball team.”

We all watched as they filed past our table – sort of walking, sort of strutting, sort of gliding. They didn't say a word as they passed, but the way they passed said it all – it was like saying, “We're from New York and you're not.”

David leaned over and whispered, “They wouldn't be acting so cool if they were dressed like us.”

“Or like me,” Kia added.

I broke out laughing and the last two New York players turned and looked at me — at least, I think they were looking at me — as they passed by. I stifled the laugh.

Coach Barkley suddenly stood up. “Hello, Coach,” he said as he reached out his hand toward a little man at the end of the line – a man dressed in the identical warm-up suit as the players. “I'm Len Barkley, the coach of the Magic.”

The man extended his hand. “Jeff Barton… coach of the Wild Cats,” he said. “Your name sounds familiar… have you had a team here before?”

“This is my first year coaching, but I was here as a
player
over thirty years ago.”

“Isn't that wonderful!” he beamed. “To be a player and then be a coach! Wonderful! And where is your team from?”

“Mississauga.”

“Mmmm… I hate to admit my ignorance, but
I don't know where that is,” he said.

“It's by Toronto,” Coach said.

“It's a big city, almost six hundred thousand people,” my father added. “Not New York big, but a nice-sized city.”

“I'm sure it is,” he said, although there was a tone in his voice like maybe he didn't really believe that. “So has your team been to many tournaments this year?”

“This is our first,” Coach said.

“Your first?” he asked in disbelief. “They let you in here without playing in any other tournaments before this one?”

“I guess they liked our record from last year. Has your team been in many tournaments?”

“This will be our seventh.”

“Seventh?” my father gasped, voicing my dis-belief. “Our team hasn't even been together seven weeks.”

“And how have you done?” Coach asked.

“Well, we could have played better, but we've done all right… if you consider winning every game and every tournament all right,” he said with a smirk.

“Must be quite the team,” Coach said.

“They're not bad. Maybe not as good as my last year's team, but we'll see how they are at the end of the season. Do you have other tournaments scheduled for your team?” he asked.

“A couple. We'll see how we do here,” Coach said.

“I'm sure you'll do fine… just remember this is a pretty hard place to start… for both the players and a
beginning
coach.”

For a split second I saw Coach Barkley's eyes blaze brightly, and then the look of anger was gone. “It certainly is a difficult beginning, but I hope we'll do all right.”

“That's the attitude! And remember, if you have any questions or I can offer any assistance, you just find me and I'll help you out. Okay?”

“Thank you so much,” Coach said. “That's so kind of you to — ”

“Excuse me,” a woman said. She was young and pretty and dressed in a blazer.

The two men turned to face her.

“I was wondering if it would be possible for me to get a short interview?” she asked.

Behind her were two men. One was holding a big camera on his shoulder and the other held two microphones.

“Sure,” the New York coach said. “I've always got time for the press.” He turned to Coach Barkley. “If you'll excuse me, we can talk later.”

“No,” the woman said. “You don't understand. I don't want to interview
you
, I want to interview
Coach Barkley
.”