Second-String Center (2 page)

Dunk had done some counting while the players were running; there were only eighteen kids in the gym. Maybe Coach had already cut some guys.

“Where is everybody?” Fiorelli asked. “They hiding in the locker room?”

“Everybody’s here,” Coach said. “Except Jared. He’s excused from practice today. The others have been informed that they haven’t made the team. . . . No coach likes cutting anyone, but we had more than twice as many kids trying out as we have spots for. So the rest of you are the final contenders. I’m expecting a
lot
of effort out of all of you today.”

Dunk did a quick scan of his memory to see who’d been cut. Little Warren Soto was gone, and so was scrawny Mike Cooper. No surprises there. Tarik Howard hadn’t made it, but most of the other big men—Dunk’s competition at center and forward—were still around.

But where was Jared?

They did passing drills and rebounding drills and shooting drills for an hour, then finally took a three-minute break.

“All right,” Coach said, “we’re going full-court for the rest of the session, people. I need to see you working out there.
Nobody
has made this team yet.”

Dunk let out his breath. Who was Coach kidding? Of course some of these guys had already made the team. Fiorelli, Spencer, Miguel. But Dunk knew
he
wasn’t on any list yet.

Coach pointed at Fiorelli and waved him onto the court, handing him the ball. “I want Spencer and Willie out here. You’re the guards. Ryan and Fiorelli at forward. Dunk at center. You guys put on the pinnies.”

Dunk’s mouth dropped open. Coach was putting him in Jared’s spot. He stepped down from the bleachers. Fiorelli tossed him a blue-mesh pinnie to put on over his T-shirt.

Coach called five more players onto the floor, including Louie Gonzalez, who’d be matched up at center against Dunk.

Spencer waved the first five over and they huddled up. “Listen. Coach gave me a heads-up before on how he wants this to go. We’re gonna run, but he wants us pounding the ball inside
mucho
.” Spencer met Dunk’s eyes. “He needs to get a handle on the big men before he makes some decisions.”

They broke the huddle. Fiorelli put his hand on Dunk’s shoulder. “Do it up,” he said.

Dunk’s sweat suddenly seemed to turn cold, but he took a deep breath and sucked in his stomach. He was nervous.
Just play the game,
he told himself.
Just play some basketball, Cornell Duncan.

 

 

Dunk shook Louie’s hand before the scrimmage began. Neither said anything, but they could see what was at stake. There was a good chance that only one of them would be on the final roster. The team probably only needed one second-string center.

Both kids were similar in size and build—tall but on the chunky side—although Dunk had slimmed down a bit since summer. Both of them had close-cropped hair; Dunk’s skin was a shade or two darker. He and Louie had been subs on the YMCA’s summer-league all-star team that played in the state tournament down at the Jersey Shore. That had been Dunk’s first taste of big-time basketball. But he’d choked with the game on the line in the semifinals.

Dunk had vowed after that tournament to do whatever work was necessary to make the school team this winter. That had included miles of running, hours of solitary shooting at the Y, and even a few of his aunt’s evening aerobics classes.

It’d be great if me and Louie both make it,
he thought. But this was basketball. No time to be sentimental. All Dunk could do was play his butt off and hope he didn’t make too many mistakes.

Spencer wasted no time getting the battle under way. His first pass was to Dunk in the paint. Dunk took the ball and leaned into his opponent, but Louie was a big obstacle to move.

Dunk shifted his right foot as if to step, then pivoted on his left foot and turned to shoot. His jump-hook brought the ball over Louie’s outstretched hands, but the ball rattled off the rim and fell toward the floor, where Lamont scooped it up.

Dunk shook his head as he raced up the floor. He reached midcourt and looked around for Louie, who was trailing behind. It wasn’t often that Dunk was faster than the man he was covering, but he could definitely outrun Louie.

Louie had a soft touch on his shot, though, and he scored a couple of times before Dunk finally made one. Dunk built a small rebounding edge, however, and he also blocked shots by David and Miguel. He and Louie shoved each other around pretty good, working with everything they had.

After about twenty minutes, Coach pulled Dunk out for a rest. He sat on the bottom row of the wooden bleachers and looked around.

This gym was small and old. The bouncing of the basketball echoed off the gray cinderblock walls. Dunk had been to a few games in this gym as a spectator; it could be an exciting place when the bleachers were full and people were yelling and stamping their feet to spur on the players.

It’d be great to hear them yelling his name sometime, urging him to carry the load as the Hornets battled with a highly touted rival. He’d make the shots, grab the rebounds, stifle their best player with his defense.

When Dunk went back onto the court, he was still matched up against Louie, but now they’d switched sides. Louie was with the starters and Dunk was playing with the backups.

He felt the difference right away. Spencer and Fiorelli and the other first-teamers moved the ball at a crisper pace and were better at setting screens for each other. But Dunk’s main concern was stopping Louie, and he managed to do that pretty well while getting a couple of buckets of his own.

So he was feeling good about his chances when the workout ended. He knew he belonged on this team. All he could do was hope Coach saw it that way, too.

Before leaving for the night, Dunk stepped over to Louie’s locker and grabbed his arm. “Nice job today,” he said.

“You, too, buddy.” Louie grinned broadly and shrugged. “That was quite a battle.”

“You said it.”

“Hope we’ll get to renew it real soon,” Louie said. “Like tomorrow at practice would be nice.”

Dunk gave a tight smile and nodded. “We’ll know soon enough.”

“Good luck with it.”

F
ourth Street was dark and quiet as Dunk walked past Jefferson Elementary School toward home. A few of the houses still had Halloween decorations, even though it was already late November.

Dunk was starving—it was well past six when he reached his front door.

“Hello, Cornell,” his mom called.

“Hey, Mom.” Dunk stepped into the kitchen, where his mother was boiling pasta.

“How’d it go?”

“I think it went well. Won’t know till tomorrow.”

“They’re making you wait another day?”

“Yeah. Coach said he’ll post the roster in the morning. Guess he didn’t want anybody sleeping tonight.”

Dunk set his gym bag on the kitchen table. “What are we eating?” he asked.

“I’ve got chicken in the oven. You can make us a salad.” She pointed at the gym bag. “And you can put that stuff right in the washing machine, Mr. Basketball. I found two days’ worth of sweaty T-shirts and socks in the hamper this morning, all mashed up and
stinking
wet. You know better than that.”

“Yeah,” Dunk said sheepishly. “You sure they were
my
socks?”

Mom just gave him an amused stare. Dunk was the only kid in the family.

“Dad home yet?”

“Any second now. He called from downtown about five minutes ago.”

Dunk’s father worked for the city’s department of public works, and his mom was a nurse.

Dunk opened the refrigerator and took out some lettuce and salad dressing. There were two tomatoes on the counter, and he cut them into chunks.

“You wash your hands?” Mom asked.

“I did it at the gym.” He opened his palms and held them out. “Not a speck on ’em.”

“Aunt Krystal called, too,” Mom said. “You need to run over after dinner and feed her cat. She’s going to be stuck at school most of the evening.”

Mom’s younger sister Krystal was a student at St. Peter’s University over in Jersey City. She and Dunk were close friends.

The kitchen door opened and Dad came in, rubbing his hands together and smiling. “Smells good in here,” he said. He grabbed Dunk and hugged him tight with one arm, then kissed his wife. Mr. Duncan was a big man, always upbeat. “What’s the word, Cornell?”

“No word yet.”

“Tomorrow,” Mrs. Duncan said. “He doesn’t find out until tomorrow.”

“You’ll make it,” Dad said. He picked a chunk of tomato out of the bowl and held it up, closing one eye to examine it. “If not, you can get a job as a chef.
Perfectly
cut tomato.” He popped it into his mouth.

Dunk rolled his eyes. “Salad. Big deal.” Dunk did love participating in the meal preparation, though. He could sauté vegetables and scramble eggs like a pro.

After dinner, Dunk walked back down Fourth Street to his aunt’s apartment, on the other side of the Boulevard. Hudson City wasn’t a big place—sixteen city blocks long and about as wide, nestled between Jersey City and Hoboken along the Hudson River, directly across from New York City. Dunk had always loved the neighborhood he lived in, quiet and friendly in the midst of such a huge metropolitan area.

His end of town—just a few blocks from the Jersey City line, was mostly residential. Krystal had a tiny apartment on the second floor of a house, just one big room really, with a small bathroom, and a bay window overlooking the street.

Her little gray cat was sleeping on the sill of the bay window, and it stretched out its front legs and stared at Dunk.

“You hungry, Smoky?” Dunk asked, scratching the cat’s chin. “Let’s see what we got here.”

He shook some dry food into the cat’s bowl and looked around.

Aunt Krystal’s not much neater than I am,
he thought, noticing a blue sweatshirt on the floor, a pile of dishes in the sink, and a damp towel draped over the couch. She taught aerobics at the Y and had been a great athlete in high school.

Dunk’s mom had a penchant for neatness. Her little sister hadn’t inherited that gene.

“Your mama’s running late,” Dunk said to the cat, who was still eating. “Uncle Dunk has to pinch-hit today. Don’t you worry, she’ll be here soon.”

Later, as Dunk was getting set to cross the Boulevard, Krystal’s car turned the corner and she beeped the horn as she pulled to the curb.

“Mom said you’d be late!”

“I am late,” Krystal said. “Just not as late as I thought.”

“I fed the cat.”

“Thanks. Get in.”

Dunk opened the passenger door and sat down.

“So he’s good?” Krystal asked.

“Who?”

“Smoky.”

“Yeah. He’s great. We played with his toy mouse.”

“Cool. You hungry?”

“Just ate. But yeah.”

“I haven’t eaten since lunchtime. I’ll call your mom.”

Krystal picked up her cell phone from the console.

“I’m back in town,” she said when Dunk’s mom picked up. “Cornell’s gonna hang with me for a while. . . . He will.”

“I will what?” Dunk asked.

“Behave.”

“Like I don’t?”

“I think she means, ‘Don’t let him eat too much.’”

Krystal drove to the Beijing Kitchen, where she got take-out food at least twice a week. “Let’s eat here,” she said.

Dunk had been here with Krystal a number of times. The guy at the counter always flirted with her, but she didn’t seem to mind.

Krystal ordered something called Double Wonders. Dunk said he’d just have a bowl of egg-drop soup.

“Just soup?” said the guy, making believe that he was shocked. “When I saw you walk in, I told the chef, ‘Clear the decks. Get ready for a massive order.’”

Dunk gave a half-smile. “I just ate dinner.”

The guy turned toward the kitchen, which was a big open area right behind the counter. He said something in Chinese. Then he turned back to Dunk with a grin. “I told them not to kill that prize pig yet. Maybe tomorrow.”

Dunk laughed. “Maybe.”

Dunk was halfway through his soup when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Spencer was leaning toward the counter between Dunk’s and Krystal’s stools.

“Hey, Spence.”

“That looks good,” Spencer said, pointing to Krystal’s plate. “Shrimp and chicken?”

“Yes. It’s delicious.”

“Hey, Lin,” Spencer called to the counter guy. “Would I like this?”

“I’ve never seen you not like anything,” Lin said. He picked up a large take-out bag and put it on the counter, pushing it toward Spencer.

Spencer handed him some money. “My mom said to make sure we got soy sauce.”

Lin opened the bag and peered in. “There’s some in there,” he said, but he picked up a handful of packets from below the counter and tossed them in.

“Getting cold out,” Spencer said. “I should have worn gloves.”

“You walking?” Dunk asked.

“What else? It’s only six blocks.”

Dunk suddenly found some manners. “This is my aunt Krystal,” he said.

“Pleased to meet you,” Spencer said, sticking out his hand. “I’ve seen you around.”

“I’ve seen you, too.”

“Well,” Spencer said, “the family’s waiting. Nice job at practice today, Dunk. You were the man out there.”

“Thanks.”

“What a sweet boy,” Krystal said after Spence left.

Dunk laughed. “Sweet as a lemon.”

“Oh. One of those?”

“He’s a good guy. But that ‘pleased to meet you’ stuff is an act. Spencer’s no gentleman, believe me.”

“He seemed mature for a kid your age.”

“Sure. Whatever that means. He’s all right; he’s just got no off switch. Never shuts up, you know?”

“I know the type. But he seems harmless.”