Swagger (18 page)

The refs gave Levi both a personal foul and a technical foul. Garfield's point guard made three free throws to stretch their lead to eleven. The halftime horn sounded a few seconds later. As we traipsed, heads down, to the locker room, it was hard to believe that an hour before we'd been high on an adrenaline rush.

In the second half, Garfield ran the clock down on most possessions, but took the fast break if it was there. Hartwell kept Levi on the bench all through the third quarter but put him back in the game to begin the fourth quarter. There was some pushing and shoving on both sides, but Garfield was up by twenty and closing in on a trophy—they didn't need to fight.

When the game ended, our side of the gym was half empty. I spotted my dad, and he shook his head. Garfield had beaten us by nineteen, letting every team in Washington know that their earlier loss to us—their only loss all season—had been a fluke. They were going to take the state finals; the rest of us were playing for second.

In the locker room, Hartwell tried to keep up our spirits. “Think where we were a month ago compared to where we are now. We've fought our way into the state tournament. We've still got a shot at a bigger trophy than the one that got away today. Remember that.”

When I reached home, my dad was back at the Blue Jay, but my mom was waiting for me, her eyes cheerful. “I know you're disappointed, Jonas, but you tried your best. That's all you can do.”

I nodded, and she kissed me on the forehead. I moved past her toward the stairs.

“Jonas?”

I turned back.

“What happened with Levi tonight? I didn't know he had such a temper.”

“Things like that happen. It's part of the game.”

“It's never been part of Levi's game. Is something wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong.”

“Well, he'd better get his temper under control. He could have seriously hurt that boy. Your father says he should have been ejected from the game.”

R
ICHTER HAD E-MAILED ME AFTER
each of our tournament victories—the
Seattle Times
was printing recaps and stats so he could follow everything online. He'd see that Garfield had wiped us out, and that I'd done nothing. Would he know that Garfield guys were headed to major colleges? I was almost positive he would.

Almost.

Monday morning I stopped by Levi's house on the way to Harding. “He left twenty minutes ago,” his father said. I turned to leave when his father reached out and grabbed my shoulder, which I didn't like. “My daughter Rachel,” he said, motioning toward her as she stood behind him getting ready to head out the door. “Does she wear immodest clothes at school?”

Rachel looked over his shoulder at me, panic in her eyes. She was wearing a baggy sweatshirt and sweatpants. I'd never once seen her at school in anything but low-cut tops and skintight jeans. “No,” I answered, and then I beat it out of there.

At school I went past the coaches' office looking to see if Levi was with Hartwell, but it was empty. I kept searching for Levi until I finally spotted him sitting by himself, his head in his hands, out in the courtyard. I was about to go out to talk to him when the warning bell rang.

It was a strange day at school. Kids didn't know whether to congratulate us on making the state tournament or console us because we'd lost so badly to Garfield. We'd sneaked into the state tournament through the back door, and no one liked the feeling.

In Mrs. Miller's English class, we read a story about a man whose wife is perfect except for a single birthmark. The husband gets fixated on the birthmark and makes her try different things to get rid of it. Nothing works, but he can't stop trying new things, and in the end the crazy treatments kill his wife.

As I read that story, I thought about Levi. His situation didn't exactly match, but something was eating at Levi just like that birthmark had eaten at the man. What was it? And why couldn't he tell me about it?

Practice that day was short, just a shoot-around. “Rest,” Hartwell said, dismissing us an hour early. “That's the most important thing you can do now.”

I knew I could get my mom's car, and we had extra time, so on an impulse after practice I asked Levi if he wanted to go see Mr. Knecht.

“Sure,” he said, a spark coming into his eyes.

 

Knecht's house was in the north end of Seattle, about fifteen minutes from Tangletown. The home itself was small, but his yard was amazing, with curving flower beds, roses on trellises, brick pathways, birdbaths, and fountains. It was winter, so nothing was in bloom, but in summer it must have looked like something out of a garden magazine.

A small greenhouse sat in the back corner. “I bet he's in there,” Levi said, and he was right. We found Mr. Knecht at a table pouring dirt into a bunch of little pots. His beard was stubbly, his shirt was misbuttoned, and he had one of those walkers that old people use when a cane doesn't give them enough support. Still, he smiled broadly when he saw us.

We talked basketball for about ten minutes. He asked me if I was the starter, and I said I was. “Fast breaks on every play, right? That was what Hartwell always wanted.”

“We fast break a lot,” I admitted, “but Hartwell also uses your plays. Actually, he has been using them more and more, especially in the fourth quarter.”

Knecht tilted his head. “Are you just saying that to make an old man happy?”

“It's true. Ask Levi.”

Knecht looked to Levi, who nodded.

“If it's okay with you, Coach,” I said, suddenly understanding why I'd suggested the visit, “I'd like to take a look at what you've done in your yard. We just moved to Seattle, and my mom wants me to fix up our backyard. I need ideas.”

It was a weak excuse, but before either of them could object, I was out the door of the greenhouse. Probably Levi wouldn't tell Knecht what was making him so unhappy, but at least he'd have the chance.

I wandered around in Knecht's yard looking at bushes and checking out how he'd set up his compost pile. It was cold, but I stayed in the yard until the two of them came out—Knecht moving slowly and using his walker—to join me. Knecht shook my hand and thanked me for coming. “I'll try to make it to the championship game, if you get that far,” he said, speaking to both of us.

“It'd be great to have you there,” I said.

“You're a good kid, Jonas,” he answered. “I've followed the team in the newspaper. I'm glad you've gotten your chance; I wasn't doing right by you. I see that now.”

His admission froze me for an instant. What could I say? Because he
hadn't
done right by me. “Donny's a good player,” I finally managed, “and you knew what he could do.”

Knecht frowned. “A good coach keeps his eyes open. Mine were closed.”

Back home, I found an envelope from Harding High on the kitchen table—my grades. I ripped it open and there they were—four Bs and two As. I immediately went to Kinko's and faxed a copy to Coach Richter.

Leaving Kinko's, I took a deep breath and exhaled. Richter had my DVD; he had my semester grades; he'd seen my stats as a starter. My push to win a basketball scholarship to Monitor College was coming to an end.

I didn't know that something far more important was just about to begin.

 

 

 

 

T
HE CHEER TEAM STAYED LATE
to make posters on Monday night. At school on Tuesday morning, the hallways were decorated with colorful banners screaming
GO, HAWKS
! and
TAKE THE STATE
! It was an attempt to wipe out the memory of the Garfield loss, and it worked. “You can do it!” kids called out to me all day.

The brackets had been published in the
Seattle Times
. Garfield was the number one seed—no surprise—and we were a seven seed. That was a huge break for us because it meant that we'd play Garfield again only if we both made it to Saturday night's championship game. There was always the slim chance that some other team would play the game of their lives and knock Garfield out.

Our first game was Thursday in the late afternoon against Lynden High, a school up near the Canadian border. The area is mainly farmland—those guys tend to be football players, not basketball players, or at least that's what Cash told me. They'd lost just once all year, but they hadn't played any big city schools.

All day Tuesday I was impatient to hear from Richter. I'd hoped that my good grades would catch his attention. At lunch and again after school, I used a library computer to check my e-mail.

Nothing.

Tuesday's practice was like Monday's. We walked through our offensive sets, worked a little on a one-three-one trapping zone defense, and finished by going over inbound plays. After we shot free throws, Hartwell blew his whistle and practice was over. “Three games in three nights is a grind,” he told us before we left the court. “Sleep well, eat well, keep your mind clear.”

If we somehow scratched our way into the finals, I wouldn't have time to do schoolwork, so instead of walking home with Levi, I took my books to the library to get ahead on my reading. It didn't work. I'd read five pages and then stop, and for the next few minutes I'd picture Richter at his desk—my DVD, stat sheets, SAT scores, and grades stacked up on one side, that other kid's stacked up on the other.

After forty-five wasted minutes, I called it quits and headed to Tangletown. My mom had cut back on her hours at work, so she was home that night. We sat together at the kitchen table and ate chicken, mashed potatoes, and corn—none of it microwaved. We were having more and more meals like that.

After dinner I climbed upstairs to my room and checked my e-mail again—more nothing—and then sat at my desk, math book open. Twenty minutes later, my mother called excitedly up the stairs. “Jonas, telephone.” As I hurried down the stairs, she whispered what I'd already hoped: “It's Coach Richter.”

I picked up the phone. “Hello, this is Jonas.”

Coach Richter started by wishing me luck in the upcoming tournament. Then he told me he'd gotten my game films and my semester grades. “I'm impressed with the way you've stepped up these last two months.” I don't remember how I replied, but I do remember what he said next. “Buy a heavy coat. New Hampshire is cold in the winter. I'll be putting your scholarship offer into the mail tomorrow morning.”

I thanked him twenty times and told him twenty times how hard I'd work both at school and at basketball. I was gripping the telephone as if it were a million-dollar bill.

I'd done it.

Jonas Dolan was going to be a college basketball player.

“One last thing,” Coach Richter said. “That forward on your team, the tall quick one—has he got a scholarship lined up?”

“No,” I said, excited for Levi. “He doesn't. But he's a great player and a great team guy.”

“How is he academically? Is he in college prep classes?”

My heart rate slowed like an Indy car running out of gas. “No, Coach. He's not. It's not that he's stupid or lazy; it's just—I don't know. It's hard to explain.”

“I understand. Not everybody is meant for a four-year college right away.” Richter paused. “Well, Jonas, you tell your friend that if he enrolls in a junior college and gets decent grades, I'd be interested in bringing him to Monitor College to play for us and with you.”

I hung up, and my mother hugged me. “Call your father. Call him right now.”

I punched in his number. “That's great!” he screamed through the phone, dishes clattering in the background. “I'm proud of you. In four years, you'll be so smart you'll leave your mom and me in the dust.”

“I'm not going to leave anybody in the dust.”

“Sure you will, and that's good. We want you to go far; we always did. We just didn't know how to direct you. I'm glad Coach Russell did. He's the one who got this going, you know. You should call and thank him.”

“I will.”

“I wish I could buy you a beer to celebrate, but I can't do that, can I?”

I laughed. “No, Dad. I don't think either Coach Richter or Coach Hartwell want me drinking.”

“How about this, then? I'll buy you two beers when you graduate from Monitor College.”

After we'd talked a couple more minutes, I went back upstairs, feeling excited and itchy, way too itchy to stay in my room. I needed to do something, but what?

Then it hit me. I'd gone through so much with Levi. The hoops at the Good Shepherd Center, the summer games at Green Lake, the frustrating times with Knecht, the turnaround with Hartwell. Levi deserved to be told first, and I had to tell him in person—a phone call just wasn't right.

I grabbed my basketball, walked to his house, and knocked on the door. Rachel, wearing a baggy sweatshirt, answered; her father was peering over her shoulder. She looked at me, her eyes saying:
Thanks
.

“Levi home?”

A minute later he was at the door. “Let's shoot around a little?” I said, motioning with my head for him to come outside.

“Now? It's dark and it's cold.”

“It's not that cold, and they put in a floodlight at the Good Shepherd Center. Come on, I've got something important to tell you.”

T
EN MINUTES LATER WE WERE
playing a lazy one-on-one game in the near dark: no defense, no stellar moves on offense. It was hardly a game at all. “So what's your news?” he asked when I hit a long set shot to win.

“Monitor College. My scholarship came through,” I said, grinning in the dark.

Levi was the third person I'd told, but the words—and what they meant—still sounded fantastic to my ear. Was it really true?

He took in what I said, and then he reached out and shook my hand. Not a fist bump or a handclasp; he shook my hand the way adults shake hands. “You deserve it, Jonas.”