Toby Wheeler (6 page)

         
10

O
ur first game was that night. After dinner, Dad drove me and Mom to the school gym. As we cruised down Verlot Street, Mom was on the phone with someone over at Landover Lumber.

“I don’t care what Mr. Goodman thinks,” she was saying. “You tell Mr. Goodman if Landover Lumber comes within a mile of those trees, I’ll make sure his face is on the cover of every newspaper and magazine from here to Los Angeles. I’ll fly in half of Hollywood and a school bus of smiling children and put them all in front of a TV camera if I have to. People in this town want a healthy river. And they do not want to look out their windows and see a barren hillside. Got it?”

I had heard these conversations a million times, but I was never sure whose side to take. The way Mom was attacking Landover Lumber, I could definitely see where my competitiveness came from, and I had to admire her for doing everything she could to win. But then there was Dad, stuck in the mud selling wood chips, which, to me, made him Warren Goodman’s benchwarmer.

“Maureen,” he said when Mom was off the phone, “do you really think you should be bluffing like that? I do work with these people.”

“I thought we said we weren’t going to let that get in the way.”

“Well, it’s complicated now. Warren is really going out of his way to get me that promotion. I know you have your job to do. But so do I. And it might help move things along if you weren’t quite so adversarial.”

“Phil, being nice isn’t going to save the south slope.”

“Neither is lying.”

“I didn’t lie.”

“Who do you know in Hollywood?” Dad asked.

Mom was speechless, for once. Then she laughed. “I
could
know someone in Hollywood. Warren Goodman would never know the difference.”

“He is dense,” Dad agreed.

We were a few blocks from the school when they seemed to remember I was in the backseat. It was Mom who turned around to face me. “So, tonight’s the big night,” she said. “I finally get to see you in uniform.”

“Mom, I probably won’t even play. I’m the twelfth man, remember.”

“The important thing is you’re trying,” she said.

I wondered what she would say if someone congratulated her for
trying
to save the south slope.

“I bet it’s great being on the team with JJ, huh?” Dad asked. “You two used to spend so much time together.”

“Sure, Dad,” I said. The truth was that being on the team had not changed anything with JJ. He cruised through practice without saying much to anyone. At lunch, he sat with Stephen and Valerie. In his free time, he practiced guitar. So it was like it had been before basketball season, only now, instead of playing my game at the rec center, I was working like a dog in practice to…what…sit on the bench during games? Still, there were some good things about being on the team. Like walking into the gym after waving goodbye to Mom and Dad, and seeing the stands filling up with people who had come to watch us play basketball…. What’s not to like about that?

Inside the locker room, I found JJ dressing by himself, his hair falling into his eyes when he leaned over to lace his shoes. I had just been at the barbershop that day. My hair was buzzed short. To me, if it was long enough to comb, it was too long.

“Game on,” I said to JJ.

“Game on,” said JJ. He held out his hand. “Listen, sorry about the other day in practice. I don’t know what got into me. But, hey, I wouldn’t have played that way if I didn’t think you could handle it.”

“I can handle it,” I said, dropping my gym bag on the floor. “Remember who has the record on the Hoop Shoot?”

“Are you going to hold that over me forever?” JJ asked, lacing his shoes. They were just like mine: mostly white with two blue streaks.

“Only until you beat me,” I said, getting an idea. “Hey, we could go to Corner Pizza after the game tonight—what do you think?”

JJ had stood up and was putting his clothes in a locker. He took a deep breath.

The way he paused, I knew what he was going to say before he said it. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” I went on, still hoping he
might
say yes.

JJ snapped the lock on his locker.

“I can’t. But let’s do something tomorrow. I’ll meet you at the hoop. Around noon. We’ll play some one-on-one.”

“Yeah?”

JJ nodded. “Yeah.”

Hoops. Tomorrow. Just me and JJ. The way it was supposed to be. I smiled and laced my shoes, knowing now that joining the team had been the right thing to do. I got even more excited when Raj came into the locker room and reported a full house. So long, gym rat; hello, star.

When we were all dressed, it was time for the pregame speech. Coach stood with JJ on his left and Ruben on his right. Ruben was bouncing on the balls of his feet, as though he might blast off from pent-up energy if the game didn’t start soon. JJ was looking at his shoes. He flinched whenever Coach mentioned his name.

“Keep it simple out there,” Coach said. “Talk on defense. Make smart passes. And remember to run your offense through JJ like we’ve done all week.” He looked at JJ. “Menzel Lake may open in a zone. If they do, wait for the double-team and look for the open man.” Coach tapped the board with his stick of chalk. “Anyone have anything to add?”

Ruben stepped forward. Well, bounced forward. He held out his hand. We put ours on top of his. “Everyone else in this league thinks we belong in the basement,” he began. “Well, we don’t. Not anymore. The only things that belong in the basement are rats and stuff nobody wants and I don’t see any rats or junk here. We’re gonna shock the world this season. Let’s get it started tonight.”

“Chuckers!” we all cheered before leaving the locker room.

The jersey felt cool on my skin as we waited in the tunnel. Over the jerseys we wore warm-up shirts. Most of the guys had nicknames printed on the back of their shirts. Only two shirts were blank: mine and Malcolm’s. The shorts hung to an inch above my knees—just right. We were ready to go. The house lights dimmed. A single spotlight danced on the court. The capacity crowd filling the Pilchuck gym cheered and stomped. In a moment, the starters would be announced. Then the rest of us would follow.

Khalil strolled out first. Then Roy. Ruben bounced after them. Raj was next, with JJ on his heels bringing a roar from above as the announcer sang, “JJ Fosssssterrrrr!” I wished I could have run out there with him. There were only ten guys between us in the lineup, but it felt like a hundred. Then it was time for the second team. Each player ran from the tunnel and passed through a gauntlet of teammates with high fives all around. I moved toward the edge of the tunnel, but Coach held me back. “Not yet,” he said as McKlusky took the court. “Not yet,” he said again as the introductions continued. By now, the roar was fading. “Not yet,” he said as Malcolm hopped out of the tunnel. Then it was just me and Coach.

Coach smiled and pushed me on. “Go ahead, Toby. This is your moment.”

He was right. It was my moment. That was
my
name the announcer had called. So what if I was the last one into the gym? So what if I didn’t have a nickname? It was my first day as a superstar. I took a deep breath and got ready to soak up the applause.

There was just one problem. By the time my name was called, the gauntlet was ancient history. The other players were warming up, shooting jumpers and free throws. The crowd was no longer watching the court, either. People in the stands were too busy saving seats, waving to friends, or standing in line at the snack stand to care about a benchwarmer making his grand entrance. Disappointed, I grabbed a ball from the rack and joined my teammates at the other end of the gym. The buzz I had felt walking into the gym had worn off in an instant.

Soon the horn blew. Coach gathered us for one last pep talk, then sent the starters to the floor for the tip-off. I made the long walk to the end of the bench to sit between Malcolm and Megan. Coach was letting her sit on the bench during games to take notes.

Megan smiled when she saw me. “Hey, it’s the twelfth man!” she said as the players were shaking hands on the court. She was wearing jeans and a green T-shirt and holding a notepad. There was a pencil behind her ear.

“Please don’t call me that,” I said.

“Wow,” said Megan. “Who’d have guessed a benchwarmer could be so sensitive?” At our feet, the game was under way.

JJ began the game on fire. A reverse layup along the baseline. A crossover dribble drive. A runner in traffic. And of course, the stop-and-pop. It was a clinic, and Menzel Lake was getting schooled. I could hear the fans behind me take a deep breath whenever JJ had the ball, as if they knew that in a moment he would give them a reason to let it out in a cheer. Ruben and the others had little to do, and they began to look bored. JJ
was
doing most of the work on offense, but not because he was selfish. He was just following orders. Coach had told us a hundred times the offense should go through JJ on every possession. The only problem was, nobody was setting the screens JJ needed for open shots. It was like Ruben, Roy, and Khalil had made up their minds if they weren’t going to get to shoot, they didn’t want to do the other stuff.

At least
they
were in the game. As we came back to the court for the second half—the other guys sweaty from running up and down the court, and me clean and dry—I was starting to feel like a fan who had won really good seats in a radio contest. Once or twice I looked down and was surprised to see I was wearing a uniform. I had to keep reminding myself I was on the team too. I had joined the team to show everyone that a gym rat could play
real
basketball. But here I was again sitting down watching JJ play without me. Nothing had changed.

“It shouldn’t be this close,” said Megan a few minutes into the fourth quarter. She was shaking her head. We had been unable to shake Menzel Lake. Their zone was smothering JJ, and without any help from Ruben and the others, there was no outlet when he found himself double-or triple-teamed. Worse, on offense, their best player—Gallagher—was heating up.

“Gallagher is too good,” I said. “He has sixteen points and there are still five minutes left.”

Megan agreed. “And he has his teammates involved. Every one of their starters has scored. It’s no surprise they’re playing hard on defense, too.”

“They’re triple-teaming JJ,” I said to Megan. “Is that even legal?”

“That’s their zone,” she explained. “The problem is they’re also closing the passing lanes so JJ can’t find the open man.”

Sure enough, Raj passed to JJ on the wing. The second JJ had the ball, the Knights swarmed. JJ did his best to wiggle through the defense, but with so many hands reaching for the ball, not even a ghost could have escaped. The trap forced a turnover and the Knights had the ball back, down by two, with two minutes to play.

“Come on, guys, this is our game!” Raj urged during a time-out. All the players were circled around Coach, who was holding his clipboard and loosening his tie.

“You should get up too,” Megan whispered to me.

I stood and joined the huddle.

“You’ve got to think out there!” Coach said. “Stay with the offense!” Behind him, the cheerleaders were doing their best to reignite the crowd, but the Menzel Lake comeback had everyone uneasy. “JJ will take you home!”

“Coach?”

“Yes, Ruben.”

“I just wanted to say…they’re leaving Roy open on the low post to double JJ. If we look inside, we might get some easy baskets.”

Coach patted Ruben on the shoulder. “The only way we can get the ball inside is if the rest of you start setting screens. I see too much standing around out there. You should be in constant motion. Move with a purpose! Help each other out on defense. They’ve been running that pick-and-roll all night. You’re not going to stop it unless you communicate.”

We put our hands together. “Chuckers!”

“You can do it,” I said to JJ, whose only response was a distracted nod. His eyes were on his father, who was standing with his arms crossed near the exit. JJ seemed spellbound. Only at the sound of the whistle did he finally manage to tear his eyes free. I wondered if JJ was remembering all the games the year before, when his dad would chew out some official whose only mistake had been to call a foul on JJ. Or was he thinking ahead to what might happen if we let this game get away?