Airball (15 page)

“Yes, we are, Duncan. We're the two biggest dorks on the team. And guess what?” I pinned Eddie with a steady gaze. “The dorks aren't afraid to walk out into that gym in their underwear.”

Duncan looked at me. Swallowed. “Well, this dork kind of is.”

“I know. Me, too.” I gave Duncan an encouraging punch in the arm. “But the point is, we're doing it anyway.” I turned to the other guys. “We dorks may be scared, but we're walking out that door, we're taking our places on the court, and we're playing better basketball in the second half than anybody on either team. In our underwear.”

“Hey.” Bragger stood up. “Don't leave me out.” He tugged his jersey over his head. “I'm a dork, too. And if I can take it—”

“Oh, man.” Russell shook his head. “If you can take it, I can take it.” He slid his shirt over his head.

“I can, too,” said Manning.

One by one, the guys pulled off their uniforms. One by one, they came over to stand in the Stealth huddle.

Eddie looked at us. Rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “God. We're all dorks,” he said. And he peeled off his jersey.

Thirty

“What is going on here?”

Coach's voice ricocheted off the lockers.

About knocked us flat. We froze. We'd kind of forgotten about him.

He strode across the cement. “What are you doing? We have to be out on the court in two minutes. And you're changing clothes?” He stopped. “Don't tell me. You're not just giving up. Changing into your street clothes and going home.” He whirled on me. “Nickel?”

“Uh, no, sir. We're not giving up. We're, well, we're ready for the second half.”

Coach scrunched his face into a frown. Raised an eyebrow. Looked at me like my brain had just turned to slush and leaked out my ear.

I took a deep breath. “You said it yourself, Coach. Stealth Uniforms made us run faster, jump higher, play longer. They turned us into a team.”

Duncan's voice squeaked. “And you also said you couldn't fix our scaredness. We had to fix it ourselves.”

Coach narrowed his eyes. Ran a hand across his forehead. “And this is what you came up with?”

We swallowed. Nodded.

“And you were just going to waltz out there and make me look stupid?”

Oh, man. We hadn't even thought about that. About how our nakedness would embarrass Coach.

“Because I
would
look stupid, believe me, if I was the only one on the bench fully dressed.”

He shook his head and unzipped his warm-up jacket. He wriggled out of it. He tossed his pants on the bench. He tucked his clipboard under his hairy arm-pit, squared his bare shoulders, and marched toward the door.

We followed Coach out of the locker room and across the court, our goose bumps gleaming under the buzzing gym lights.

Nobody noticed us at first. Folks were still wandering back from the concession stand, finding their seats. Their voices rumbled through the big, hollow gym.

But then one fan, and another, and another, glanced down. Pointed us out to their neighbors. Everybody stared at us, stared at our underwear, stared at each other. The gym went silent.

Then folks started giggling. One by one. It started on the Whipple end, of course. Whipple fans have always been bad sports. But it didn't take long to spread, and pretty soon even the Stuckey fans were laughing. First a snicker, then a chuckle, then a couple of guffaws, till the whole gym erupted in howls.

And we just stood there and took it.

The officials and the Whipple coach came racing over, of course. Swarmed Coach. Wanted to know what we were up to. What kind of mind game we were playing. Paged through the league regulations, trying to figure out how many rules we were breaking.

Now, Coach was a lot of things, but nobody could ever call him chicken. He stood right up to those referees and that coach, as cool and confident as if he'd been wearing a bulletproof Superman suit.

“We're not up to a thing,” he said. “And we're not breaking any rules. I've checked. Surely you've seen a game of shirts and skins. It's a basketball tradition. We're just taking it to another level. Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have a game to coach.”

He turned on his heel and strode back to the bench, whipped out his clipboard, just like he always did at practice, just like he would have if he'd been wearing clothes, and gathered the team for a second-half huddle.

After what seemed like a day and a half, the crowd finally settled into their seats. They stopped laughing, for the most part, but they were still talking, and not about Lloyd Metcalf's fancy new combine, either. I sneaked a glance at the bleachers. There sat Mrs. Zimmer, straight and tall, her face purple with rage, her body paralyzed with humiliation.

The buzzer honked. I tugged the legs of my boxer briefs to make sure they were covering up everything they were supposed to cover and joined my teammates at center court.

“Well,” I said, “we look as stupid as we're ever going to look. No matter what we do from this point on, we can't be any more humiliated than we are right now.”

“All that's left,” said Bragger, “is basketball.”

Eddie nodded. “Let's play!”

Thirty-one

So we played.

Manning inbounded to Eddie to start the half. Then, while Eddie dribbled around the perimeter, drawing defenders, Manning faked to the outside, then drifted toward the basket and set up in the low post, just like we'd practiced. And, just like in practice, Eddie faked right, reversed left, and executed a smooth pass over the defense. Manning caught the pass, pivoted into the paint, and put the ball through the hoop. Two points. Four seconds into the first half, and Stuckey was on the board.

And even though we were playing in our underwear, even though we were the biggest embarrassment the town had ever endured, Stuckey fans cheered. They couldn't help themselves. This was the Basketball Capital of Kansas, after all, and the citizens had to root for their team. Even Mrs. Zimmer. Her face was still purple with rage. But she clapped.

Whipple inbounded. Their point guard dribbled down-court, Eddie in his face the whole way. The guard broke left. Ran into Eddie. Swung right. Eddie was there. Stopped and brought the ball overhead for a pass. Eddie flicked it away, recovered it in one bounce, and charged up the court for an easy layup. Two points.

Eddie pumped his fist.

Coach swung his clipboard in the air. “Nice move, Poggemeyer!”

Stuckey fans leaped to their feet, cheering.

And we kept on playing.

Manning was a maniac in the post. After Whipple caught on and began guarding him, the Maniac just started going over the defender's head for the basket, the way he'd gone over Coach's in practice.

For Duncan, the free-throw line truly was a charity stripe. Whipple had figured out that Big D wasn't the quickest player on the team. That he was vulnerable. So they double-teamed him every time he got the ball, trying to force a turnover. But Duncan was patient. He'd wait till they were all over him, hands in his face. Then he'd lob the ball in the general direction of the basket. And draw a foul. And then sink the free throws. He went ten for ten from the foul line.

Every player in a Stealth Uniform was playing great basketball.

Every player except me. I couldn't get open. Couldn't get a rebound. Couldn't get a look at the basket.

“What's wrong with you, Nickel?” Coach yelled. “If this were practice, you'd be crashing the boards, diving for loose balls.”

Yeah, I wanted to yell back, because if this were practice, I'd be trying to break my neck so I wouldn't have to play.

And that's when it hit me. Coach said I was the most consistent player on the team. But I didn't get that way trying to play basketball. I'd gotten that way trying to
avoid
playing basketball.

So I just quit. Quit trying to play. Instead, I poured all my effort, once again, into spraining my ankle. My amazing, indestructible ankle. And within five minutes, I'd pulled down four rebounds, blocked three shots, and stolen the ball twice. I even put up three shots. Two of them actually dropped in.

By the end of the third quarter, we'd cut Whipple's lead in half: Whipple 46, Stuckey 33. Stuckey fans seemed to have forgotten we were playing in our undies. And we did, too. Well, almost. But the fans cheered, and we played.

And kept on playing. With one minute left in the game, we'd sliced Whipple's lead to two. Just two points. One basket. And sixty seconds left to play.

We traded the next two buckets. Bragger made a sweet little finger roll under the basket to tie. Whipple made a layup to go ahead again. The fans—both Stuckey and Whipple—were on their feet, screaming.

The clock ticked down. Sixteen seconds. And we had the ball. We had to make at least one basket. Two points. And then we'd be tied. We'd be in overtime. We'd have another shot at beating them.

Our best strategy was to get Duncan to the free-throw line, get the ball into Duncan's hands immediately, and try to get him fouled. So Eddie inbounded, and Duncan took it up the court, a risky move because Duncan had only ten seconds to get it over the line, and he wasn't what you'd call quick. He was also facing full-court pressure from two big Whipple guys who were determined not to lose this game in the final seconds.

But Big D took a deep breath, jutted his jaw, and kept dribbling. Slow and steady. Those Whipple guys were all over him, but he didn't cave. Didn't do anything crazy. Just kept moving up court.

Whipple wasn't taking any chances, either. They had their hands up, their bodies in Duncan's way, but they were being careful. They didn't want to put Duncan on the free-throw line.

Still, they were looking for their chance. And when Duncan wiped the sweat from his eyes with his free hand, they took it. The Whipple point guard swiped at the ball. Didn't touch Duncan. Didn't even come close. Just knocked the ball back.

Square into Duncan's bare, lathered-up belly. Square onto his belly button, where the suction was the greatest. Where, for a split second, the ball stayed stuck.

And I have to give Duncan credit. He didn't panic. Didn't move his feet. Didn't travel, like he did that time in practice. He couldn't dribble anymore, so he just stopped. Kept his pivot foot firmly planted. And if those two Whipple players would've just left him alone, he probably would've been called for not getting the ball over the line in time. But when Big D wrapped his arms around the ball and pivoted, trying to yank it loose, it caught the Whipple point guard off balance, and he walloped Duncan in the side with his elbow. The ball tore loose with a big
slurp
and bounced out of bounds.

The ref whistled the Whipple guard for a foul.

And Duncan was at the free-throw line with seven seconds left. Two shots. One point apiece. If he made them both, we'd be tied.

We lined up on either side of the paint. The ref threw Duncan the basketball. Duncan squared his feet. Bounced the ball. Bounced again. Lined his hands up on the stripes, eyed the basket, and—

—whoosh.

Nothing but net.

Stuckey fans cheered. The green wall went silent.

We all high-fived Big D, then lined up again. Whipple's lead was down to one.

The ref tossed Duncan the ball. Duncan squared. Bounced. Bounced again. Lined up his hands. Eyed the basket. Shot.

The ball soared over the paint in a perfect arc. Perfect … perfect … perfect …

… until it thudded against the bracket, spun around the rim, and bounced out.

We weren't ready for that. Weren't ready for Duncan to miss his first free throw of the half. We moved a split second too late.

The Whipple center rebounded and passed to the Whipple point guard, who dribbled down court.

“No-o-o-o-o!”

I charged after him, after the ball. They weren't going to play keep-away, let the clock run out, rip this game from our grasp by one measly point. Not while there was time left. Not if I had anything to say about it.

Eddie was already in the guard's face, hands up, body pressing in, and now I was all over him, too. The guard stopped. Pivoted. Held the ball over his head to pass. Eddie leaped and tipped it loose.

Tipped it over the guard's head. Tipped it into my chest. I slapped my hands over it. I had it. I had the ball.

“Shoot, Kirby,
shoot!
” Bragger's voice echoed through the rafters.

I turned and dribbled. Dribbled and dribbled and dribbled, for miles it seemed, until I couldn't feel my arm, couldn't feel my hand pumping up and down, couldn't feel the nubby roughness of the ball. Somewhere in the outer reaches of my mind I heard the ball bouncing, heard my Jammers pounding over the wood—
thonk, thwap, thonk, thwap
—as the crowd roared. But my brain, my body, my whole self zeroed in on one thing: the basket. Put the ball in the basket.

I was almost there when I caught a flash of green out of the corner of my eye. The Whipple guard charged past and positioned himself in front of me. Positioned himself to block the shot. I glanced over. Looked for a Stuckey player, Eddie or Bragger, even Duncan, anybody in a Stealth Uniform to pass to. But I was by myself. Just me and the Whipple guard. And one of us had to win.

The Whipple guard was set. If I went in for the layup, I'd plow right into him. I'd get called for a charging foul. I took my last step toward him and pulled the ball up. But instead of going straight in, I pushed off and spun away, my back to the basket. Kept spinning, lifting the ball, till I faced the basket on the other side. And laid it in.

Th-bumpf.

The ball banked off the backboard and fell through the hoop.

The buzzer honked.

The crowd exploded.

The ref threw his arm in the air. The shot was good.

Thirty-two