Airball (17 page)

Thirty-four

I'd heard about it all my life. I'd seen it on TV and had posters of it lining my bedroom walls. And now I was actually here. In Allen Fieldhouse, home of the Jayhawks.

The lights, the noise, the sheer size of the place made me dizzy. I stood at the edge of the court, holding my fat brown envelope carefully by the edges so I wouldn't crinkle anything inside. I gazed up at the arena. At the thousands of seats. At the enormous cube of a scoreboard poised over center court. At the banners. All those crimson and blue championship banners. We thought we'd really beefed up the Stuckey Middle School banner when we added one more year, but ours looked downright scroungy compared to the ones hanging from the ceiling of Allen Fieldhouse. Conference championships. Final Four appearances. National championships. I thought the rafters would sag from the sheer weight of them.

Bragger elbowed me. “There's Wilt.”

He pointed toward the tiny windows up by the rafters, to a row of retired jerseys lining the walls behind the nosebleed seats about a mile above my head. And there it was. A big blue jersey, number 13, with C
HAMBERLAIN
stitched across the back.

I clutched my envelope and stood there, staring. Goose bumps ran up my arms. It was like the place was haunted. Haunted by greatness.

Eddie bumped into me. “Hey, man. Don't just stand there like a jockstrap.”

“Yeah, Kirby.” Russell grinned and jabbed me with his elbow. “Move out of the way.”

They pushed past, along with the rest of the team. I smoothed the edges of my envelope and turned to follow. The school board had sprung for new warm-up suits, so as we snaked through the crowd and around the cheerleaders, we were easy to spot: twelve seventh-grade basketball players and their coach, all in matching red with a lightning bolt that streaked diagonally across our jacket and down our pants. We all had matching boxers on underneath, too. Silky white with little Jayhawks printed all over.

Our seats were three rows from the floor, behind the Jayhawk bench. Mrs. Zimmer and Mr. Dobbs were already sitting at the end of the row, waiting. Grandma had somehow managed to snag a seat beside them, even though she wasn't an official representative of the Stuckey school district.

The team circled the court to the wooden steps that led to our seats. I'd just started up behind Bragger when I heard a familiar grunt behind me. I turned around.

Coach was standing there, one foot poised above the first step, staring at the row of folding chairs at the edge of the court. At the Jayhawk bench, empty now, the players still in the locker room preparing for the game.

He rubbed his hand slowly across his mouth. “Always thought I'd sit there,” he said, to himself, I think. “I'd wear a Jayhawk jersey, and I'd sit on that bench.”

He took a deep breath and just stood there, staring at those seats, his foot hovering in midair.

“So do it,” I said.

He cut his eyes toward me, surprised, I think, that anyone had heard him. “Do what?”

“Sit on the bench,” I said. “Be a Jayhawk for a few minutes.”

Coach narrowed his eyes. Glanced at the yellow-vested security guards milling about the floor. “I doubt security'd be real happy if I just plopped myself down on the home bench.”

“So?” I shrugged. Playing basketball in boxer briefs had given me a reckless streak. “What are they going to do? Throw you out? A guest of honor? I don't think so.” I motioned my head toward the bench. “Just do it.”

Coach looked at me. Then at the folding chairs. A smile threatened to break out at the corners of his mouth. “You come with me.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. We'll both be Jayhawks.”

I glanced around. The yellow vests weren't paying any attention to us. Neither was Mrs. Zimmer. “Okay.”

Coach and I squeezed out of line and casually strolled to the Jayhawk bench. We stopped. Coach ran his hand over the smooth white cushion of one of the folding chairs.

He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye and raised his eyebrow. I nodded.

And we turned around and sat. Sat square down on those cushy Jayhawk folding chairs. And then, almost like we'd planned it, we both leaned forward, elbows on our knees, and studied the court, like we were watching a game. A close game, a real nail-biter, down to the buzzer. We were tense. Alert. Ready to go in as soon as the coach called our names.

And for that one bright moment, we were Jayhawks. Iron Man Mike Armstrong and me: mighty, unstoppable Jayhawks. I glanced over at Coach. His face was tense with excitement. His eyes gleamed under the dazzling field-house lights.

Fans on the other side of the court started clapping.

Coach and I looked up, startled.

Applause rippled through the crowd until the whole gym erupted in cheers, every fan staring at the guy in the gray suit who'd just strolled onto the court.

I stared, too. At the guy who towered above everyone around him. At the guy who'd led Stuckey to the state championship three years running and was still doing us proud, breaking NBA records in Phoenix, Arizona. At the guy I'd been staring at—in pictures, anyway—since I was old enough to focus my eyes.

“It's him.” The envelope quivered in my hands. “It's really him.”

Coach nodded. “Yep.” He blew out a big breath. “It is.”

He ambled off toward the wooden steps. The real Jayhawk had entered the building.

Thirty-five

Folks still talk about the last shot of the high school state championship game Brett McGrew's senior year. They say McNet was like a freight train that night, driving and scoring and scoring some more. They say the ball had radar. Every time McNet put it up, no matter where he was on the floor, no matter how many guys were in his face, the ball found the hoop and dropped through. They say that's the night he could've broken the record for most points scored in a Kansas high school state championship game. The night he
should've
broken it.

His teammates had gone cold that night. Stone dead cold. They couldn't make a bucket if they'd been standing on a ladder next to the hoop. With six seconds left in regulation, Stuckey was down by one, and McNet needed two points to break the record. Stuckey had the ball, the last shot, and the other team knew who'd take it: Brett McGrew. They double-teamed, triple-teamed, stuck to him like Velcro.

And he probably still could've made the basket. He probably could've muscled past those defenders and put it up. He probably could've sunk the bucket, won the game, and broken the record, all with one stroke of his wrist.

But he saw a teammate cutting toward the basket. A teammate with a clean, open look.

A teammate who hadn't scored all night.

Nobody in the crowd, nobody in the press, nobody on the bench had any confidence this guy could put it in. The guy's own mother didn't think he could do it. But Brett McGrew did. He knew an open layup was Stuckey's best bet to win the game, so he dished out a perfect pass … and his teammate laid it in.

Stuckey won the state championship.

And Brett McGrew gave up his last chance of scoring the most points in a state championship game.

Sports reporters across the state called it the most unselfish move they'd seen in all of basketball.

The afternoon coffee drinkers called it a rotten shame.

Grandma called it proof Brett McGrew had been raised up right. I hoped Grandma knew what she was talking about.

Coach and I took our seats with the rest of the guys, one row behind the seat reserved for Brett McGrew. I watched McNet inch his way across the court. Reporters clustered around him, shoving microphones in his face. Photographers clicked his picture. TV crews filmed his every step. Fans clamored for autographs.

I balanced the brown envelope across my bone-rigid knees and waited. Bragger and I had talked about when I should make my move. About the exact timing. Bragger said I should do it at the first opportunity, the very first minute I met McNet, because I might not get another chance.

And he had a point, but I'd been dreaming of this moment for thirteen years, and I wanted it to be perfect. I really did want that shaft of light to beam down and bathe us in a golden glow. I wanted orchestra music to swell up till it about swallowed us.

I didn't want to finally meet my father while wedged into a third-row seat between Bragger and Coach.

But now that I was actually here, I had to agree with Bragger. I'd do it the first minute I could, no matter where I was sitting. I hadn't been breathing right since we'd gotten on the bus that morning, and I was certain I'd pass out if I waited any longer.

McNet finally made it to our side of the gym. He peeled away from the pack of reporters and glanced up. At me. Right at me. His face broke into a grin, and he bounded up the steps. And I think I did pass out for a second. I know I stopped breathing.

“Hey!” he called out.

Hey?
How was I supposed to answer “Hey”? I'd been dreaming of this moment my whole life, and never, not once, had I imagined Brett McGrew saying, “Hey.”

“Hey!” he called again. “Mike!”

Mike? I glanced at the guy sitting next to me. At Iron Man Mike Armstrong.

McNet vaulted up the last two steps and grabbed Coach's hand. About shook his arm off. Shook it so hard he pulled Coach clean to his feet. They clapped each other on the back, then Brett McGrew took a step back and looked Coach up and down. Well, mostly down. You think six foot nine looks big on TV, try standing next to it in real life. McNet had a good nine inches on Coach.

“Man, it's been a long time,” he said.

And I think Coach said, “Too long.” Something like that. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that my father was here. Finally. Standing three feet away.

Coach and Brett McGrew slapped each other on the back again, then McNet turned to the row of thirteen-year-olds who, under strict orders from Coach not to mob the basketball star, were clinging to the edge of their seats, trying to get a better look.

“This must be your team,” said McNet.

“Yep. These are my boys.” Coach's chest puffed up. He looked, well, proud. Of us. He glanced down the row. “And they're going to explode if I don't introduce you.” He rested his hand on my head. “This is our team captain, Kirby Nickel. Without him, I doubt we'd even be here.” He glanced at me. “Stand up, Nickel.”

I gripped my envelope and stood up. Stood up to meet Brett McGrew. My nose came level with his belt buckle.

McNet held out his hand, and somehow I managed to shake it.

“Team captain,” he said. “Pretty big responsibility. You know, I was the captain of our seventh-grade team.”

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“We won the league championship that year, too, just like your team, so you and I have a lot in common.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. Smooth, Kirby. Very smooth.

Bragger kneed me in the butt. “Don't talk,” he muttered. “It's not your strong suit. Just show him the evidence.”

The evidence. Right.

I uncurled my fingers from the envelope. “I—I brought something.” I stuck my hand inside and fumbled around. “Something you'll probably, I mean, not probably, but you might, well, maybe, something you maybe might want to see.”

I slid my hand from the envelope and held up two photos: the old newspaper picture of Brett McGrew that I'd found in Coach's trash, and the picture Bragger had taken of me lying on my bedroom floor in the same position.

“Hey.” Brett McGrew took the newspaper photo from my hand. “I remember this.”

I stared at him. “You do?”

“Sure. Hard to forget a big pink heart on somebody's, uh, bottom. Especially when it lands on the front page of the paper.” He shook his head at Coach and laughed. “Remember this?”

Coach frowned, cut a sharp look at me, and took the picture from McNet.

Brett McGrew glanced down at the other photo, the one of me lying on the floor with my shorts hiked up. He took it from me. Studied it for a long moment.

He looked at Coach “You didn't tell me about this.”

“Tell you about what?” Coach took that photo, too.

“He couldn't,” I said. “He didn't know. I didn't think it'd be right to, you know, tell anybody else before I told you. So nobody knew. Except me.”

“And me.” Bragger squeezed in beside me and held out his hand. “I'm Kirby's cousin, Brandon Barnes. But you can call me Bragger. Welcome to the family.”

Brett McGrew shook Bragger's hand and frowned. He looked at Coach, obviously confused. “Family?”

Coach didn't say anything. He was still staring at the picture.

“Kirby, what are you doing to poor Brett?”

I looked up. Grandma. She'd squeezed her way past Mrs. Zimmer and the team and was now hovering behind me.

A smile spread over Brett McGrew's face. “Mrs. Nickel, right?” He reached out to shake Grandma's hand. “Melissa's mom. Wow. I didn't expect to see you here.”

“I imagine not,” said Grandma. She gripped McNet's hand in both of hers. “How've you been? How's your folks?”

“Great.” McNet nodded. “Warm weather agrees with them.”

Grandma patted his hand. “I'm glad to hear it. You give them my best next time you see them.”

“I sure will.”

Okay, this wasn't going the way I'd planned. Not the way I'd planned at all.

“Look,” I said. “I've got other stuff.” I dug in the envelope for the number 5 jersey, the one I'd found wrapped around my baby book. I held it up so McNet could see. “Your jersey. From high school. And that's not all.” I handed the jersey to Bragger, shoved my hand back into the envelope, and pulled out the medal. “Your league championship medal. Remember this?”

Brett McGrew frowned and peered down at the medal. He didn't say anything.