Athlete vs. Mathlete (16 page)

“Well, so are you,” I yelled after him, but he was already back inside the house. “The Russell Hustle,” I muttered. “It's not my fault nothing rhymes with Owen.”

“I know something that does,” Dad said, from behind me.

When I turned around and saw his face, I knew he'd heard everything.

“What?” I asked.

“Mowin'. And that's what you're going to be doing for the next eight Saturdays.”

“Are you kidding me?” I choked. “We're supposed to share chores.”

“You're supposed to share a lot of things,” he said quietly. “Including the spotlight from time to time.”

“But—”

“I figure eight Saturdays is about how long it'll take to earn enough money to replace those shoes.”

“Come on, Dad, I—”

“Acted like the most selfish kid on the court, then destroyed your brother's property?”

“Well, he's destroying my life.”

Dad snorted, like that was the dumbest thing he'd ever heard. “By playing a game? Give me a break.” He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. “I'm going to tell you something about basketball, and I want you to listen very closely.”

I groaned.

“You know I was the star player on my high school team, and even got a college scholarship.”

“I know, Dad.” I'd heard it all before.

“But when I got to college, every guy on the team had been the best in his high school. And some were even the best in their
state
. I played, but not all the time, and I never started.”

I'd never heard
that
before. “You didn't?” I asked.

“Nope. And when I graduated, only two of the guys from my college team got drafted into the NBA.”

“Who?” I asked. If Dad played ball with a legend like
Charles Barkley or Shaq and never told me, my head was going to explode.

“John Foster and Gary Washington.”

“Who?”

“You want to know why you've never heard of them?” he asked, but didn't give me a chance to answer. “John was injured before his first season even started and never played a game.”

“Whoa.” How much would
that
stink?

“And Gary simply wasn't as good as the other guys on the team. You know how many minutes he played during his two years in the NBA?”

“No.”

“Twenty-six.”

“Minutes?”
I winced. Out of eighty-eight games a year? For two years that would be … something Russ could probably figure out. A lot, anyway. “Ouch.”

“He ended up moving back to Oregon after that. He took over his dad's insurance business and he still runs it with his sister.” He was quiet. “You know, some things aren't all they're cracked up to be. You can be at the top of your game and still not make it. And I'm not just talking about basketball.”

“You aren't?”

“No. You need to remember that whether you become an NBA player, a doctor, teacher, plumber, or whatever, the only thing that will be the same no matter what is that your
family will be there for you. Your brother Russell will always be there when you need him.”

I knew he was right. Russ might have outplayed me on the court, but off the court, he'd never let me down.

“Russell will always have your back.” Dad paused to give me a long, hard look. “So why don't you have his?”

I didn't go shoot hoops.

I started to, but when I got to the park, I sat on an empty bench instead, with the ball in my lap. How had everything gotten so messed up, so fast? I'd been excited about basketball season all summer long, and only two games in, it was totally wrecked.

Russ thought I was a jerk.

Dad thought I was a rotten brother.

Coach thought I belonged on the bench.

My whole team thought I was a ball hog.

And the worst part? They were all right.

I watched some kids throwing a Frisbee around and tried to figure out how to make everything go back to normal. Back to how things were when everyone liked me.

And then it hit me.

Of course, I knew
one
thing I could fix.

I checked Russ's watch and figured I had time before
dinner, so I started running. I turned onto Sycamore and ran even faster until I got to Lewis and Clark Middle School.

When I made it to the Dumpster, I took a deep breath, then pulled myself up to the rim.

As soon as I looked inside, I wanted to puke.

I'd totally forgotten it was spaghetti day.

All I could see were wet noodles and tomato sauce piled on top of all the other garbage. What if the shoes were covered in old, gross food?

Dad had already said he was going to get Russ new ones, anyway.

I stared at the mess and sighed.

The new shoes weren't the point. I had to get the old ones back, to show Russ I knew I'd made a mistake and that I wasn't really a jerk.

At least not all the time.

I imagined the Nikes when we'd first seen them at the store. The coolest shoes ever. And the look on Russ's face when Dad bought them? Super happy.

Just do it
.

I climbed into the Dumpster. The smell was totally sick, and the pile was wet and slippery. I was careful, but as soon as the sole of my shoe touched down, everything went wrong.

“Urgh!”
I grunted, as I slipped and fell, banging my elbow hard on the side of the Dumpster before landing in a puddle of sauce. It smelled even worse than it looked.

I jumped to my feet as fast as I could, groaning when I saw the goo all over my shorts. I braced myself against the wall and lifted one shoe to check the damage. Wet noodles were tangled in my laces, and sauce was smeared all over the leather.

Great.

There was nothing I could do about it, so I started moving toward the corner where I'd thrown the shoes. With every step, I wondered if there were rats beneath me. And what kind of rotting cafeteria food made up the next layer down?

Didn't we have mac and cheese this week?

I got my answer when I took the next squishy step.

Yes, we did.

Ugh.

I pushed papers and lunch bags out of the way, and that's when I saw something shiny.

Plastic wrap. And underneath it? A miracle in the shape of a silver swoosh.

I grabbed the first shoe, and the second was right beneath it.

No way!

I held both of them up for inspection.

There was a bit of junk on the soles and a few little blobs of tomato sauce on the sides, but otherwise they were perfect.

What were the chances of a bunch of plastic being thrown into the Dumpster right before the spaghetti? I felt like the luckiest kid on the planet, which was pretty amazing, considering I was covered in cold wet noodles and standing in a giant stinking garbage can.

But I didn't care. When Russ saw the shoes, he'd forgive me.

I wiped off the face of his watch.

Five minutes until dinner!

I climbed out of the Dumpster and sprinted all the way home, hugging the dirty shoes against my chest. Every time my feet hit the pavement, they sprayed spaghetti sauce. Russ's shoes might have been in good condition, but mine were toast.

I was pretty sure that served me right.

When I got back to the house, I had a cramp in my side and I was totally out of breath. I walked into the kitchen, where Mom, Dad, and Russ were sitting at the table.

“You made it,” Mom said, without looking up.

“Whoa! What happened to you?” Dad choked.

“Nothing. I mean, I went to get Russ's shoes and—”

Mom glanced up from her food and froze. “What on earth?”

“I got them!” I held up the shoes for everyone to see. “There's barely anything on them, so they're practically good as new. See, Russ?”

I walked toward him, but Mom jumped up from her seat. “Hold on, Owen. I don't want you tracking that all over the house. You're absolutely covered.” She stared at me. “What happened?”

“I fell in a Dumpster. I mean, I was already in it when I fell down.”

“He threw the shoes in there,” Russ said quietly.

Mom looked from Russ to me, trying to figure out if he was kidding. “But why would Owen—”

“I got them back,” I interrupted, focusing on my brother. “They're just like new, Russ. I'll clean them up and they'll be perfect.” I held them up so he could check them out. “See?”

“I see,” he said. He pushed back his chair to get up from the table.

“Where are you going?” Mom asked.

“To my room,” he said.

“Still not feeling good?” she asked.

“No,” he said, and left the kitchen.

“I have no idea what's going on here,” Mom said, “but I don't like it.”

I didn't like it either. Russ was supposed to forgive me.

“You know you still have to mow the lawn, right?” Dad asked me.

I nodded. “I know.”

“And we're still going to get Russ another pair.”

“Yes, and I want to, Dad. I just thought if he saw I was trying, he might—”

Dad nodded. “It may take some more time and effort.” He rested a hand on the clean part of my sleeve. “But that was a good start.”

“It was?” I asked, relieved.

“It was, and I'm proud of you, Owen.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Now please go hose yourself off.”

Russell skipped the next basketball practice and when everyone asked about him, I said he was sick. He wasn't, though. He was hanging out with the Masters of the Mind team instead.

“Great, so we're stuck with the ball hog,” Paul groaned.

“Look, I know I hogged the ball and—”

“Made some lame shots?” Nate asked.

“Some good ones, too,” I told him. “But yeah, I made some lame ones.”

“Why didn't you pass?” Paul asked.

“I don't know,” I told him. “I mean, I was just trying to show off and it backfired.”

“Yup,” Nate said.

“Come on,” Chris said. “He's trying to say he's sorry.”

“Then say it,” Paul said, glaring at me.

I looked from one guy to the next, staring each of them right in the eye so they'd know I meant it. “I'm really sorry, guys. It won't happen again.”

“That's what I like to hear,” Coach Baxter said, clapping his hands. “In basketball, you lose enough guys to injuries. I'd hate to lose one to ego.”

“You won't,” I told him. “I'm sorry, Coach.”

“Hey, you're passionate about the game,” he said, patting me on the back. “And that's a good thing. You just can't let the passion rule everything else.”

Russ didn't go to the next practice either, and every time I tried to talk to him about basketball, he walked away.

When I invited him to watch a game on TV, he shook his head and went upstairs. When I asked him to pass the potatoes at the dinner table, he handed them over without even looking at me. I even tried asking him questions about science, just to get him talking, but even that didn't work.