Athlete vs. Mathlete (6 page)

“Arthur the what?” Dad asked, chuckling. “He sounds like a medieval knight.”

“No, he's a geek,” Owen said.

I wondered if my brother knew how many times
I'd
been called a geek.

“He's fine,” I said, even though I doubted it was true. “He's smart and we need another team member.”

“Why didn't you ask me?” Owen asked.

What?
“Well, I didn't think you—”

“I'm
kidding
, Russ,” he said, and laughed.

“You are?”

“Duh. Like I'm gonna be a mathlete and you're gonna play basketball. Ha!”

I smiled back at him, relieved.

“Hey, don't count Russ out,” Dad said, winking at me in the mirror.

But counting me out was exactly what I wanted them to do.

When we got to the mall, I followed Owen and Dad past several perfectly good stores and into one called Go Time. It was packed with clothing, equipment, and employees dressed in team uniforms, grinning at us like old friends.

I'd shopped with Mom enough to know that salespeople were on commission, and the best deals were on the clearance rack. I started to head in that direction, but it turned out that Dad didn't care about saving money.

In fact, when a salesman approached him and said that he had the perfect pair of shoes for me, Dad was happy to follow him to an enormous Nike display.

“I don't need Nikes,” I said, but no one was listening.

Whenever I felt frustrated or nervous, I calmed down by working my way through the periodic table of elements.

Beryllium, boron, carbon, nitrogen
.

I glanced around the store, looking for some kind of a knockoff brand, but Go Time seemed to sell only the big names.

I watched Dad listening to the salesman, as if the shoes I wore for a single afternoon really mattered. And that's when I knew that the tryout situation was officially out of control.

All I wanted to do was go home and be the Russell Evans I'd been for my entire life.

The brain.

Oxygen, fluorine, neon, sodium
.

I didn't want all the extra complications.

Magnesium, aluminum, silicon
.

I didn't want a special outfit for
not
making the team. But as I took a deep breath, getting ready to tell Dad how I felt, I saw it in the salesman's hand.

It was dark blue, with an even darker sole. The pattern looked like a drafting blueprint, and the silver
swoosh
stitched on the side practically screamed “speed.”

He put the shoe in my hand so I could see if I liked it, but he was too late.

I was already in love.

And that was only the beginning.

The athletic socks Dad chose felt like pillows wrapped around my feet. And as soon as I tried them on with my new Nikes, I was ready to throw out every black and brown pair
in my sock drawer at home. Dad found two pairs of shorts for me, one blue and the other silver, which matched those amazing shoes perfectly.

It was funny; I'd never cared about my clothes matching before.

I'd never cared about the logo on a T-shirt or the fit of a track jacket either, until I stood in the dressing room at Go Time, looking at the complete stranger in the mirror.

Of course, it was still me, but a new and improved me. A cooler me.

In fact, I looked
so
cool, I actually started to feel excited about tryouts.

What if I made the team?

I could wear the new clothes all the time.

I looked at the Nikes.

What if I made the team?

If I was a Pioneer, Owen and I would have more in common than ever before. Maybe I'd start to enjoy the endless basketball talk at the dining room table. I might even become a Blazers fan.

What if I made the team?

I'd never even considered the positive side of trying out.

Could my brother and I play with each other? Could me and my twin manage to win?

I never dreamed I'd be rhyming about basketball, so I couldn't help smiling.

When Dad was satisfied that I had everything I needed, we piled my mountain of bags into the car to drive home. All the way there, I thought about how different my life would be if I became a Pioneer.

Of course, there was nothing wrong with my life. It was great.

But it could be even better.

When we got to the house, Mom looked annoyed when we unloaded all the bags from the trunk.

My excitement started to fade.

The noble gases: helium, neon, argon, krypton, xenon, and radon
.

“Did you have a good time?” she asked, her voice sounding a bit tight in her throat.

“Yes,” I said. “Thanks for the new gear, Mom.”

“You're welcome,” she said, looking at Dad with a raised eyebrow, then following us inside.

While I was climbing the stairs to put my things away, I overheard my parents talking.

“Well, I guess he needed some bits and pieces,” Mom said.

“Definitely, and we got him some great gear, Susan. You should have seen how excited he was when he saw those shoes.”

“Good,” she said, but her tone didn't sound like she meant it. “It's just … a lot of stuff. A lot of … expense.”

“I know, but I felt like I needed to do it for Russ.”

“For
Russ
, huh?” she asked, doubtfully.

I knew what she meant. I'd seen how much fun Dad had shopping at Go Time.

“Look,” Dad said, “he's never shown the slightest bit of interest in sports.”

“That's my point,” Mom said.

“I'm not forcing him into anything.”

“I didn't say you were.” She sighed. “I just don't want this to be a repeat of the football disaster or that mess with baseball, you know?”

I cringed at the memory.

“I know, but with this opportunity falling into his lap, I can't help wanting him to try. Sports are an important part of being a kid. He needs to
be
a kid.”

What?

“What do you mean by that?” Mom asked.

“Honey, just … look at him next to Owen.”

“Owen's different.”

Cesium, francium …

“No, Susan.
Russell
is the one who's different.”

I didn't want to hear another word, so I quickly ran into my bedroom to change my clothes. In less than a minute, I sneaked past the kitchen and out the front door.

The excitement I'd felt about my new gear and being part of the team had vanished.

How disappointed would Dad be when I had to tell him I'd failed at tryouts? Wasn't there some other way I could show him I was “normal”?

I looked down at my Nikes.

Would I have to leave all the new clothes in my closet if I didn't make the Pioneers?

I knew the answer to that already.

Medical students who failed their final exam didn't hang stethoscopes around their necks. People kicked out of the space program didn't wear jet packs when they went grocery shopping.

I tried to think positive thoughts, but there was so much clogging my brain, I couldn't come up with any.

Owen had always said that exercise cleared his head, and I hoped it could do the same thing for me. So, for the first time in my life, I was looking forward to running.

That is, until we actually
started
running.

Of course, my brain knew that I was too young for a heart attack, but my legs didn't. Neither did my aching lungs. Or my throbbing feet. Even my hair hurt.

And that was only the first block.

But as we ran, Owen encouraged me. He told me how to breathe properly and to hold my arms steady, instead of letting them wave around like the wind socks at Grandma's. He stayed with me for every step, matching my pace and trying to help me reach our destination in one piece.

It helped, but not enough.

Then, when I was sure I was seconds away from collapsing, I glanced down at those new Nikes. Even though I felt the worst I ever had, I felt a smile creep onto my face.

I was still panting and cramping up, but I'd found something positive.

When I looked down at those Nikes, I forgot about what Dad had said.

I felt like a real athlete.

I don't know what it was about that shiny blue and silver fabric, but I knew those shoes were as magical as Superman's cape or Spider-Man's skintight suit.

They made me feel like I could do anything.

Maybe even play basketball.

Bounce Pass

When I saw how upset Russ looked when Mom and Dad were talking about him, I kind of stopped caring that he got all that cool new gear or that Dad wanted to turn him into a Blazers fan.

Actually, that's not true. I didn't stop
caring
about the gear, because it was so awesome I wanted it all for myself. But Russ needed my help
more
than I needed another pair of sneakers.

After all, a pair of shoes wasn't going to make him normal by Wednesday, no matter how cool they were. Without my help, he was going to be a total disaster at tryouts. And even though it stunk like old cheese that I'd have to use up my Sunday helping him, I knew he'd always helped me out when I'd needed it.

I thought about all the times he'd explained math assignments that made no sense. Then there was my fifth-grade science project, when I mixed up my bug types and labeled them all wrong on my poster. Russ had stayed up late, helping me fix it, even though he had an English essay due the next day.

Russ always looked out for me, and it was my turn to look out for him (even if it was mostly so he wouldn't embarrass me).

I did my best to be positive and cheer him on while we ran, and with my help he actually made it to Sunset Park.

Barely, but he made it.

I reached over to untuck his T-shirt.

Nobody tucks T-shirts into basketball shorts.

“Okay, now let's get you playing as good as you look,” I said.

Russell sighed. “I doubt that's going to happen.”

“Hey,” I said, punching his shoulder. “You don't look
that
good.”

Russ laughed. “Very funny.”

“Let's do this,” Dad said after he'd caught his breath.

All three of us were hot, sweaty, and super tired.

But that was basketball.

“The court's bigger than I thought,” Russ said, looking from one basket to the other.

“It's the same as the gym at school,” I told him. “After you run back and forth a hundred times, you won't even notice it.”

“Right,” he said. “I can barely run a block, Owen.”

“Well, you just ran a bunch of them.” Kind of. By the end it was more limping than jogging.

He didn't say anything, but slowly nodded as he walked onto the court.

“Okay, Russ,” Dad said. “Let's start nice and slow. I want you to just dribble toward me.”

I tossed my brother the ball.

He missed it, and it rolled down the grass hill.

“I'll get it,” I said.

When I came back with the ball, he whispered, “Sorry. And thanks.”

“Okay, let's try again. Toward me,” Dad said, from under the hoop.

Dribbling the ball twenty feet seemed like the easiest thing ever, but not for Russ. He bounced the ball a couple of times, then held it while he took two steps, then stopped and bounced it again.

A group of teenagers hanging out on the picnic benches watched, and one of them said, “Uh … traveling?”

“And double dribbling,” another guy chipped in.

I felt my face get hot.

Come on, Russ
.

“Dribble a little faster,” Dad said. “And try to do it while you're walking. Aim for a bounce or two with each step.”

“And bounce it harder, too,” I told him. “So you don't have to bend so much.”

I heard more laughing from the picnic tables when Russ tried again.

“Okay, the ball isn't going to hurt you, Russ,” Dad explained, rubbing his forehead.

My brother gritted his teeth and bounced it hard. It hit one of his new shoes and flew off down the hill again.

Great
.

When I went after it, I thought about how weird it was that Dad and I thought basketball was fun and Russ thought it was torture.

Even when we were little, he didn't like normal stuff. When I went nuts over my first regulation-size basketball one Christmas, Russ messed around with the ball pump all day, taking it apart and putting it back together again, like a puzzle.

While I played with a robot from Grandpa, Russ stared at the weird little drawings that came with it. “Schematics,” he called them. I'm pretty sure he made that word up.

“Just relax,” I heard Dad tell Russ as I climbed back up the hill. “Remember, it's only a game.”

But it wasn't only a game for Russell anymore. And how was he supposed to relax after Dad said he wasn't normal?
He had to be ready on Wednesday, or I'd never hear the end of it from the guys.