Basketball Disasters (12 page)

Master Joseph called on the next student. “Emma Averill, what is seven times forty-three?”

“Three hundred and one,” Emma answered correctly, but the sound of her answer was drowned out by Brody’s friend Sheng, calling out, “Master Joseph, Dunk took off his dunce’s cap.”

The whole class turned toward Dunk. Dunk had not only taken off the dunce cap, he had thrown it onto the floor.

“Master Duncan,” Master Joseph said, his voice gentle now, “you may go back to your seat.”

“Make someone else wear the dunce cap!” Dunk burst out as he jumped down from the tall stool. He looked around the room wildly, but everyone else was sitting properly in place, backs erect, slates at the ready.

Dunk’s glance fell on Mason.

“Make
him
wear the dunce cap. Mason Dixon. He got me and Wolf in trouble with that cross-stitch lady, and we got a ticket, and it was for fifty dollars, and I told my mother but now my father found out, and he might make me quit basketball, and the last game of the season is this Saturday, and it’s against
his
team, and I think he did it just to get even for the first game, but it wasn’t my fault that he stinks!”

“Team,” Coach Joe said, using his Coach Joe voice and not his Master Joseph voice. “I think maybe we’re finding out why modern-day schools don’t use a dunce cap anymore. It doesn’t make the person wearing it feel very good, does it, even when it’s done in fun, as it was supposed to be today. So I, Master Joseph”—Coach Joe used his colonial teacher voice again—“hereby decree: no more dunce caps in Master Joseph’s school.”

Dunk stood sulking, looking almost as upset as when he had smashed his finger with the hammer on punched-tin-lantern day or stuck his finger with the needle on cross-stitch-sampler day.

“Master Duncan,” Master Joseph said, “will you do us the honor of taking our dunce cap and ripping it up for us?”

This was plainly an invitation Dunk couldn’t resist.

Still glaring at Mason, Dunk grabbed the paper cap off the floor where he had hurled it and began tearing it into pieces, until the floor was littered with torn scraps of dunce cap.

Mason knew that this was what Dunk wanted the Killer Whales to do to the Fighting Bulldogs on Saturday. And Saturday was just two days away.

* * *

When it was time for recess, Coach Joe asked Mason and Dunk to wait for a minute.

Uh-oh
.

“Boys,” Coach Joe said when the two of them were standing in front of his desk. “I thought we agreed that what happens on the basketball court stays on the basketball court.”

Mason felt his own face reflecting Dunk’s scowl.
Dunk
was the one who kept on gloating about his team; he, Mason, hadn’t said anything more against the Killer Whales, though he had to admit that he
thought
things all the time.

“Boys. Don’t you think I care about sports? Don’t you think I love just about every game that there is?”

Mason was willing to concede that a teacher who called himself Coach Joe was fond of sports.

“But—I want you to repeat this after me—sports are not everything,” Coach Joe said.

“Sports are not everything,” Mason and Dunk muttered.

“Basketball is just a game,” Coach Joe said.

“Basketball is just a game,” Mason and Dunk repeated.

“Play your best. Play to win. Then shake hands and be friends again.”

But we aren’t friends
, Mason wanted to say.
We’ll never be friends
.

“Okay, now let’s see you shake hands,” Coach Joe instructed.

With Coach Joe watching so closely, Mason couldn’t do his usual handshake-without-touching-hands trick. He shook Dunk’s hand.

But then, on his way to recess, he stopped in the boys’ room and washed his hand where Dunk had touched it.

“Are you sure you don’t want scrambled eggs this morning?” Mason’s mother asked as Mason and his dad came to the breakfast table Saturday morning. “Some protein? Before the big game?”

Mason rolled his eyes at his dad as he poured his plain Cheerios into his plain white bowl.

The coaching book was back on the breakfast table again—not open to be read, but apparently just there as a good-luck charm.

Mason could use all the luck he could get. At least his ankle was healed enough that he could play; he had had to miss practice again on Tuesday night.

Mason’s family arrived at the Y so early that the previous game was only at halftime: Ponytail’s team playing against the team that the Bulldogs, without
Mason, had beaten last weekend. Mason hoped Ponytail’s team would lose, but he couldn’t spend time thinking about it. His mind was full of other things.

Would Dunk be there? It wouldn’t be the same beating the Killer Whales if Dunk’s dad made good on his threat to make Dunk quit the team. This last game had to be a showdown between the two of them.

Last night Mason’s mother had read him the scene of Peter Pan’s final showdown with Captain Hook, where Peter swore his terrible oath, “Hook or me this time,” and sent Captain Hook to his death at the jaws of the waiting crocodile.

Then Mason saw a familiar, swaggering, blue-shirted form across the gym. His heart swelled with mingled dread and relief.

Dunk or me this time
.

The other game ended: Ponytail’s team lost 20–18.

A good omen?

In the few minutes between the two games, Jonah, wearing his referee’s shirt, came up to Mason and his dad.

“Ankle okay?” Jonah asked.

Mason was too surprised to answer. He hadn’t thought of Jonah as a person who might ask him a
friendly question, but as a corrupt gum chewer paid off by the other team.

“Much better,” Mason’s dad answered for him. “Thanks for asking.”

Jonah gave Mason a friendly smile.

Mason found himself smiling back.

The game began. Mason didn’t start; he saw that Dunk didn’t start either. Mason had decided that he liked going in later, anyway, when the stakes were higher and every basket counted more.

Brody was in, out-hustling all his past hustle, which was saying a lot. He was a little yellow whirlwind—grabbing the ball right out of a befuddled Whale’s grip, taking it down the court, passing it to Kevin, who passed it to Amy, who passed it back to Brody, who shot a perfect layup and scored.

Maybe it
was
good in basketball to be short.

Mason went in for the second quarter, with Nora and Dylan. Sometime between the previous game and this one, Dylan seemed to have gotten a clue. He waved his hands in a Whale’s face as if he finally understood that the point of guarding was to keep the other kid from scoring, as opposed to making random motions in the air. Dylan even caught the ball once,
from a well-timed pass by Nora, and passed it on to Mason—the first successful pass of Dylan’s life.

Was Mason within scoring range? He took a chance and sent the ball flying toward the backboard; it fell through the hoop with a sweet, satisfying swish of success, his first basket in a real game.

His ankle still hurt some when he landed on it. He didn’t care.

At the half, the score was tied 13–13.

Sweat trickled down Mason’s forehead as he listened to Coach Dad’s halftime speech in the huddle.

“We have two quarters left,” his dad said. “Twelve minutes left of our first season playing together as a team. I want us to win. But more than that, I want us to play like winners. And that means playing with respect for one another and for the other team. Playing with sportsmanship. That’s what I care about more than anything. And, team, that’s how you have been playing. And I’m proud of all of you.”

Mason felt his dad’s eyes fall on him.

And he knew his dad was proud of him, Mason.

When Mason went in for the final quarter, with Nora, Brody, Amy, and Jeremy, the score was 17–15,
with the Bulldogs in the lead—too close for comfort. Dunk was back in as well.

Dunk or me this time
.

Dunk had the ball and was dribbling fiercely down the court. Brody leaped in front of Dunk. Brody went down.

Fwee!
Jonah blew his whistle.

Mason knew the foul was Brody’s, and that Dunk had been going so fast he really had no choice but to mow Brody down. But Brody was the one on the floor, whimpering with pain, clutching not his ankle but his left arm, which had taken the brunt of the impact from his fall.

Once again, Mason’s dad was there, feeling Brody’s arm for a possible fracture. Fleetingly, Mason wondered how his dad had learned how to do this with so much calm authority. Did the coaching book have a chapter on first aid?

“I think it’s okay,” Coach Dad said, “but you need to catch your breath, Brody. That was a hard fall you took just now.”

Dylan went in for Brody.

Great
.

Jonah called a blocking foul against Brody, even
though Mason thought that trading Brody for Dylan was already punishment enough for the Bulldogs.

“He should have called a charging foul against Dunk!” Jeremy complained to Mason. “Dunk knocked Brody down!”

Mason didn’t want to point out that Brody had actually been the one in the wrong, blocking Dunk’s way.

“Is that ref blind?” Jeremy went on. “Or was he bribed?”

Oh, get over it
, Mason thought.

Did
he
use to sound that way?

Dunk was given a free throw. The players on both teams lined up on each side of the key as Dunk took his place.

Looking nervous, Dunk bounced the ball twice.

“Dunk the Dunce!” Jeremy whispered as Dunk readied himself to shoot, loud enough for Dunk to hear, but not loud enough for Jonah-the-ref to hear.

Dunk reddened.

Apparently pleased with this insult, Jeremy used it again: “Dunk the Dunce!”

“Stop it,” Mason hissed to Jeremy, loudly.

After all, if what happened on the basketball court
should stay on the basketball court, what happened at school should stay at school.

Jeremy stared at Mason, but fell silent.

Dunk gave Mason a look he couldn’t quite read—was it gratitude? Then Dunk shot and scored.

17–16.

Nora scored next: 19–16, Fighting Bulldogs.

The Killer Whales scored: 19–18, Fighting Bulldogs. Again just one point ahead.

Twenty seconds.

The Bulldogs had the ball now. Amy was dribbling down the court when Dylan fell, for no reason that Mason could see. Maybe now someone else could go in for Dylan?

Coach Dad called a time-out. Apparently Dylan had just tripped on his shoelaces and was fine.

Oh, well
.

“Twenty seconds,” Coach Dad reminded the team as they headed back onto the court, as if they needed a reminder.

Mason never would have guessed that a mere twenty seconds could count so much.

From the sidelines, he tossed the ball in to Nora, who pelted down the court with it in her usual expert,
completely controlled way, eyes unwaveringly on the basket.

“Nora!” Mason yelled, but she didn’t stop.

She shot. She scored.

Or would have scored.

Except that Nora had somehow—how could this be?—gone down the court in the wrong direction and shot into the wrong basket.

Nora Alpers, who never made a mistake, had just made the most terrible mistake possible, at the most terrible time possible.

20–19, Whales.

Mason jogged over to Nora as she stood frozen beneath the basket, obviously now realizing what she had done, stunned with shame, paralyzed with disbelief.

He had to say something, but what?

“If we lose, it’s my fault,” she whispered.

“Before you joined the team, we were losing forty-three to eight!”

She still stood there, even though Jonah-the-ref was obviously waiting for play to resume.

“Nora,” Mason said. “It’s only a game.”

Then Nora gave a shaky grin.

The ball still belonged to the Bulldogs. Nora threw it in to Mason. Even though the clock was ticking down to a Bulldogs defeat, Mason dribbled as calmly as he could, trying to assess his options, none of which were good. This was one chance he couldn’t afford to blow.

Amy, Nora, and Jeremy were heavily guarded, though Jeremy kept signaling to Mason to pass to him. Jeremy was probably Mason’s best bet.

No one was guarding Dylan. The Killer Whales still apparently thought of Dylan as a non-player who could be safely ignored.

“Mason!” Nora called to him. “Dylan’s open!”

Was Dylan open worse than another player not open?

Twelve seconds.

Was Nora wrong better than anybody else right?

Nora had just been stupendously wrong about something.

But the answer to the question, in Mason’s mind, was still yes.

Mason passed to Dylan.

Dylan caught the ball.

Dylan dribbled toward the hoop.

Dylan stopped and looked around with utter panic and desperation.

Was Dylan going to start dribbling again and be called on a double dribble?

“Shoot, Dylan!” Nora called to him.

Dylan shot.

The ball teetered on the rim.

The ball went in.

Fwee!
Jonah blew his whistle, ending the game. The game that the Fighting Bulldogs had just won, 21–20, against the Killer Whales.