Basketball (or Something Like It) (11 page)

(Jeremy
is
playing, of course, because Mr. Bischoff gets the flu and the other dad who takes over isn’t crazy enough to bench the best player for the most important game of the season.)

“We can’t play with four players.” That’s Michael talking. “We’ll get killed.”

The other boys all nod their hanging heads.

“We have to. We don’t have a choice,” the coach tells them.

The referee is getting impatient.

“Wait,” Jeremy Binder says suddenly. “I have an idea.”

The coach looks like he is listening. The other team is already on the court.

“What about Anabel?” Jeremy says.

“Anabel?” Michael says. “You mean my
sister?”

“Who?” the coach asks.

“Trust me,” Jeremy says. He looks over to
Michael, who realizes this might not be such a bad idea.

“But she’s not on the roster,” the coach says. “We’ll get a technical if we put out a player who’s not on the list.”

They look around at one another. Then suddenly Jeremy … No, it’s Michael. Suddenly Michael says, “She can take my place. Nobody will know. It only says Morrisey on the roster. Nobody will know.”

At this point Anabel stopped brushing her teeth and looked right into the mirror.

“You idiot, that makes four players again,” she said out loud.

“I
washed your uniform for tomorrow’s game.”

When Hank didn’t respond to that, his mother said, “It’s on your bed.”

Hank was sitting in his room at his desk. His mother was outside his door, wishing she were inside. Wishing, Hank was sure, that he would invite her in and talk about tomorrow’s game.

“Do you see it?” Her voice came through pretty loud, like she had her mouth right up to the door frame.

Hank took a deep breath. He was staring at his computer screen.

“Yeah,” he answered. Hank had his away-message on the screen—
TOO MUCH HOMEWORK
—but a lot of his friends were still trying to IM him. He recognized Nathan’s screen name, Natman002.

But he didn’t respond. He waited until he heard his mother’s footsteps move away from his door and then he signed off at 9:32
P.M.
It was the night before the game. The big game. He was a starter.

Hank shut down his computer and got ready for bed, and then he just lay there.

Hank had read somewhere that it is supposed to take at least fifteen minutes to fall asleep and if you fall asleep faster than that, it means you are too tired and you aren’t getting enough sleep. An hour and a half had gone by already. Hank would almost fall asleep, but then he started thinking all over again. He was exhausted but wide awake. So much for that theory.

Hank didn’t want Jeremy to leave, but he could understand. At least, he thought he could understand. He could understand feeling like you just have to run. Get out. Get away. In a way, Jeremy was lucky. At least he had somewhere to go.

Didn’t he?

When Hank was little he used to watch the
ballgames with his dad—baseball, football, basketball. Even hockey. Sometimes tennis. Golf.

There would always come a play, a second, a moment when the game was on the line. When everything could go one way or it could go another, and it always came down to one guy.

And if he made it, if that one guy came through and made the play, got the rebound, blocked the shot, scored the goal, threw the pass, whatever it was, if he
did
it, everyone would be cheering and shouting. Everyone would love him. They’d win. They’d score. They’d make the play-offs or the World Series or the Superbowl.

But if that one guy
didn’t,
Hank’s father, sitting in his living room watching the ballgame with his son, would always say the same thing.

“He coulda been a hero.”

T
he seating arrangement had changed, Anabel noticed. She noticed it right away. It was almost like the new starting five parents had moved to sit together, right in front. The parents of kids who played very little, but whose parents thought they should play more, stayed together and a few rows
back. And again, those whose parents were furious sat way in the back, very close together so they could commiserate. Only Camden Tomasello’s mom and dad, who were always happy no matter what, didn’t seem to notice the hierarchy of seat placement and just sat anywhere.

Matt’s dad was sitting pretty high up and off to the side, but Anabel was a few steps higher and could see the stopwatch hidden in his hand. Wyatt’s dad was sitting right next to Matt’s dad, preparing to time the amount of minutes their kids got to play compared to … oh … let’s say … Tyler Bischoff. Anabel was only surprised other fathers hadn’t thought of that before. Clicking away the seconds, documenting the ultimate injustice.

Perfect.

And as always, Jeremy’s grandmother made her way up the bleachers to sit next to Anabel.

“Well, I had a hard time finding this place. I turned left at the stop sign instead of right,” she said. She let out a huff of air as she sat.

Anabel felt guilty immediately. His grandmother would want to know, Anabel thought. She would want to know how Jeremy felt. What he was thinking. What he was planning. All parents, probably grandparents, too, always wanted to know what their kids were thinking. Even when they didn’t care, when they
weren’t going to do anything to change anything or fix anything, they still wanted to know.

But even if she hadn’t made that promise (but she had), there was a very strong wall between the world of grown-ups and the world of kids. Nancy Binder was definitely a grown-up.

“He seemed so distant this morning,” Jeremy’s grandmother went on, almost to herself. “Not that he’s been exactly open to me. Not since he’s gotten here. Not since ever, really … but I’m not going to give up. That’s what they say, isn’t it? Keep trying because that way they know you care. Isn’t that what they say?”

There was such sadness in those words. Anabel didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Instead, she looked down at the court. The boys were warming up, looping around in semicircles, dribbling and shooting and passing the ball around like a ritual dance.

“S
o did you tell your dad?” Hank asked Nathan.

Jeremy sat next to him waiting for the answer. Nathan nodded his head and then he said, “Well, not exactly.”

Hank and Jeremy waited for the rest.

“I tried. I mean, I wanted to. But well, then I couldn’t.”

The game was going to start any minute. They were all on the bench together, down at the far end, in a row. One two three.

“You think he’ll notice?” Nathan asked. “That I’m not playing.”

Jeremy looked up into the bleachers where Nathan’s parents and baby sister were sitting.

“Well, he has a camera,” Jeremy said.

“A what? He really brought that camera?” Nathan slid his feet out and slouched down as much as he could.

Hank turned to look. “Yeah, he did.”

“With the telephoto lens?” Nathan asked.

“Looks like it,” Jeremy said.

“Oh, God.”

“Hey, look on the bright side,” Jeremy said to Nathan.

“What’s that?”

“You can keep me company on the bench.” Jeremy laughed.

“That’s not funny,” Hank said. “It sucks. It’s not fair.”

“So are you really going to leave?” Nathan asked Jeremy in a whisper.

Jeremy jingled something metal inside his pocket as an answer. “The extra car keys,” he said.

Hank and Nathan were quiet.

All three of them stared straight ahead at the empty court. There was something wrong with the clock. The two refs and the two coaches were trying to get it sorted out. Random numbers kept flashing on the board, different scores and different times. Every couple of seconds the time-out buzzer would sound, and everyone would cover their ears.

“It’s not right,” Hank said to Jeremy. “You should be playing. It’s not fair.”

“Everything’s like that,” Jeremy said. “Why should this be any different?”

“Because it should be,” Nathan answered.

“Yeah, it should be,” Hank said. “Something’s got to be fair, doesn’t it? Shouldn’t it?”

Jeremy shrugged. “Well, it isn’t. Nothing is.”

Three pairs of bony knees stuck out from blue shorts, banging together nervously, as the assistant coach of the other team walked by, lugging a mesh bag full of basketballs over his shoulder.

“They look big,” Hank said.

The three boys turned to the Hollis bench. They were big. Not only did they have matching uniforms with their last names on the back, they had warm-ups and water bottles with their school insignia. Their matching gym bags were lined up against the wall. The Hollis players were sitting on their bench, waiting. And they
were
big.

“I think we need to do some birth certificate checks,” Jeremy said. “I think that kid, number fifteen, is growing a beard.”

“Number forty-five has been in sixth grade for three years,” Hank said.

“I think that kid has been buying growth hormones off the Internet,” Nathan added.

Suddenly the buzzer blasted. Everyone startled.

“We almost have it fixed, folks. Thanks for your patience,” Mr. Bischoff called out to the crowd. He stood in the center of the floor.

“If I were a good friend, I’d do something,” Hank said, watching him.

“About what?” Jeremy asked.

“I don’t know. I’d say something. It’s not fair. It just sucks. Mr. Bischoff just wants Tyler to play. He wants Tyler to be the best. And he’s not. Not even close.”

Jeremy answered Hank, “Forget it. It has nothing to do with you. With being a friend or not.”

The buzzer screamed out again, and this time it didn’t stop. Five seconds later it cleared and was silent. All the lights on the board went out and on again, and then off. It was fixed.

The referees walked out onto the court and got ready. Mr. Bischoff called the team into a huddle. The boys stood up. Michael, Julian, Matt, Harrison, Camden, and Sam. Joey, Scott, and Tyler. Hank and Jeremy and Nathan. Mr. Bischoff read off the names of the starting five. No surprise.

“You’re wrong,” Hank said before he went out.

“Wrong about what?” Nathan asked.

“Not you,” Hank said.

The other team was standing, ready for the jump. The referee had the ball held up in the air and a whistle dangling from his lips.

“It
is
about being a friend,” Hank said, more to himself than anyone in particular, as he walked out onto the court.

T
yler Bischoff’s dad, who had been an only semisane, type A personality, a get-up-wipe-the-blood-off-your-face-and-play kind of coach in practice, suddenly changed when the game started.

He got worse.

Mr. Bischoff scared some of the players. North Bridge was already losing by five points in the first five minutes. Mr. Bischoff’s face had grown a deeper shade of red for every point. He called a time-out. A full-minute time-out.

“Hank, what the hell are you doing out there? That number twelve is getting by you every time. I’ve never seen you play worse! What the hell are you doing?”

The boys were standing in a circle around Mr. Bischoff. Even the boys sitting on the bench were expected to get up and huddle around. Mr. Bischoff was in the center, kneeling down with his clipboard on his bent leg.

“You guys are playing like shit.” His voice was held inside the thick circle of sweaty bodies. “They are beating us on the boards. Can you get one goddamn rebound, Matt. And Hank, what the hell are you doing out there! If twelve gets by you one more time, you’re out. Do you hear me? I’ll pull you right out of there!”

Hank didn’t respond because that was exactly what he hoped would happen.

It was his promise.

H
ank was stinking up the place big-time. He had lost the ball five times already. He had let that little guard on the other team get right by him. The kid was faking left. Every time. Hank must see that. Bischoff had just chewed him out real bad. He was furious with Hank and would pull him, Jeremy was sure.

“One two three North Bridge!”

Everyone repeated the shout. “North Bridge. Let’s win!”

Jeremy tried to tell Hank. Get his attention.
Go right. He’s faking. He can’t even dribble with his left hand.
But Hank turned his head away quickly and ran out onto the court. And that’s when Jeremy figured it out.

Hank was doing it on purpose.

Jeremy forced himself to turn and look into the bleachers. Normally he never did that. He never wanted to see all the other parents. Hank’s dad was there. He had a pained look on his face. Hank was doing a really good job of looking good at playing bad. It must have been killing his father.

Hollis was bringing the ball down fast. Hank was waiting just at the half-court line. He was leaning down, knees bent. He looked ready. He had his eyes on the ball as it got closer and closer.

The kid did it again. He faked left with that same stupid expression on his face. He
wasn’t
going to go left. He
couldn’t.
It was the most obvious thing in the world, and Hank went for it just as Jeremy predicted. But it took Jeremy another second or two to figure out why. Why would Hank deliberately get pulled from the game?

Suddenly it was so obvious. Hank was playing like shit so that the coach would pull him. And with Wyatt
out sick, there’d only be one guard left.

Jeremy.

He was doing it so Jeremy could play. Bischoff screamed. He called for another timeout.

Hank was finished.

“B
inder, go in.”

Anabel could see the words on the coach’s lips, even from this far distance.

Jeremy was the only guard left. He was the only kid on the team who could handle the ball. Mr. Bischoff wouldn’t have a choice. How lucky. How wonderful. Anabel watched as Hank came in off the court and Jeremy stood up. Something passed between them. They smiled. Jeremy handed Hank something from his pocket.