Full Court Press (5 page)

“I guess that makes sense,” I admitted.

“Good. How about you finish up some work while I go downstairs and make us two humungous bowls of chocolate ice cream?”

“With a little whipped cream on top?”

“Nope.” He smiled. “A
lot
of whipped cream. How long till you're finished?”

“No more than five minutes.”

“That'll just give me enough time to get them ready. Hurry up,” he said as he got up.

I turned back to my work. What he'd said should have been encouraging, but it wasn't. I'd been thinking that the best thing that could happen with the tryouts was to either quit now, or just sort of go through the motions so I wouldn't make the team. Now those were no longer choices.

Mr. Roberts blew his whistle. The shrieking blasted off the walls and echoed around until everybody had stopped.

“It isn't that tricky!” Mr. Roberts yelled. “Let me explain it one more time.”

We'd been divided into three columns and were supposed to execute a drill called the weave. So far it hadn't been working very well. Mr. Roberts walked to the front of the middle group.

“It's very simple. The man in the middle starts with the ball. He then passes it to one of the other two men — players. And all you do is follow the pass, taking the spot occupied
by the player who just received the pass, while that player moves into the center spot. And this pattern continues as you move down the court until the final man lays up the ball. Any questions?”

Nobody said a word, but, judging from the expressions on kids' faces, there wasn't much doubt that there was still a lot of doubt.

“Okay, let's try it again,” Mr. Roberts said. He tossed a ball to the man in the middle and then stepped out of the way.

Dean took the ball, bounced it a few times, tossed it to the player on his left, and then instantly turned and started to run to the right and — the whistle blasted and everybody stopped again.

“Can't anybody do this right?” Mr. Roberts demanded. “Anybody?”

Everybody looked down to the ground except Kia. She stuck up her hand and motioned for me to do the same. Reluctantly I put up my hand. Marcus did the same.

“Good. Let's see it work.”

Marcus took up a spot in the middle while Kia and I moved separately to spots off to opposite sides. Marcus took a ball off the kid who was supposed to start the next rush.

“Now,” Mr. Roberts said.

Marcus fired a pass to Kia, and then crossed over behind her as she moved into the center lane. Kia caught it chest height, bounced the ball once and then lined a pass to me. I grabbed it, took a step and fired it to Marcus who'd shifted back into the center. He put the ball to Kia who took two steps and laid it off the backboard and into the net.

“Perfect!” Mr. Roberts yelled. “That's how you do a weave!”

Kia gave me a high five as we started back up the side of the gym to take our places at the end of the lines.

“Now if we can just have some more of the grade fives do this drill right,” Mr. Roberts continued. “Maybe I should just go out and get some more grade threes to try out for the team!”

I looked over at Kia. I could tell she was thinking exactly what I was thinking: if they didn't like us before, this certainly wasn't going to help.

“If we ever get this drill right,” Mr. Roberts yelled, “we'll finish today with a scrimmage!”

* * *

I broke behind a screen and headed for the hoop. I was completely open. I raised my hands high to let the ball carrier know I was open and prepared for the pass and — the ball went in the completely opposite direction. Again.

A shot went up, clanked loudly off the backboard and bounced away, the rebound eaten up by a member of the other team. I hustled back on defense. Running back I briefly locked my eyes with Kia, sitting on the other team's bench. She'd had about as many touches of the ball as I'd had.

My man, Scott, brought the ball up court. I met him just past the center line, trying to angle him toward the side line. He faked for the center, and cut for the side, but didn't change hands. I reached out, poked the ball away and lunged for it. I grabbed the ball as Scott and I scrambled for it.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a player wearing a blue bib — somebody on my side — and heaved the ball to him, just as I was bowled over as Scott and I collided. I flew through the air, landing heavily on my side and sliding along the floor. I looked up in time to see a player laying the ball into the hoop.

I struggled to my feet. My left leg hurt, and I looked down to see a nasty floor burn extending the whole way from just below the line of my shorts to my knee. Maybe I better sit down or —

A shrill blast of the whistle brought the game to a stop.

“That's it for this afternoon!” Mr. Roberts called out. “Good practice, everybody!”

I limped toward the stage to retrieve my stuff.

“Nice pass,” Mr. Roberts said as I walked by him.

“Thanks,” I mumbled back.

“That leg doesn't look very good.”

“It's nothing,” I said. I was working at not letting my face show how much it really did hurt.

“Maybe I better get the first-aid kit,” Mr. Roberts suggested.

I shook my head. “It's no big deal. See you tomorrow.”

“Well, it's all done,” Kia said.

We'd been to every tryout all week long.

“Now the hard part,” I said. “The waiting.”

The list would be posted on the gym door on Monday morning. I guess I should have been grateful for the weekend. Not only would I have a break from school and basketball, but I'd have a chance for my wounds to heal.

My tongue went to the spot in my mouth where it had been all cut up yesterday. I'd caught an elbow in the face — Roy's elbow — when I was going up for a rebound. I can still picture that expression on his face as I looked up at him from the floor — that
satisfied smirk.

Of course, that was just one of the injuries I'd picked up. My leg was still smarting from the burn, and my side was sore from when I'd been shoved off the court and hit the bleachers.

It wasn't that anybody except Roy was trying to hurt me. It was just that everybody was bigger, and when a big body and a little body came together, the little body was most often the one that got hurt. Maybe Mr. Roberts had been right about us not being on the team. I couldn't expect anybody from other schools to be any nicer.

“So do you think we did enough?” Kia asked.

“We did all we could. You did well today.”

“Yeah, I did,” Kia agreed.

She'd made her shots from the outside and pulled down some rebounds.

“How do you think I did today?” I asked.

“You were… okay.”

“Okay? Was it
okay
the way I stole the ball from you during the scrimmage?”

Kia didn't answer.

I had taken away a couple of balls, as
well as scored six points, pulled down four boards, and assisted on three other baskets. I think that qualified as much better than just
okay
.

“I was wondering what it would be like if only one of us made the team,” Kia said.

“I hadn't even thought about that. I just figured it would be both of us or neither of us,” I admitted.

“I've thought about it since the morning when my mother mentioned it to
me
over breakfast. I think most of the spots are already taken.”

“Mr. Roberts said that?” I asked.

“No, I've just been trying to figure it out myself.”

“We don't need many spots. Just two,” I said.

“I just don't know if there are still two spots left,” Kia said. “I've been making a mental list.”

“And who's on your list?”

“There are the obvious ones.”

“Like Marcus, Kingsly, Dean, Bojan and Mohammed,” I suggested.

“Those five are a lock,” she agreed.

“Probably the five starters. Who else is
on your list?”

“Scott and Kyle.”

“Maybe… probably,” I agreed.