Full Court Press (8 page)

I took a long swig from my water bottle. It was amazing how sitting on a bench could work up a thirst.

The game was more than three-quarters over and the only time either Kia or I had been on the floor was during the warm-ups.

And it wasn't like having us out there would cost us the game. We were down by almost thirty points.

“Do you think we're going to get on at all?” I whispered to Kia who was sitting beside me on the bench.

She shrugged. “Hey, Mr. Roberts,” Kia said loudly, “are you going to play us or what?”

“Later in the game, Kia,” he said, without turning his attention away from the game.

“Later? Like later when?” she asked. “Like if we tie the game up and get into overtime?”

Mr. Roberts let out a loud sigh. “Now's as good a time as any. Nick, and Roy, get ready to go in.”

“Roy? What about me?” Kia asked.

“You'll go in when Nick comes out,” he answered. “Roy replace Dean, Nick you take out Bojan.”

Roy and I went to the scorer's table and crouched down, waiting for the next stoppage in play to get in.

“When we get out there,” Roy said to me. “Stay out of my way.”

Those weren't exactly the words of encouragement I usually expected from a teammate. I moved slightly away from him as we waited.

On the court Marcus drove for the net and was fouled. I stood up and stretched my legs. The ref would let us sub in after the first throw.

His first shot went up and clanked off the iron, bouncing off to the side. The ref called us in. Roy took a spot on the key, waiting to
go for the rebound if Marcus missed his second shot. I stopped at center court, covering the man there.

The shot went up, hit the rim, spun around and then bounced free. A player with a red jersey came up with the ball. He looked up court and reared back, getting ready to toss the ball. I took a quick look over my shoulder — the man I was covering had moved away and was free under our net. I rushed back, tr ying to look back for the pass I knew was coming. I leaped up just in time to grab the ball, pulling it in. I had it! I planted both feet and then started away, dribbling it back up court. Suddenly I was swarmed by three of their players, just as I reached the half.

I looked between the three of them and caught a glimpse of one of our players alone under their net. I heaved the ball over the outstretched fingers of the charging trio and it landed right where I'd aimed — and prayed — it would go. I lost sight of the player, but saw the ball go up and into the net!

Then I could see him. It was Roy, and he had a smile on his face. That was even rarer than our team scoring a basket. I thought I
detected a slight nod of his head as he passed by me.

The other team quickly came up. The guard came straight up and without looking left or right launched a long three-point shot. It was an air ball which Marcus corralled. He started to dribble and I broke up the side, angling to the corner. I raised my hand to signal I was open. No sooner had that happened than the ball flew through the air and I grabbed it. I started to dribble, driving the net. Out of nowhere my clear lane vanished and two of their players blocked me out. I caught sight of one of our players breaking free on the other side. I bounced a pass to him just as one of their men collided with me, sending me tumbling to the floor.

I heard a cheer go up and scrambled to my feet in time to see Marcus giving Roy a high five. I'd fed Roy another pass and he'd scored again! We were making a run!

I started back up the court, but then spun around quickly as I expected the in-bounds pass to come in. It was going to a man just over from me and I lunged out and grabbed the ball just before it reached him. Without hesitation I drove back toward their basket. It
would be an easy two points.

And then I felt a hard shove to my back and tried to put up my hands to block the rapidly approaching wall and…

* * *

“Nick can you hear me?”

I felt my head spinning. Who was calling me?

“Nick… can you hear me?”

It was Mr. Roberts. “Sure… yeah,” I muttered.

“Wonderful… great… and do you know where you are?”

What sort of stupid question was that? Of course I knew where I… I looked around. Where was I? It looked like the little room beside the office… how did I get here? I remembered being in the gym and going up for a lay-up and then hitting the wall… and looking up and seeing one of their players standing over top of me — scowling.

“Did I make it?” I asked.

“Make what?” Mr. Roberts asked. He sounded really worried.

“The shot,” I mumbled. “Did I score?”

“Yes, you got it!” Kia exclaimed. “And
Marcus took the foul shot and we got the ball back and —”

“But the important thing is that you're okay,” Mr. Roberts said, cutting her off.

“Did we win?” I asked.

“We lost,” Kia said. “By a lot.”

“The only thing that's important is that you're fine. Your mother should be here soon,” Mr. Roberts said.

“My mother? Why is my mother coming?”

“We called her. We were very worried, and we want her to take you to see the doctor.”

“Why do I have to go and see a doctor?”

“It's just a precaution. We need you to be checked out. You took a very nasty blow to the head.”

“I'm fine,” I protested.

“I'm sure you are,” Mr. Roberts agreed. “But you still have to be examined.”

“But I'm okay,” I protested. I tried to sit up and suddenly the whole world tilted to the side and my stomach lurched forward. I threw up all over the floor beside the couch. Maybe I wasn't that fine after all.

“So Nick, how are you doing today?” Mr. Roberts asked.

“I'm fine,” I offered, and I
was
feeling fine.

It was strange, but over the past week when people said to me, ‘how are you,' they really meant it. I'd missed two days of school. I'd felt kind of weak, and sick to the stomach. When my mom had taken me to the hospital, I'd seen a doctor and he'd told us that I had a ‘minor concussion.' If this was minor, I'd hate to ever find out what a major one would feel like.

“Nick, you don't have to come out and
watch us practice,” Mr. Roberts said.

“I'm not here to watch, I'm here to practice.”

“I don't think that would be wise.”

“The doctor said it would be okay,” I said, as I pulled a note out of my pocket and handed it to him.

He studied it carefully. “I guess it's okay if the doctor says so. You are feeling better, right?”

“Much better.”

“Good. Just take it easy… nothing too hard.”

“I'll be careful.”

I walked over to the edge of the stage, where Kia was sitting. Everybody else was putting on their gear on the bench.

“So is he letting you practice?” she asked.

“I'm back.” I pulled my shoes out of my bag.

Kia smiled. “It was getting pretty lonely without you. Now at least I'll have somebody to talk to while we watch the games.”

She hadn't been on the floor since I was injured. I knew it wasn't my fault, but I still felt responsible. Like if I hadn't had my bell rung, then maybe Mr. Roberts would have felt
okay and let her play more. I figured he was afraid she'd get hurt too. I couldn't help but wonder if we'd get much — or any — playing time for the rest of the season.

Mr. Roberts blew his whistle and I quickly tied up the second shoe and jumped off the stage to join the group already assembling around him. I got there just as they started to run laps. I joined the end of the line.

“Come on, let's move it!” Mr. Roberts bellowed. “A winning attitude starts in practice! Pick it up!”

The pace quickened and I found myself starting to struggle to keep up. My head felt better but my legs and lungs weren't there. I puffed and huffed and tried to dig a little bit deeper. Maybe coming back this soon wasn't smart.

“Pick it up!” Mr. Roberts yelled. “Everybody except Nick… you slow it down.”

For a split second I felt grateful to slow down until I looked at the expressions of my teammates. They didn't look happy about me receiving special treatment. I was just glad I couldn't read minds… although I knew what most of them were thinking.

* * *

Sitting on the bench watching us lose was even worse than sitting in the bleachers and watching the same thing. And it wasn't like the game was that interesting. Blow-outs are always boring.

As it got more and more one-sided, I stopped even looking at the score. I stopped looking at the play. Instead I put my eyes elsewhere. At first I looked at the bleachers. I saw the other kids and the teachers and the parents from our side and the other team's parents. Then I saw my father sitting there beside my mother. He'd gotten off work early to see this. Me sitting on the bench in a losing game.

I didn't know, but I thought my mother would be happy that I was on the bench. Not that she'd said anything, but I think she felt some of the same things that Mr. Roberts felt. With me sitting on the bench, she knew I couldn't get hurt. At least if I didn't get a splinter in my butt.

My mother waved and I gave a little wave and then looked away. There had to be some-place else to look. I turned my eyes to the ceiling. I started counting the vents and then
tried to figure out how to get down the bean bags and dodge balls which were lodged up there in metal beams.

The final buzzer sounded and disturbed my thoughts. I joined the rest of the team at center court to shake hands with the other team. As I walked out, I realized I didn't even know the final score. But I did know some things: 1) we'd lost, 2) we lost big, 3) we were now 0–4 for the season, 4) neither Kia nor I had played, 5) I didn't think we'd play again this whole season, and 6) there was nothing we could do about any of the above.

I took a deep breath and then quickly pulled my sweater over my head and took it off. I stuffed it into my gym bag and did up the zipper, sealing in the smell. My mother had started to make me keep the bag in the garage. She said it smelled like a small animal had crawled into my bag and died. She was wrong. It smelled like a
big
animal had crawled in and died. I would have liked to have let her wash it, but that smelly sweater seemed like the only thing that I shared with my teammates.

“Well, that was a complete waste of time,” I said to Kia.

“Maybe you would have gotten more out of the game if you'd have watched it.”

“I watched it… some of it,” I protested.

“I watched all of it. And because I did, I think that I've solved our problems.”

“What problems?”

“Boy, you really weren't paying any attention to that game.”

“I meant what specific problems did you mean?” I asked.

“The obvious ones. You and I not playing. The team losing. I've got it figured out.”