Home Team (10 page)

“Do you want to do the honors?” Mr. Roberts asked Mr. Waldman.

“I'm only the principal. You're the coach. I think you should do it.”

“Thanks.” He turned so he was facing us. “We all know that our school basketball jerseys have seen better days. We also know that, with the decision to change the name of our team to the Raptors in the future, we're going to be getting new uniforms. Well, boys and girls, welcome to the future.”

He reached down to a bag at his feet and pulled out a jersey—black and red with
Raptors
in big letters across the front. He held it up and turned it around.

“Number seven…I do believe that's Kia's number.”

He handed Kia the jersey. She looked like he'd just handed her a million dollars.

“Are you going to put it on?” Mr. Roberts asked.

“Of course!” She pulled it on over her sweater—that was a really nice sweater she was wearing…Was it new?

One by one he pulled out the jerseys and handed them to the “owner” of that number. With each one I waited for number four to appear, but it was always somebody else's number, until finally I was the only kid not wearing a Clark Raptors jersey.

“I think that's all of them,” Mr. Roberts said.

What? What about me?

“Did I forget anybody?” he asked.

Slowly I put up my hand.

“Nick, you didn't get a jersey?”

I shook my head.

“Well, maybe there's one more jersey in here. He reached down into the bag—all the way down into what looked like an empty bag—and pulled out a jersey.

I was so relieved I almost screamed out loud.

On the back of the jersey was my number— a big number 4.

“You know, Nick, maybe that wasn't fair because I did know it was in there. I wanted to save yours for last for a reason. Kia, can you please do the honors for this one?”

She stepped forward and he handed her my jersey. Why would he do that?

“We've been teammates for a long time and a few times we've even been co-captains, like this year. But I asked Mr. Roberts if maybe that could change,” Kia said.

“And I agreed,” Mr. Roberts said.

She turned the jersey around so I could see the front of it. There was a big
C
at the top.

“You're now
the
captain.”

She handed me the jersey.

“I don't know what to say,” I stammered.

“Don't say anything, just put it on,” Kia said.

I pulled it on over my shirt. I had a terrible feeling that I might actually start to cry—that was no way for a captain to act.

“And,” Mr. Waldman said, “in honor of the leadership that Nick has shown, both on and off the court, we've decided that from this point forward our team captain will always wear the number-four jersey as a tribute to Nick.”

If I didn't know what to say before, I was completely speechless now.

My mother rescued me by wrapping her arms around me and giving me a big hug. Then Kia gave me a hug as well. Mr. Waldman and the guys all slapped me on the back and shook hands. And then Lailah gave me a hug.

My whole body broke out in a nervous sweat. Thank goodness I had the jersey on top of my shirt or everybody would have seen the sweat pouring off me.

“Now, Clark Raptors, it's time for the game!” Mr. Roberts said to a chorus of cheers and yelling.

We trailed after him, weaving our way through the crowd. He passed by the regular entrance and kept going. That was the way in, but I figured he knew where he was going. Finally our way was blocked by two uniformed security guards seated behind a desk beneath a big sign that said
Corporate Suites
. That's where we were headed.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Mr. Roberts said. “I believe there are passes waiting for us, left by Ms. Allison, for the owners' suite.”

One of the men ran his finger down a paper, scanning the list.

“Are you the Clark Raptors?”

As we all stood there in our uniforms, that seemed like a pretty crazy question.

“That's us,” Mr. Roberts said.

“We've been expecting you. Please wait and someone will come down to get you,” the guard said. He picked up a phone and started talking.

Mr. Waldman had us move over to the side as other people were waiting to get to their private suites.

I watched the people passing by. They didn't look any different than the fans who occupied the regular seats. Well…maybe they were dressed a little better, but why didn't more of them have on Raptors jerseys or hats or T -shirts or something? A lot were dressed up like they were going to some fancy party and not a basketball game.

“Hello, Clark Raptors!”

I looked up. It was Christina Allison—I recognized her from the tv.

She shook hands with Mr. Waldman, Mr. Roberts and my mother.

“And you must be Nick,” she said.

“It's nice to meet you, and this is the rest of the team.”

I introduced her to each player and she shook everybody's hand.

“It's great to meet all of you. Now let's get upstairs and see the game.”

We followed her up a set of stairs and into a corridor—there was carpeting on the floor and pictures of Raptor players on the walls. It certainly was different from the upper deck in the ACC.

“This is it,” Christina said.

She opened the door and we filed in. It was really fancy with big comfy chairs, a little kitchen and a gigantic tv screen on one wall.

I walked around the suite with Lailah and Kia, checking everything out, and then went to look down on the court and— “How about if everybody takes a seat,” Christina said.

The team began settling into the big comfy seats that were lined in three rows at the front of the suite.

“Welcome. This luxury box belongs to the team owners, but tonight it's all yours!”

Everybody cheered.

“You can obviously watch the game from the court view seats at the front of the box,” she said, gesturing to where I was headed, “or you can also see all the replays up on the Jumbo-tron or watch the tv broadcast of the game on the big screen on the wall.”

I didn't come to the ACC to watch a game on tv. “And I'm not sure if you're aware, but part of the privilege of being in a private box is that all of your food and drinks are complimentary.”

“Complimentary…as in free?” Greg asked.

“As in free.”

This time the roar was even louder, partly because I was part of it. I loved basketball and I loved the food that went along with basketball games. This was going to be a wonderful game!

Chapter Twenty-One

Everybody was up on their feet screaming. Not just all of us in the box but everybody in the entire arena. More than nineteen thousand fans were yelling at the top of their lungs, clapping and stomping their feet.

The score was tied at 113, and there were seventeen seconds left in overtime!

“This is incredible!” Kia screamed. “Have you ever seen a game like this before?”

“Has there ever
been
a game like this before?” I yelled back.

The time-out ended and the two teams came out of their respective huddles. It was Boston's ball. Although I wasn't in the Boston huddle and obviously didn't know
exactly
what play they were going to run, I did know what it would involve. Bring it in, be safe, hold the ball until just before the game clock expired and then put up a shot. If they made it, there wouldn't be enough time for the Raptors to get off a play. Either the Celtics would win or they'd have to go to another overtime period.

“Want another dog?” Greg asked.

“What?”

“Another hot dog?” He was holding one in each hand.

“I think I've had enough to eat,” I said. “How many hot dogs have you eaten?”

“I lost track after four,” he said. “And that's not to mention the pizza and nachos. But what the heck? It is free.”

The guys had been eating a lot. Not that I hadn't had my share—two hot dogs, two slices of pizza, and I was working on my third Coke— but I was an amateur compared to some of these guys. For some of them it seemed like eating was far more important than actually watching the basketball game. I didn't come here to eat—even if it was free.

I would rather have been down by the court instead of up here in the box. Not that I wasn't grateful—the owners giving up their private box for us was pretty special—but it still wasn't nearly as good as being courtside or even up in the cheap seats at the top. Up there everybody was a true fan, and nobody came because of the food. It was all about the basketball.

Speaking of which—it was about to begin again. The shot clock was turned off because there only were seventeen seconds left in the game.

The ball came in to the point guard, and the crowd started screaming even louder!

The guard did what was expected. He took the ball up to the top while the other four players headed off into the corners to draw their men away.

He dribbled as the clock ticked down.

Suddenly, off to the side, Wayne left his man and they put a double team on the guard. The guard hadn't seen it coming and was trapped! He tried to find the way out, but they had him so he couldn't get off a pass and— The ref blew his whistle. He called a foul!

The whole audience groaned and then started screaming!

“That was such a lame call!” Greg yelled through a mouthful of hot dog—little pieces spraying out of his mouth.

“The ref saved him! We had him trapped, we had the steal!” I screamed.

Their guard came to the line.

“What's his free-throw percentage?” Greg asked.

“In the eighties,” Kia said.

“Try the
nineties
,” I corrected.

“So basically he doesn't miss,” Greg said.

“He misses fewer than ten shots out of every hundred free throws he takes,” I explained.

“He's one of the best free-throw shooters in the NBA.”

“And he's six for seven tonight,” Lailah added.

“And he was perfect from the line
last
game, making all eleven of his shots.”

Everybody looked at her, wondering how she knew that.

“It's in the guide,” she said, holding it up for us to see. “I love stats.”

“Oh…sure.”

“So basically we've lost,” Greg said.

“Not necessarily. He'll make his shots and we'll still have three point four seconds to get it down for a shot,” Kia said. “Right after he shoots, we'll call a time-out and—”

“We don't have any time-outs left,” I said. “We used our last one a minute ago.”

“We don't even have a twenty-second one?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“So…?” Greg asked.

“When he makes the second shot, the clock stops and we have three point four seconds to get it inbounds, all the way downcourt and score.”

“That could work to our advantage,” Greg said.

“How do you figure that?” I asked.

“The shot will have to be a really long one, way beyond the three-point line. So if we make it we win.”

There was some logic to what he was saying. I shrugged.

The fans behind the net started to scream and stomp their feet and frantically waved the little blowups to try to distract the shooter. They were wasting their time and effort. The ball went up and straight in—nothing but net. They were up by one.

“I don't think he's going to miss,” I said, more to myself than anybody else.

“Everybody misses sometimes,” Kia said.

“I doubt this is going to be one of those times.”

He stood at the line, holding the ball in his hands, spinning it slightly, staring at the net.

Behind him the fans were all out of their seats, waving and screaming and trying everything they could to distract him. He was so focused he probably didn't even notice them.

Actually it probably would be better for us if he
did
make the basket. If he missed, they'd still be ahead. And they might get the rebound or even scramble it up long enough so we didn't have time to get the ball upcourt and get in a shot. If he scored they were up by two, but we had an inbounds and could at least throw up something and hope for a miracle. But it didn't matter what I hoped for or how the fans were trying to distract him, because he was going to make the shot.

He bent at the knees and put up the shot.

Perfect rotation, nice and easy like it was practically hanging in the air, right into the cylinder and—it rimmed out!

The ball went up and bodies crashed together as everybody scrambled for the ball and the ref blew his whistle—somebody was fouled. It was an over-the-back foul on the Celtics! Wayne Dawkins had been fouled just as the clock expired. Both teams were in the penalty, which meant two free throws for us. He'd have to shoot at the line by himself because the game was technically over.

They walked up the court and all the screaming and yelling suddenly stopped. The whole arena was hushed as the referee handed the ball to Wayne for his first shot. He took a breath, bent his knees and took the first shot. It looked good off the release and before I could hold my breath, the ball sailed through the net. Tie game.

Everyone in the arena was on their feet, standing so silently that you could hear a pin drop. The referee handed Wayne the ball again for his last shot—the shot that could win the game! He bounced the ball twice, and the sound echoed throughout the arena.

I leaned out the open window of the suite as far as I could. It was almost like watching the whole thing in slow motion. The ball sailed up into the air, slowly rotating so I could make out the seams. It seemed like everybody in the whole place was holding their breath. It looked like it was heading into the net…no, it was high… it hit the backboard and bounced off the rim and then the backboard and rolled around the rim…and then dropped into the net!