Long Shot (7 page)

“Julian and Josh are gone.”

My hands tightened on the basketball. “How do you know that?”

“I was talking to D.J. who was talking to Mark. He goes to school with Josh who told him about the two of them being called.”

“That's awful,” I said.

“But not unexpected.”

“I guess it wasn't a complete surprise, but it's still too bad. Have you talked to them?” I asked.

“Not me. What would I say?”

“I don't know. Maybe that we're sorry, or something like that.”

“You can call them if you want,” Kia said, “but I really don't know what to say.”

“I wonder how they're feeling?”

“How would you feel?” Kia asked.

“It makes me feel like I have to practice more before the next try-out,” I said.

“Unless you're going to give up sleeping, I don't think you
can
practice anymore.”

“I'll stop when I get my shot straightened out.”

“Coach really has you spooked, doesn't he?” Kia said.

“And you're not afraid of him?” I asked.

“I don't know if that's the right word.”

“Then what is?” I demanded.

“I don't know. He's … he's …”

“He's lots of things,” I said. “At least he knows basketball.”

“He does that, but he really can't play much anymore, can he?” she asked.

Instantly I knew what Kia was referring to. Just at the end of the last scrimmage he'd tried to demonstrate a proper lay-up and had come down badly on his ankle. He'd collapsed to the floor. He'd jumped back to his feet before anybody could say or do anything, but he was limping even worse then usual for the last few minutes before we left.

“My father showed me some of the
Sports Illustrated
articles about Coach Barkley,” I said.

Kia scrunched up her face. “You mean from when he was playing?”

I nodded.

“Where would he get twenty-year-old issues of
Sports Illustrated
?” she asked.

“He has every issue for the past twenty-five years stored in boxes in our basement.”

“You're joking, right?” Kia asked.

“Nope. He says they'll be worth something some day,” I explained. “My mother says she'll pay him something right now if he'll throw them all away.”

“Can I see them?” Kia asked.

“You can, but are you sure you want to?”

“Why wouldn't I?”

“It's just that the more things I read about this guy the more worried I get,” I said. “Are you sure you want to see them?”

“Nothing written twenty years ago is going to make much difference,” she said. “I'm just curious.”

“Come on in then and I'll show you.”

Kia followed me into the house. I put my ball into a wicker basket sitting behind the door. That was one of the few shots I'd put in all afternoon.

“How many articles were about Mr. Barkley?” Kia asked.

“He's mentioned in a bunch of articles written about college basketball, but there's one whole article written about him and his injury.”

“Let me see that one,” Kia said.

I rummaged through the pile of magazines that were sitting on the coffee table.

“Here it is,” I said, passing it to Kia.

She took the magazine and started scanning through the pages.

“It's in the back,” I said.

She flipped through right to the very end and started to work back toward the front.

“
That
is gross!” Kia said loudly.

Without looking I knew what she had seen because I had the same reaction when I saw it the first time. It was the picture taken right after the injury. The coach was on the ground, a look of pure pain on his face, his foot pointing almost in the completely opposite direction. It looked as if it would fall right off if somebody just touched it.

“It's like you said,” Kia said. “He's still holding onto the ball despite the pain. That's amazing.”

“You want to know what's even more amazing?” I asked.

“What?”

“When this happened there was only two minutes left in the game.”

“Yeah?”

“And the score was eighty-seven to forty-eight.”

“For which team?” Kia asked.

“For Coach Barkley's team.”

Kia looked at me hard. “So you're saying that they were up by thirty-nine points and he still was
throwing himself around after a loose ball?”

I nodded my head.

“Then it didn't matter if he got the ball.”

“Not at all. They were up by close to forty points and he was still hustling like the game was on the line.”

Kia shook her head sadly. “You're right, that is amazing. I'm just not sure if it's amazingly stupid or not.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just think,” she said. “Instead of being on the bench, or just letting that ball go, he had to try and get it.”

“And?”

“And that one loose ball cost him his whole career.”

I let that sink in. Of course she was right. If only he'd turned it down a notch … backed off a little. Then again, after seeing him run those two try-outs, I wasn't sure he even
could
turn it down.

I bounced the ball sharply three times and then spun it backward in my hands. All the time my eyes remained fixed on the hoop — not looking away like I was afraid if I did it might run away. I put up the foul shot — slight back-spin on the ball, good high arch, straight for the net and — it bounced off the rim and missed.

“Darn!”

“Nice try,” Kia said as she scrambled after the rebound.

I'd missed more then half of my free throws at the end of the second try-out with the coach standing there watching. I'd been out here on my driveway every night since taking dozens and dozens of shots to try and get better. Instead I was getting worse.

“It was a good miss,” Kia offered as she threw the ball back to me. 68

“There's no such thing as a good miss.”

“Maybe not, but there sure are worse ways to miss,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“At least you hit the rim. It looked like it had a chance. It's a lot worse when it's an air ball. Remember that game last year when you had a chance to tie it up at the end and you put up an air ball?”

I shuddered at the memory. “As long as you're around I guess I never will get a chance to forget.”

“Sorry,” she apologized.

“I just wish I knew what I was doing wrong,” I lamented.

“That's easy. You're thinking too much.”

I gave her a questioning look.

“Don't think about it. Just do it.”

“Great, I ask for advice and I get a TV commercial.”

I looked at the hoop. Three bounces of the ball and a little spin, and then I shot. It missed the front of the rim.

Kia gobbled up the rebound. “Don't believe me if you don't want to, but you have to stop thinking and just let your mind go blank. That's what I do.”

“Right. On the court … in school … at home.”

Kia whipped the ball at my head. If I hadn't gotten my hands up fast, I would have caught it with my face.

“The foul shooting isn't doing me much good,”
I said. “Is there anything you want to practice or would that involve too much thought?”

She shrugged. “When you've reached perfection there isn't much left to improve on,” she smirked. “But I have been giving one thing a lot of thought.”

I instantly knew what she was thinking. It was the same thing that had cost me sleep last night.

“I keep thinking about Julian and Josh,” she said. “Have you talked to them yet?”

I shook my head. “I was going to.”

“Me too.”

“But I still don't know what to say,” I said.

“I know. No matter what you say it always sounds like you're rubbing it in,” Kia said. “Sort of like we're still here and you're not.”

“That could still change,” I cautioned her. “Especially if I can't get my foul shots down.”

“Don't be goofy. He's not going to cut you because you missed a couple of foul shots.”

“He cut the two of them,” I said.

“There were more than a few missed foul shots involved.”

“Are you saying that you thought he should have cut them?” I asked.

“I didn't say that, but let's be honest,” Kia said. “I know they're our friends, and we've been teammates for two years … but … you know,” she said.

I didn't want to agree, but I couldn't really disagree with her unspoken words. I didn't want to say anything, but of all the players from last year's team they were probably the two weakest.

“He said he wouldn't be keeping everybody,” she said.

“Wouldn't it have been better if he kept them a little bit longer before he cut them?”

“I don't know. If it were me, I'd rather know right up front and just get on with life.”

I didn't even know if I could get on with life if I were cut. I'd never been cut from anything, not even something that wasn't important, and basketball was really important.

“Let's just hope we don't find out,” I said. “Let's keep practicing.”

I turned around, and without giving myself time to think, threw up a shot. It missed too.

“Hi, guys!”

I turned. “L.B.!”

He was standing at the end of my driveway. In his hand was a big black case.

“What are you doing here?” Kia asked.

“Walking home from music lessons. I just live a couple of blocks away.”

“I didn't know that,” I said.

“We just moved in a month ago,” he said.

“This is my place.”

“And I live a few blocks that way,” Kia said,
pointing in the opposite direction.

“I have my piano lesson tonight,” I said. “I don't understand why parents force their kids to take music.”

“Nobody forced me to take them. It was my idea.”

“You wanted to take music lessons?” I asked in disbelief.

He smiled. “I'm not taking music lessons. I'm taking
saxophone
lessons.”

“Saxophone?” Kia asked.

“Alto sax,” he said, patting the case. “Do you want to see it?”

“Sure … I guess,” I said. What else were we supposed to say — ‘no we don't want to see it'?

L.B. put down the case, undid the clasps, and opened it up. A shiny, brass saxophone nestled against the case's black, velvety lining.

He pulled out the big stem sort of part and then took out a second smaller piece. He fit them together. Next he pulled out another piece and fit it to the very top.

“Isn't it a beauty?” he asked.

Obviously he was very proud of it.

“It's nice looking,” Kia said. “It looks complicated.”

“It's like everything else. Once you know how to do it, there's no big trick.”

“Are you any good?” Kia asked.

“Well …” he said and smiled. “You tell me.”

L.B. put the saxophone to his lips and started to play.

“That's the
Pink Panther
theme!” I yelled.L.B.'s eyes twinkled as he continued to play. He came to the end of the song and Kia and I cheered. He took a little bow.

“That was fantastic!” I said.

“How long have you been playing?” Kia asked.

“Almost two years.”

“Two years? I've been playing the piano for almost four years and I'm not even close to that good,” I said.

“Not even close,” Kia agreed.

“Gee, thanks for your support,” I said.

“What can I say?” she replied. “I call it like I see it. Or in this case like I hear it. You must practice a lot.”

“At least an hour every day.”

“That explains why you're so good,” I said. “I practice for less then fifteen minutes and only when it doesn't get in the way of things like basketball.”