Long Shot (9 page)

“She could beat you?” I asked in amazement. “Don't sound so surprised,” he said. “I bet Kia can take you a lot of the time.”

“Well …”

“We're pretty even,” Kia said. “Did your sister keep on playing basketball?”

“Right through high school and into university. She was a good player. Better than half the kids on my high school team.”

“So you two played on the same team in high school too?” Kia asked.

“Nope she played on the girls' team. Back then girls weren't allowed to play with the boys no matter how good they were.”

“That's stupid,” Kia snapped.

“Of course, that's how we feel now, but back then nobody thought much about it one way or another. It was just the way it was. Besides, you'd be amazed at how many people still feel that way today.”

“But you don't, right?” Kia asked.

“If I did, do you think you'd still be here?” Coach Barkley asked.

“I guess not. Does your sister still play?” Kia asked.

“I think she plays one night a week, but she's pretty busy with her kids … she has four of them.”

“That would keep her busy.”

“But she still loves the game.” He paused. “You know I won't ever have any problem with a girl being on any team I coach.”

I could almost
feel
Kia smile without even looking at her.

“But I also have no problem cutting her if she isn't good enough and isn't tough enough,” he continued.

Just like I could feel her smile, I could almost hear Kia swallow when he finished the sentence.

“So you two are just friends,” Coach Barkley said.

I was going to answer when I remembered what he said about not having any friends and hesitated.

“It's okay to be friends outside the try-outs,” he said.

“We're best friends,” Kia said.

“Anybody ever hassle you about hanging out together?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” I admitted.

He nodded his head. “Me and my sister used to get that all the time. Speaking of family, you two know my son,” he said gesturing to the side.

L.B. was standing just off to the side.

“Yep. We even played some ball together on the driveway at my house a couple of days ago,” I said.

“On my way back from saxophone lessons,” L.B. added. “He even played the saxophone for us,” Kia said.

“That's not surprising. He's always willing to practice some things,” Coach Barkley said.

L.B. turned to his father. “Speaking of practice we better get going or I'll be late.” He turned to us. “I have a saxophone lesson.”

“But I thought your lessons were on Wednesday?” Kia asked.

“I have them twice a week.”

“We'll get there on time, don't worry,” Coach Barkley said. “Are you two okay if we leave you here?”

“No problem, I'm sure my father won't be any
more than a few — there he is!” I yelled as I saw his car pull up to the curb just down from us.

“We'll see you two next week,” Coach Barkley said.

“Next week?” I questioned. “Does that mean we … that we …”

“Made the next cut?” he asked.

I nodded my head.

“Neither of you has anything to worry about. At least for
this
week.”

We rushed up to meet my father. Part of the reason I wanted to hurry was to avoid him coming up and talking to Coach Barkley. Kia and I jumped into the back seat.

“Was that who I thought it was?” he asked before we could even close the door.

“Depends who you think it is?” I asked.

“Len Barkley, of course,” he said, staring out the windshield as the coach and his son walked in the other direction.

“Then you thought right. But aren't you more interested in how the try-outs went and how we did, or why my lip is all swollen?” I asked.

“Your lip?” he questioned, quickly turning around to look at me. “How did that happen?”

“I caught an elbow.”

“Did you have your mouth guard in?”

“If I didn't I'd be carrying my front teeth in my
bag instead of my mouth,” I said.

“I guess that's part of the game,” Dad said. “Accidents happen.”

“Lots of them,” Kia said.

“Besides me there was a bleeding nose and I bet everybody has some bruises and bumps.”

“I thought there was going to be a fist fight at one point,” Kia said.

“It was very rough,” I agreed.

“That's no surprise if Len Barkley coaches the way he played. He didn't believe in taking any prisoners.”

“That sounds about right,” I said, “because if we keep getting that many injuries nobody is going to survive the try-outs to make the team.”

“Well, at least we survived for another week,” Kia said.

“He told us we made the next cut,” I explained to my father.

“That's great news! You must both be very happy!”

“I'll be happier when my lip stops hurting.”

“Bumps and bruises you get over. Some things stay with you for life,” he said.

“Things like broken bones?” I asked.

“No, things like making a great play, or being part of a team, or playing for a certain coach, or winning a game.”

“Or playing against a great player?” I asked.

“Exactly!” my father said. “You two may think this
is stupid, but I remember getting ready for that game against your coach. I remember all the things I'd heard about him and I was scared to go out there.”

“I believe it.”

“So do I,” Kia agreed. “It's scary enough just having him yell out instructions to us.”

“He yells a lot,” I agreed.

“So he's pretty tough,” my father said.

“Yes, and no,” I answered. “He seemed pretty nice when we were talking to him just now.”

“Yeah, he did,” Kia agreed. “He was even joking around and telling us stories.”

“Was that his son with him?” my father asked.

“Yeah. His name is Len too, although he goes by L.B.,” Kia answered.

“Named after his old man. Does he play like him too?”

“Not really.”

“You mean he isn't good?”

“It's not that he isn't good,” I said. “He's just different.”

“Almost gentle,” Kia said.

“Gentle? What does that mean?” my father asked.

“I don't know, maybe I'm not using the right word.”

“No, I hadn't thought about it but when you use that word it seems right to me too,” I said.

“So how is a basketball player gentle?” my father asked again.

“He doesn't go underneath the hoop very much,” Kia explained.

“I don't think he does at all,” I agreed. “He plays on the outside. He's got a nice shot, though.”

“And he's smart with the ball,” Kia continued.

“And a good passer as well,” I said.

“But he doesn't seem to like it when things get rough,” Kia added.

“He just isn't really very intense. You remember that one loose ball when —”

“He could have dove and got it and he didn't,” Kia said, finishing my sentence.

“Exactly. The coach blew down the play and started yelling at him so loud I thought he was going to peel the paint off the key.”

“That doesn't surprise me. The guy was a fanatic for people not trying,” my father said. “I remember watching one of his games on TV when he practically got into a fist fight with one of his own teammates because the guy was dogging it.”

“Yeah, but it's different when it's your own kid … you know, yelling at him like that in front of everybody.”

“That surprises me even less. People are always hardest on their own kids.”

“They are?” I asked.

“Definitely. Especially when the kid is doing something that the parent was good at. Think about how your mother reacted when you got that ‘B' in
writing for second term last year.”

I shuddered. I'd always got top marks in writing and when your mother is a professional writer it's supposed to be that way. She didn't exactly get mad at me, but I remember her saying how ‘disappointed' she was in my marks. I would have preferred if she had yelled. Then for the whole third term she was always asking me about assignments and looking at the rough copies of my stories and making me read things and generally being a real pain.

“And speaking of your mother,” my father said. “How about if we don't talk much about —”

“How rough things have been,” I said, cutting him off.

“Exactly. I'm not saying that we should lie to her or anything. I just think it would be better not to get her all worked up, that's all.”

“I can agree with that,” I said.

“Good. I always knew you were a smart kid … even when you got a ‘B' in writing.”

“I'll get it!” I yelled as I ran for the phone.

“Hello,” I said into the receiver. “Is this Nick?”

My heart leaped into my throat as I recognized the voice. It was Coach Barkley and the only reason he could be calling was to tell me that I was cut from the team, but he told me and Kia that we were okay for another week so he couldn't be calling to—

“Hello, are you still there?” he asked.

“Yes … yes I am, and this is Nick.”

“This is Mr. Barkley calling. How's your lip?”

“It's good, it's fine, no problem, good,” I stammered, sounding like an idiot.

“Glad to hear that.”

“You called to ask about my lip?” I asked, hoping that was the only reason he was calling.

He started to laugh. “No, I'm calling because
I've arranged an exhibition game at the college for this Thursday night.”

“A game … you mean you've picked the team?”

“Not yet. The game will help me decide who will be on the team. Can you make it?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Excellent. Wear a white T-shirt to the gym. Game starts at seven so I want you there at sixthirty at the latest.”