Buck bent in close to me, his mouth inches from mine. “Why don’t you do everyone here a favor and go home?”
I leaned away. “And why don’t you do everyone here a favor and carry breath mints?”
I hurried out to the gym before he could react. Dozens of kids were warming up, stretching, shooting around. I made my way to the basket farthest from the locker room. I stretched and took a few shots. But I was nervous. The shots clanged off the rim.
From across the court, I heard snickering. Then Buck yelled, “Nice bricks!”
Man, I had to relax.
A whistle blew. Someone shouted, “Everyone grab a seat on the bleachers.” So we did. Troy and Buck sat in the first row, so I made my way to the back. Coach Grady came out, and the gym fell silent.
“Welcome, gentlemen, to basketball. My name is Coach Grady. I’m the head coach here at Kasselton. Next to me is Coach Stashower. He’ll run JV.”
Coach Grady wore gray sweatpants with elastic leg cuffs and a black hoodie with a hands-warmer pouch. His hair was thinning and the few remaining strands had been grown long and plastered down to his scalp.
“In a few minutes,” he continued, “we are going to divide you up. The sophomores and freshmen are going to Gym Two.” He pointed to the smaller gym adjacent to this one. “The seniors and juniors will stay here.”
Coach Grady’s voice echoed the way a voice always does in a high school gym. They are all the same. They all have that thick brick and wooden pullout benches and smell like old socks and disinfectant. I glanced around this place I so much wanted to call home. A big poster that read 1,000 POINT SCORERS snagged my eye. Eleven students in the history of this school had achieved that goal. Nine boys, two girls.
One player had even scored more than two thousand points.
Guess who?
Yep, Uncle Myron-the all-time leading scorer. My eyes traveled down the list. I stopped when I saw the name EDWARD TAYLOR-that was Troy’s dad and, well, Chief Taylor. He was the second-leading scorer of all time with 1,758 points in his career. I looked down a few more names. There was TROY TAYLOR, the most recent entry, with 1,322 points and an asterisk, noting that Troy was still an active player and so that number would rise.
I sighed. It was like a list of my enemies. I was surprised the Butcher of Lodz hadn’t scored a thousand points!
“As most of you know, we have a stellar group of seniors returning to this team. Last year, we even won the county championship for the first time in a decade.” Coach Grady gestured toward the new COUNTY CHAMPIONS banner on the far wall. I counted six other county championships, the first in 1968.
“All five starters from that team are back with us this year,” Coach Grady went on, “and when the season is over, we want to finally hang another state championship banner up on that wall.”
Now he gestured to the two large STATE CHAMPIONSHIP banners that humbled the county ones. That’s right-Kasselton High had won only two state championships in their history, both dating back about twenty-five years. I did the math, but I already knew what the answer was going to be. Guess who’d been on both teams? Come on, you’ll never guess.
Dang, how did you know?
Uncle Myron. Long shadow much?
“That’s our goal,” Coach said. “A state championship. We will settle for nothing less.”
That got applause, the most enthusiastic of which came from Troy and Buck and the rest of the returning players sitting in the front. The rest of us, now suddenly feeling like interlopers on the “chosen” seniors, were a tad more restrained.
“Now, before we break down and start tryouts, team captain Troy Taylor would like to address all of you. This is important stuff, so listen up. Troy?”
Troy rose slowly. He turned and stood in front of us and lowered his head, as though in prayer. For a few moments, he didn’t move. What the heck was this? Troy seemed to be trying to summon some inner strength.
Or maybe he was working up to shouting “Ema! Moooo!” again.
Man, I did not like this guy.
Finally, Troy broke the silence. “As you know, this is a very hard time for Kasselton High and especially for me personally. A beautiful girl was shot and nearly killed.”
Oh no, I thought. He isn’t going there…
“A girl I care so much for. A girl who cheered for this team and, well, her lucky boyfriend…”
He was going there!
“A girl who has been such a big part of Troy Taylor’s life…”
Wait, did he just refer to himself in the third person? I wanted to slap the side of his head. What a pompous gasbag. I looked at the faces of my fellow tryout-ees, figuring that they’d be bored or sneering. But that wasn’t the case at all. They sat in rapt attention.
“Well, that special girl who stole my heart is lying in a hospital bed, clinging to life.”
Troy paused now and I wondered when he’d hired an acting coach. I rolled my eyes at one of the other guys in the bleachers, but he just glared at me.
They were buying it!
“Despite her condition, Rachel and I have, of course, been in touch.”
Huh? What a liar. Or… wait, hold up a sec…
“So I want you all to know. Rachel will pull through. She has promised me that. She has promised me that she will come back and put on her cheerleader uniform and cheer when Troy Taylor sinks his patented three-pointer…”
I wondered whether I had ever wanted to punch someone so badly in my entire life.
“So I want us all to keep Rachel in our thoughts. We are dedicating this season to her. All of our uniforms will have this on it.”
Troy pointed to the right side of his chest where the initials RC-Rachel Caldwell-had been sewn onto his practice jersey.
You have to be kidding me.
“And I want you to wear these initials with pride. I want you to think of Rachel, in that hospital bed, and I want that to make you play even better, even harder…” Troy started to bite his lips as though fighting back tears. Buck rose to comfort him, but Troy shook him off and pointed to the sky.
“Take care of my Rachel, Big Guy. Bring her back to me.”
There was a moment of silence-and then the guys sitting with me broke into thunderous applause. They start hooting and hollering and then they started up a “Troy! Troy! Troy!” chant. Troy actually raised his hand to acknowledge the ovation, like he’d just been introduced to present an Oscar. I sat there, thinking I might just vomit on the first day of tryouts.
Coach Grady blew his whistle. “Okay, that’s enough,” he said in a tone that maybe gave me hope he wasn’t buying it. “Everyone take five laps. Then JV to Gym Two and let’s start with layup drills.”
CHAPTER 19
There is plenty I don’t love about sports. I don’t love how athletes are worshipped because they can, say, hurl a sphere with greater velocity or jam a ball through a metallic hoop with more proficiency than most. I don’t love how important we make the games, comparing them to real battles and even wars. I don’t love how it is all anyone in towns like Kasselton talks about. I don’t love (hate, in fact) trash talk and excessive celebrating (as my father used to say, “Act like you’ve been there before”). I don’t like the way spectators scream at referees and whine about coaches. I don’t like the single-mindedness and selfishness that is inherent in all competitors, including me. And in a town like this, I don’t like all the babble about becoming a pro athlete when your odds are eight times better of falling and dying in your bathroom (true!).
But there is plenty I do love. I love sportsmanship, as corny as that sounds. I love shaking hands after the game and giving an opponent a knowing nod. I love sharing a great moment with my teammates, the joy in that singular connection. I love the sweat. I love making the effort, even if it doesn’t go my way. I love how you can be surrounded by a frenzy of activity-and yet still be completely alone. I love the sound of a ball dribbling off the gym floor. I love the escape you find only on a playing field. I love the purity of the game itself. I love the competition-and by that I mean “winning,” not “beating,” “besting,” or “belittling” your opponent, though I get how that can all get confused. I love the randomness of the breaks. I love how you really don’t know how that ball is going to bounce. And I love the honesty. I love the fact that even if your dad is your Little League coach and makes you pitcher or quarterback, eventually, if you don’t have the talent, that fact will win out.