Basketball (or Something Like It) (8 page)

“Who found this guy?” one of the dads was saying. Anabel thought it was Tyler Bischoff’s dad, but she wasn’t sure.

“I think Bruce Adler did. I think he knew someone who knew someone at his office,” the other dad answered.

“Well, that explains that.”

“What? Adler playing the whole game?”

“Yeah, and look at that new kid, Binder. What a ball hog. He never passes.”

Anabel looked over to Mrs. Binder to see if she had heard. It was hard to tell. She was just watching the game. She just rooted for everyone. Every kid. She even clapped when the other team made a basket.

The-maybe-Tyler’s-dad-guy leaned in closer to the other man. “Wyatt is open half the time, but that kid never gets him the ball. He just shoots.”

So that was Wyatt Greman’s dad. Anabel knew his little sister, Caroline, from Girl Scouts two years ago. She watched Mr. Greman’s bald head nodding in agreement.

“He plays street ball. It looks good now, but against a good team he’ll turn over the ball every time.”

That is so not true, Anabel thought. Jeremy was better than both their kids combined and they just didn’t like it. Anabel didn’t want to look over at Mrs. Binder again. Hopefully she didn’t understand what they were talking about. Or she didn’t know they were talking about her grandson. Or at best, she didn’t know they were saying mean things about him.

The game was finally over. North Bridge won 36–33. The boys were jumping all over one another. Everyone looked really happy. Except for Mrs. Binder. She didn’t say anything to Anabel. She didn’t even say her usual, “Oh, Anabel, you’ll be playing someday. And you’re going to knock ‘em all off their feet.”

Anabel figured that even if she hadn’t heard what those dads were saying, she could
feel
it. It was ugly. Like toxic waste.

Mrs. Binder made her way slowly down the bleachers. Anabel watched her as she waited for Jeremy. She tried to put her arm around him when they were walking out, but he wouldn’t let her.

It was like she was trying to protect him from that feeling. But Mrs. Binder had no idea what she was up against. She just had no idea.

But Anabel did.

N
athan’s father was excited to hear about the win. So perhaps, Nathan thought later, he had talked it up
too
much.

The new coach, Quince or Vince or whatever, told everyone at halftime that the team needed a win this time. He said the play was going to be to Jeremy. He told Julian and Matt where to stand to set picks and keep the lane open. He told Camden to keep getting those offensive rebounds. He told Hank to keep pressing their point guard. It was working great. And he told Jeremy to keep shooting. He was hot.

When you’re hot, shoot, he told Jeremy.

Winning was good, Nathan thought. Even though he barely got off the bench the whole time, it was better than losing. It felt good. Satisfying.

No, it was fantastic.

And it made a much better story. Nathan’s mother had made roast turkey breast with gravy, string beans, and sweet potatoes. It all felt very festive.

“I think I might like to come to your next game,” his father said. “Against Hollis. Is that right? It’s an away game, isn’t it?”

“Huh?” Nathan stopped his fork midway to his mouth.

“I want to try out our new digital camera,” his
father added. “It’s got a telephoto lens, you know.”

“I’ll come, too,” his mother said. She was smiling, but she had it all wrong, Nathan thought. He knew she was feeling guilty about the new baby taking up so much of her time. And true, Nathan hadn’t done much to convince her otherwise.

“No, that’s okay, Mom,” Nathan said. “I know how tired you are.”

He wasn’t going to be able to reverse the damage now. He had made it all sound so great. He had gotten carried away.

“Of course I’m not too tired,” she said. “I want to see my son play.”

Didn’t they say there was an amino acid in turkey that made people relax and feel good? Tryptophan, that was it. Only Nathan wasn’t feeling too good right then.

“Maybe we won’t win again,” Nathan tried. “Maybe never again.”

“So what?” his father said. He pushed his seat back from the table. He was actually smiling. It was definitely the tryptophan. It produced serotonin, which affected the part of the brain involved in relaxation.

“But I might not play much this time,” Nathan went on. “I mean, since I played so much last game. You know, it’s got to be fair and all.”

“I think the coach will play the best players. You’re
not babies. You’re in sixth grade. In three years you’ll be in high school. At some point you play to win,” his father was saying. “The better players play more. You kids have to learn that sometime.”

Nathan wondered what planet his father had been living on.

“At least athletics is the one place where fair is fair. Where the better man gets the job,” Nathan’s father went on.

He had spent so much of his life working hard. He had three graduate degrees that Nathan knew of. His father had so left behind the world he had come from, but he hadn’t quite landed in this one. Sports wasn’t fair at all. Fathers favored their own kids. Coaches had one agenda. Parents had another. Some kids made the team even when there were other kids who were clearly better. Some parents did favors for the coach; others just complained really loud.

But Coach Vince seemed pretty fair. Everybody played. And besides, they won. Nathan almost smiled again, remembering, and then his mother spoke.

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter if you play a lot,” his mother said. “We’ll just come to root for your team.”

Mothers.

“It’s settled then,” Nathan’s father said.

Nathan thought he might be allergic to serotonin.

“I
t’s school policy not to ask anyone why they’re in here,” Mrs. Cooperman said. She was in charge of detention that day.

“So why are you in here?” she asked.

Hank smiled right away. Mrs. Cooperman was pretty and funny. Maybe detention wouldn’t be so awful after all.

The whole thing had made him pretty nervous. He had never really
had
detention before. Not a real stay-after-school kind of detention. He had a bad stomachache that morning. He didn’t even want to go to school. But he had to. The school had called his mother the day before and sent him home with a note. Two days of detention.

There is a no-tolerance rule about fighting, Hank’s mother was informed. (Of course, she called right away.) It didn’t matter who started it or for how long this boy, Alex, had been picking on her son. Hank’s mother almost started to cry right on the phone with the assistant principal. (Oh,
God, please no.)
Not because she thought Hank had been hurt, he obviously wasn’t hurt, but for the injustice of it all.

Hank’s parents had this thing about injustice.

“It was no big deal,” Hank had tried to explain that night.

“Well, I’m glad you stood up for yourself,” Hank’s dad said. “You should do that more often.”

“I did, Dad.” Hank said. “And I got detention.”

“Well, that’s not real life. That’s middle school. In real life you’ve got to look out for yourself because nobody is going to do it for you. You’ll never get anywhere in this world unless you’re assertive. You’ve got to be more assertive.”

Hank knew he wasn’t talking about the fight anymore or even about school. He meant basketball. He thought Hank was too unassertive. He felt Hank would be playing more if he demanded more time, the way the other kids did. The way the other kids’ fathers did.

And frankly, Hank might
earn
more playing time if he were more assertive. If he played harder.

At least, that’s what his father thought.

Hank knew he already
was
playing as hard as he could.

“Are you in here for fighting?” Mrs. Cooperman said. She took out a couple of plastic containers and placed them on top of her desk.

Hank nodded.

“I can see that. You look like some kind of tough guy. So where’s your friend? He’s supposed to be here, too.”

They both looked at the clock as the little hand clicked into place and just as it did, Jeremy walked in.

“Hope you two brought a snack,” Mrs. Cooperman said.

“But I thought we weren’t allowed to eat in here,” Hank said.

Mrs. Cooperman took a big forkful of her salad. “Well,” she said. “That’s true. But I don’t like to eat alone so you better bring something for tomorrow.” Mrs. Cooperman looked down at the computer sheet in front of her. “And we have another day together, so bring cookies if you can. I like cookies.”

A
nabel was late for the fourth day in a row. She missed the bus and her dad had to drive her to school. He wasn’t getting this Mr. Mom thing very well. He was late. By the time he pulled into the drop-off line, all the other cars were gone. The doors were shut. Not a good sign.

“I’m sorry, Anabel, but those are the rules. Three unexcused tardies and you get detention.”

Anabel stood at the counter in the main office. She needed a late pass, and she got detention instead. If it helped any, the attendance secretary looked really sorry as she wrote out the slip. Really, she did.

“What period do you have lunch?” the secretary asked.

“Fifth, but I’m staying in for my science project,” Anabel said.

“How about fourth? What do you have fourth?”

“English.”

The secretary was shaking her head. “Well, next week is sixth-grade testing. I’m sorry, Anabel, you’ll have to stay after for detention. Tomorrow. I’ll send a note home. Oh, now it’s okay. Don’t get upset. It’s not that bad. Anabel, I’ll explain it to your mother. Don’t worry.”

Anabel didn’t know who to feel worse for, herself or the secretary. The secretary looked like
she
was going to cry.

“It’s okay,” Anabel whispered.

“I’ll call your mother. I’ll tell her it’s no big deal. It’s just one of those silly school rules.”

“Sure,” Anabel said. She imagined the answering machine at home picking up the call. It got nestled in between a call about AAU tryouts and team photo day; nobody would even hear it.

T
he next move was a clandestine masterpiece. Coach Vince quit and Tyler Bischoff’s dad quietly took over the team. There was a lot of speculation as to why Coach Vince actually left, especially after he had brought the team to its one and only victory.

Most parents agreed it was the parents. Every parent other than themselves, of course.

There was a rumor going around that right after the game, Coach Vince got no less than nine phone calls at home. The phone calls ranged from, “My kid didn’t play enough” to “What are your qualifications for coaching?” to “Maybe we could get together at my club and play a little golf in the spring,” and that
Coach Vince could see the writing on the wall. And he just quit. He told the boys at the last practice that he had too many obligations with work and his new home, but he looked genuinely upset. The boys were, too. They liked Coach Vince.

“Who’s going to be our new coach?” Matt King asked.

“I don’t know, Matt. Mr. Bischoff will be talking to you now. Maybe he has a better idea about that.”

Tyler’s dad was standing in the gym, leaning against the wall under the hoop. When he heard his name he pushed off with his back and stepped forward to “say a few words.”

He spoke for over thirty-five minutes, while the boys sat cross-legged on the floor. He talked about getting through these minor bumps in the road. He talked about the future of the team. About having a winning attitude. About working hard and how most of the learning is done at practice. Playing during a game was only a small part of it all.

Then he talked about
his
school days, playing basketball and baseball in high school and then, yes, in college. He told them how he was on his all-state basketball team and that
he
came from a much bigger town. And it had a much more “diverse” population than North Bridge, he added. Only a few kids knew what he meant by that. Mr. Bischoff went on to say
that he was looking forward to a positive season from here on in.

“So who’s going to be our new coach?” Matt King asked again.

“Are you really that dumb?” Michael Morrisey said out loud.

Then Harrison Neeley said his butt hurt from sitting on the floor for so long, and Hank Adler said he had to go to the bathroom.

It was past time to go anyway.

“W
hat are
you
doing in here?”

Nathan was not surprised to see Hank and Jeremy in detention (he had heard about the fight in the cafeteria, of course), but they were apparently surprised to see him.

“Is this detention?” Nathan asked.

“Yeah, and what are you doing here?” Jeremy asked again.

“It doesn’t look like detention.”

“Well, it is,” Hank Adler said.

“So what’s she doing here?” Nathan pointed to Anabel Morrisey. There was no way she’d be in detention.

“I was late. What are
you
doing here?” Anabel
asked. She was sitting at a long table reading a book and munching chips out of a huge bag. It didn’t look like detention.

“Where’s the teacher?” Nathan asked. He was still standing in the doorway.

“What’s the matter with you?” Jeremy said. He threw a balled-up piece of paper at Nathan.

“It’s Mrs. Cooperman, and I don’t think she likes having detention duty very much,” Hank explained. “She kind of wanders in and out.”

“Oh.” Nathan stepped into the room.

“So?” Jeremy asked. “Whatcha do?”

Nathan hesitated. His reason for getting detention was going to sound so stupid and he knew it. For a second he considered saying that he had cursed at a teacher or pushed or something good like that, but nobody was going to believe him. Besides, lying all the time to his parents was beginning to eat away at his stomach lining. Nathan had been trying to figure out how to get a prescription for the “little purple pill.” He was sure he had an ulcer.