EllRay Jakes Stands Tall (7 page)

14

HERE WE GO

My fancy footwork has failed me.

“You say you should naturally be good at basketball,” Dad says, his voice quiet. “And just why is that, son?”

Unfortunately, I am unable to delete what I just said from Dad's mental hard drive, so I have to answer his question. “Because just look at the Lakers and the Clippers,” I say, naming Los Angeles's two professional basketball teams. “They have tons of players with brown skin. They really do. So my friends at school must kind of expect
me
to be good at it, too.
I
expect me to be good at it.”

And—here we go. My dad is really touchy about skin color, mostly because there aren't that many people with brown skin in Oak Glen, California.

But he should have thought of that before we moved here, shouldn't he?

This is all his fault!

Dad clears his throat. “You are fortunate enough to have many career paths that will be open to you, son,” he says, pinning me to the back of my chair with a look. “And certainly not just professional sports. You will finish primary school, and middle school, and high school,” he announces. “And then you'll graduate from college. After that, we'll see.”

“But I could be playing basketball that whole time, couldn't I?” I ask. “Having
fun
? Getting some exercise?”

“Sure, if you love the sport,” Dad says. “But not because of the color of your skin, or because of what people expect you to be good at. And there are other sports as well, EllRay. There's tennis, and golf, and baseball, for example.”

“Us kids like
basketball
,” I mumble, not meeting his eyes. “B-ball.”

“‘
We
kids like basketball,'” he corrects me. “You would say, ‘We like basketball,' remember. That's the test.”

“And I'm okay at the drills,” I continue, ignoring the grammar lesson. “So far, anyway. But when it comes time for us to play, I'll be scampering around
like a hamster on an exercise wheel while everyone else gets to shoot baskets,” I say.

“‘Like a hamster,'” Dad repeats, blinking at me from behind his glasses. “That's how you see yourself, son?”

“Not all the time,” I say. “Just some of the time.”

“Well, here's my advice to you,” Dad says, stretching. “Enjoy the game as much as possible, for now. All the ball-tossing, and the coaching, and so on. Squeeze out every drop of fun that you can, while you can. Because there's nothing any of us can do about how tall you will grow, or when—no matter how much we love you.”

“I know you love me,” I mumble, cringing back into my chair.

Geez.
I wasn't asking for
mush.

“And your mom and I will be on the lookout for some other sports you might enjoy,” Dad says. “
With
basketball, not instead of basketball,” he adds, before I can object. “It's always good to have a team sport you enjoy and a solo sport, too. One that will last a lifetime.”

He sounds pretty sure of himself. “What's your solo sport, Dad?” I ask, watching my foot move
the kickball back and forth on the rug.

“Hiking and rock climbing, of course,” he says, smiling at me. “Remember the hiking and rock climbing we do on all our camping trips? When we go searching for rocks and fossils for my collection? You're great at both those sports, by the way. Just so you know.”

“Thanks,” I say, staring down at the ball.

I never thought of hiking and rock climbing as sports before. They're just
fun.

“Now, turn off that worrying brain, son, and hop into the shower,” Dad says. “Wash away those blues.”

“Okay,” I tell him.

No more Alfie-talk! And no losing my
Die, Creature, Die
privileges for a couple of days, either.

Score.

Two points.

And I hop—while the hopping is good.

15

PLURALS AND DRIBBLE DRILLS

“All done, spelling champs?” Ms. Sanchez says after Word Challenge, something we do every Monday morning. “Then give the corrected papers back to your neighbors, take a look at your scores, and pass everything forward to me.”

Today, our spelling words were all plurals. “Plural” means more than one.

Here is how I see plurals. “Boys” is the plural of boy. “Basketballs” is the plural of basketball. So far, so good. You just add “S.”

But plurals can get a whole lot trickier. If there was more than one Joe in your class, there would be two Joes. J-O-E-S. But two
banjos
would end with “J-O-S,” not “J-O-E-S.”

Luckily, one banjo at a time is usually enough.

Plurals can get confusing with animals, too. Say you have one mouse. If he has a friend, they are “mice,” not “mouses.” But more than one house is not “hice,” it's “houses.” It would be fun to say, “
The mice are living in their hice
,” but you can't.

By now in life, we are supposed to know most plurals, I think, passing forward my Word Challenge. But basically, you have to
remember
the plural of each word. Because there is no one rule that you can apply to all plurals. That's why I think Ms. Sanchez should call this lesson “memorizing,” not “learning plurals.”

No offense, English language.

“You may be excused,” Ms. Sanchez says when all the Word Challenge papers are on her tidy desk. “But no running, please,” she adds, as most of the boys—and some of the girls—jump to their feet.

Because—it is perfect basketball weather outside! Pre-basketball, anyway. The last raindrop fell sometime during “banjos.”

And it's finally time for recess!

“Line up for your drills, and take your go-to stance,” Coach shouts as we run onto the sparkling playground, still shining from this morning's rain. “Now, now!” he adds, clapping his baseball mitt-sized hands together.

And we line up super-fast. I put my feet a shoulder's length apart, one foot forward, and I bend my knees a little.

“Okay,” Coach says. “Running in place on the balls of your feet.” He prowls up and down the middle of our two lines. “
Hup, hup, hup!
Who wants to quit running and go eat snackies with the little kids on the teeter-totters?”

“
Me
,” Marco murmurs. But I'm the only one who hears him.

You're not supposed to eat on the teeter-totters, as
Mr. Havens
would be the first to tell you. But instead of arguing with
Coach
, we run faster.

I wonder if he is like this with his second grade class? They must be like miniature marines by now!

“Left side, dribble drills,” Coach shouts, tossing balls to my line. “Right side, keep running—but in a tight circle this time. Turn those bodies around.
And keep your knees bent. This isn't the Monster Mash, people. Move! Move!”

I start dribbling, and Corey runs like a hundred-battery toy.

“Lower, lower, lower,” Coach tells us dribblers. “And now I want you to grab those balls and pivot, still dribbling. Pivoting means that you turn on one foot, keeping it in place. Don't just take off and run, because if you move more than one or two steps without dribbling the ball, that's called traveling. And it's a
bad thing
. Say ‘traveling,' everyone. Say it!”

“
Traveling
,” the dribblers and the runners all shout.

“Say ‘bad thing,'” Coach tells us.

“
Bad thing.
”

“Oopsie,” Emma cries out, as her bouncing ball skitters away from her like a bank robber trying to make a getaway. Kry snags Emma's ball without missing a beat.

Awesome!

I wait for one of the guys—Jared, Stanley, or Jason, probably—to make fun of Emma for saying
“Oopsie,” but no one dares. Not with Coach on the job.

Fwe-e-e-et!
Coach's silver whistle blows. “And—come on back and switch sides,” he hollers. “No time to lose.
Hup, hup!”

Coach is tough, but he's fair.

Plurals and dribble drills in the same morning, I think as I run in place, trying to copy Corey's mad skills as I turn in a tight circle.
Run, run, run, run, run!

“Now for some bounce pass drills,” Coach says, grabbing a ball to demonstrate. He bounces the ball toward me once, and I catch it. “Good one, EllRay,” Coach says, and I feel like the sun is shining all over me. It doesn't even matter how short I am! “Pass it on,” Coach tells me. “Hot potato. And keep those fingertips apart, don't forget.”

I bounce the ball toward Marco, who is standing there chewing on his lower lip.

“Catch that rock,” Coach shouts at Marco. “Both hands! But don't look at the ball, people. Look where it's
going
. Okay, let's get a few of 'em in the air,” he says, tossing a couple more balls into the
mix. “Keep 'em moving, moving, moving!” he says. “One bounce only. And no ball hogs allowed.”

I don't know what a ball hog is, but I can guess. And I don't want to be one.

“Good job, EllRay,” Coach calls out. “You're on
fire, kid! And you too, Kry. Way to go. Now, we're gonna try some swats before we cool down. EllRay,” he says, turning to me. “My
man
. Throw the ball to Kevin again. Just a rapid-fire pass this time, no bounce.”

And so I shoot the ball straight to Kevin, hoping I am doing the right thing. I keep my eye on Kevin's hands, not on the ball. But before the ball gets to Kevin, Coach's tree-trunk arm appears out of nowhere, and he knocks the ball out of the air—toward Jared, who catches it on the bounce.

“That was a swat. Good one, Jared,” Coach says, and Jared's face creases into a rare smile. He looks like a whole new person! “Now, shoot that ball to Emma, Jared. And Corey, you try to intercept it. Then swat it toward Annie Pat.”

“No, no. That's okay,” Annie Pat says, waving her hands in the air like twin starfish.

Plural, “starfish.” Go figure.

“Here it comes, A.P.,” Coach tells her. “Heads up!”

And Annie Pat actually catches it.

Nobody is more surprised than she is. She smiles big-time, and her face turns pink.

“And now we're gonna slow it down,” Coach tells us. “Just gentle passes, guys. But using
both hands
, and keeping those knees slightly bent. You're like coiled springs, people! Pass those balls toward me. EllRay, I'm putting you in charge of the net bag.”

Plural, “net bags.” Easy.

I scoop up the net bag and start jamming balls into it.
Hup, hup!

“We'll meet again Wednesday morning, during recess,” Coach tells us. “Until then, keep handling those basketballs at home. Or those beach balls. Whatever. And if you can, find a wall—
outside,
people!—and do some rapid-fire passing drills on your own. Against the wall, no bounce when you pass. And never stop practicing. Just stand about two feet from the wall, throw
hard
, and work your way back. Got that?”

Not really, I think. But I figure
someone
knows what Coach is talking about. And maybe they can tell me. After all, we have three more recesses before Wednesday morning's coaching session.

“Recesses.” The plural of recess. You have to stick that “E” in there, or it would look funny. “
Sss
,” like the noise snakes make.

We have this afternoon, tomorrow morning, and tomorrow afternoon.

Coach already said I was “on fire,” didn't he? And that's the best thing any grown-up who isn't a relative has ever said to me in my entire life! So who knows how good I'll be by Wednesday morning?

Things can only get better.

Right?