Hook Shot Hero (3 page)

T
im returned to the courts that afternoon for basketball practice with the other boys from the Eagles Nest. As he ran his warmup laps with the sun beating down on him, he found himself sympathizing with Red’s complaint about the heat.

Too bad I can’t turn off the sun and turn on the cool,
he thought,
for me and for Red!

After the laps, the players divided into two groups, guards in one, forwards and centers in the other. Tim was in Tito’s group with Mike, Sam, and Elijah.

“We’re working on dribbling first, then outside shooting today,” Tito informed them as he placed sets of orange cones in two rows. He tossed them each a ball. “As guards, you have to be able to dribble with either hand, not just your dominant one. Let’s see what you can do.”

He told them to form two lines at center court. “Dribble down to the hoop and back through the cones. Speed and control the whole way. Whenever I blow my whistle, switch hands. Ready? Go!”

Tim was first in his line. At Tito’s command, he took off. He focused on keeping his dribble low, using his fingertips and wrist to move the ball—and not letting Mike, who was weaving through the other cones, get ahead of him. He succeeded at all three.

Fweet!
shrieked the whistle.

Without missing a beat, Tim bounced the ball to his left hand. He’d only gone a few steps when—
fweet!
—Tito blew his whistle again. Again, Tim switched hands smoothly.

Then, as he was turning around at the baseline, Tito gave another blast. Still turning, Tim fumbled the cross dribble. The ball hit a cone and rolled off the court. Red-faced, he dodged past Mike to retrieve it.

“Watch it!” Mike growled.

Tim’s face was still burning when he passed the ball to Sam, who was next in line. When all the boys had gone through the cones three times, Tito called them back together.

“A few mistakes, but overall, pretty good,” Tito said. “There are plenty of drills to make your dribble even stronger. The figure eight, for example.”

He got into a low stance with one leg forward. Dribbling just a few inches off the ground, he moved the ball in a half circle around his front foot, passed it between his legs to his other hand, and then dribbled it around the outside of his back foot before passing between his legs again. When complete, the ball’s path formed a figure eight.

Tim had done the figure eight before, so he didn’t have any trouble with it. Mike didn’t, either, but Sam and Elijah needed some practice to get it right. When they succeeded, Tito moved on to the scissor dribble.

With his feet shoulder-width apart and his right leg forward, he dribbled a few times and then bounced the ball between his legs. He caught it with his other hand and dribbled it to the front before sending between his legs again. He brought the ball even with his front leg and began the drill from the top.

“Join in,” he called.

Once everyone had a good rhythm going, he urged them to increase their speed. They kept at it for a full minute before he told them to stop.

“How are your wrists and arms feeling?” he asked.

“A little tired,” Elijah admitted. Tim and Sam nodded in agreement.

“Whenever you get a chance, dribble against a wall,” Tito suggested. “Keeping the ball from falling will really build up your arm strength and stamina.”

Tim had never heard of doing such a thing but decided it was worth a try.

“Okay, one last activity,” Tito said. “Get a second ball and spread out along the center-court line.” When the boys were in position, Tito told them to begin dribbling both balls, one with each hand.

“Keep them in sync until you reach the foul line,” he added. “Then alternate them so one is hitting the ground while the other is hitting your hand. Turn at the baseline and come back.”

The drill was harder than it sounded.

“Stay low!” Tito barked. “Eyes up, not on the ball! Control the dribbles!”

Tim was breathing hard when Tito ended the double dribble drill and sent them to Jody to work on their shooting.

“At yesterday’s game,” the counselor said, “Dick and I noticed that some of you didn’t take shots from outside the key, even when you were wide open.”

Mike suddenly coughed “Tim!” into his hand. Jody frowned. Mike thumped his chest, cleared his throat a few times, and then nodded as if to say everything was fine.

“An-y-way,” Jody continued, “pair off, one person on offense, the other on defense. Offense, dribble around, throw a few fakes, and then try for a shot. Defense, be annoying but don’t interfere too much. The point is to let your partner get comfortable taking shots while being guarded, not to block his every attempt.”

Tim paired up with Sam and started on offense. Sam followed Jody’s instructions to the letter, allowing Tim to get off several shots. Some of them missed the basket, but others banked in softly. After a few minutes, they changed sides, and Sam had his turn to drop some through the hoop.

Then Jody had them switch partners. Now Tim faced Mike. Dread bubbled up inside him. He wondered how long it would take for Mike to make him feel foolish.

Not long, it turned out. On his first possession, Tim fake-pumped, hoping Mike would jump to block the ball, thus giving him a chance to go back up for the real shot.

But he never got that shot off, because Mike punched the ball out of his hands in mid-fake!

“Jeez, Daniels, hit the weight room already, will you?” Mike said in a mocking tone. “You’re so weak you can’t even hold the ball above your head!”

T
im was so angry he saw red before his eyes. He started toward Mike, hands balled into fists. But before he’d taken two steps, someone pulled him back. He spun around and found himself staring at Dick Dunbar.

“Is there a problem here?” Dick asked quietly.

Tim bit his lip. He wanted to tell Dick what Mike had done but realized he’d sound like a crybaby if he did. So instead, he shook his head and mumbled, “Just going to get the ball.”

When he returned to the court, Dick beckoned him over to an empty court. He called Sam over, too.

“Mike and Elijah are going to work with Jody, and I’ll work with you two,” he said. “You’ve done some one-on-one shooting, right? Let’s move on to two-on-one. You two bring the ball down, work it around the key, and try for a shot. I’ll play defense and try to stop you. Okay?”

Anything to get me away from Mike,
Tim felt like replying. But he just nodded and moved to the center line with Sam.

Sam had the ball first. He took a few dribbles and passed to Tim. Dick leaped forward and covered him. Tim dribbled to his right. Dick matched him step for step. Tim tried to shake him off by speeding up, then stopping quickly, bouncing the ball between his legs, picking it up on his other side, and then changing direction.

Dick wasn’t fooled, though, so Tim sent the ball to Sam. Sam was in good shooting position, so he turned and lofted the ball toward the hoop. It touched the backboard and dropped through the net.

“Well done!” Dick praised. “Go again.” Tim and Sam hustled back to center court. Before they began, Tim whispered, “How about the ol’ give-and-go?”

Sam nodded. “I shot last time, so this time, give it to me, and then go so I can give it back!”

Tim flashed him a thumbs-up, and the two started downcourt with Tim in control of the ball. Dick came out to challenge. Tim bounced the ball to Sam, assuming that Dick would follow the ball and give him an open lane to the hoop. All Sam had to do was pass back to him and—
bloop!
—Tim would put in an easy layup.

Unfortunately, Dick didn’t do what Tim expected him to. As Tim charged forward, Dick fell back to protect the basket. Tim barreled into him at full speed, waist high—and knocked the lanky center’s legs right out from under him!

Dick crash-landed on his side. He rolled over with a groan, cradling his elbow, as Jody, Tito, and the Eagles rushed over. Tim backed away, his eyes wide with horror.

“Can you straighten your arm?” Jody asked.

Dick tried but only moved it a little before grimacing and shaking his head. “I think I better go to the infirmary,” he said, his voice tight with pain. He looked around and found Tim. “Daniels, can you lend me a hand getting there?”

Jody frowned. “I think Tito or I should—”

“Tim got hit hard, too,” Dick interjected. “I want him to get checked out.”

Jody helped him to his feet. “He’s all yours, Tim. Make sure he gets there in one piece.”

Tim nodded dumbly. Then he and Dick headed to the infirmary. It was slow going and silent except for the occasional grunt of pain from Dick. They had almost reached their destination when Dick paused.

“I don’t really think you’re hurt,” he said. “I wanted you to come with me so I could tell you I don’t blame you for what happened. It was an accident. Basketball is a contact sport, no matter what anyone tells you. I’ve been injured before—and a lot worse than this!”

“But what if it’s really bad?” Tim whispered. “Like, bad enough to end your career before it’s even begun?”

Dick laid the hand of his uninjured arm on Tim’s shoulder. “Remember what I said about not putting all my eggs in one basket? I’ve got backup plans if basketball doesn’t work out. If this injury is bad enough to keep me off the court forever—and I really don’t think it is—then I’ve got plenty of other options.”

He pointed a finger at Tim. “So now that you know that, I hereby order you
not
to beat yourself up over this. Deal?”

“Deal,” Tim agreed.

They mounted the steps of the infirmary together. As Tim pushed open the door, Dick smiled at him. “By the way, I don’t know where Gruber gets off calling you weak. You hit me like a linebacker going for the quarterback!”

Tim left Dick with the nurse on duty. He wanted to stick around, but the nurse told him that it was getting close to dinner and that he needed to return to his camp unit or else he’d miss eating that night. It had been a busy day and Tim was hungry, so he did as the nurse instructed. Besides, Dick told him to go.

Campers were pouring into the dining hall, talking and laughing as usual. Tim joined the food line. He picked up his tray and reached for his silverware. His fork, still hot from the dishwasher, burned his fingers.

“Ouch!” He dropped it with a loud clatter and waved his hand through the air to cool it.

That’s when he noticed that a strange silence had fallen around him. He looked around to see what was going on—and gulped.

Everyone around him was staring at him. One camper nudged another. “That’s the guy who took out Dick Dunbar.”

Like a flash, word of what had happened spread like wildfire throughout the dining hall. Soon, every person at camp knew that a kid named Tim Daniels had injured basketball star Dick Dunbar.

It didn’t matter that Dick didn’t blame Tim. Everyone else at Camp Wickasaukee did.

T
he next day was the worst of Tim’s life. Most of the Eagles shunned him—the only exceptions were Billy and Sam. Their efforts to cheer him up might have worked if Tim hadn’t heard a rumor that Dick needed an operation to fix his arm.

The morning mentor session was disastrous. Tim yelled himself hoarse trying to get Red, Peter, and Keanu to pay attention to his instructions.

The afternoon practice was equally awful. Without Dick around, the Eagles turned in a lackluster performance on the court. Even Tito and Jody, usually so full of competitive energy, appeared not to care how their players executed their drills.

And that was a problem, for the first of three inter-camp matches was scheduled for the next day. The basketball game between the Eagles Nest and Camp Woodbine’s thirteen-and fourteen-year-old boys was the last competition of that match. If Wickasaukee and Woodbine were close in points by the day’s end, that game would decide which camp was the overall winner. So the Eagles needed to be fired up and fully prepared.

But the players couldn’t seem to pull it together. They blamed one another for mistakes, loudly pointed out one another’s faults, and ran their plays so haphazardly that few of them worked. Tito became so aggravated that he kicked a basketball into a nearby field. Jody’s frown deepened with each passing minute until he looked like a volcano ready to explode.

“We’re going to get crushed tomorrow,” Tim told Billy when they met up in their room before dinner.

Truer words had never been spoken. While Camp Wickasaukee emerged victorious at the end of the day of events, it was no thanks to the Eagles. They lost their match 62–47.

Tim had spent most of the last quarter of the game on the bench, watching Mike Gruber try to single-handedly erase the point deficit. Whenever Tim did get in, it was as if he didn’t exist. Except for inbounding passes to Elijah, he barely touched the ball because no one passed to him.

Not that it mattered,
he thought.
I probably would have botched the play or tossed up an air ball anyway.

Despite the basketball players’ dismal showing, the mood in the Eagles Nest before dinner was celebratory. Several of the nonbasketball players had performed well in their events.

Billy had been the top swimmer of both camps, Tim found out later. He congratulated his friend enthusiastically. But in the next breath, he began to pour out his frustration at how the game had gone.

Billy stopped him after a moment. “Why don’t you talk to Dick about all this stuff? He might be able to help you better than me.”

Tim glared at him from his bunk. Some friend he was; after Tim had put up with Billy’s complaints all last summer, Billy couldn’t even listen to one of his!

“How am I supposed to talk to Dick?” he snapped. “He’s still in the hospital!”

“No, he’s not,” Billy retorted. “He’s in the infirmary.”

Tim sat bolt upright. “What? Since when?”

“Since an hour ago,” Billy said. “I heard some of the waterfront guys talking about it.”

Tim leaped to his feet and raced out the door.

“No need to thank me!” Billy called after him.

Tim took off at a run for the infirmary, his mind racing.
How serious is Dick’s injury? Will he be sidelined for a few days or the rest of the summer, or
—Tim gulped—
will it mean the end of his career?

He bounded up the steps of the infirmary two at a time and burst through the door.

“Goodness, young man, what’s the problem? Is someone hurt?” the nurse on duty asked in alarm.

“No! I’m looking for Dick Dunbar!” Tim gasped.

“You found him.”

Tim spun around to see Dick reclining in a hospital bed. His eyes widened as he took in the cast on Dick’s arm. “Oh, man,” he groaned. “How bad is it?”

To his relief, Dick laughed. “I told you, I’ve had worse.”

He shook his head when Tim asked about the operation. “Is that the rumor going around the camp? Don’t worry. I didn’t have an operation. It was a clean break, and a pretty minor one, too, from what I saw on the X-ray. I was about to check out of here, in fact. You can carry my bag. Come on.”

Tim soon had Dick settled in a chair in his room.

“That’s better,” Dick said with a sigh. “Now tell me: How are things going with you?”

Tim hesitated. He wanted to tell Dick how everything—from his mentoring sessions to his playing to his relationships with the other Eagles—was falling apart. But he was ashamed to admit that he was having so many problems.

Then Dick looked him straight in the eye and said, “Come on. Out with it.
All
of it.”

So Tim launched into a review of the past two days. Dick listened attentively until Tim hung his head and wondered aloud if he should just pack up and go home. “Nobody wants me here anyway. Not my mentees, not my teammates, and maybe not even Billy.”

“Funny,” Dick said then, “I didn’t peg you for a quitter. Last year, when your shot wasn’t falling, when Mike and the other boys were giving you grief, when Billy needed a boost, you didn’t run and hide. You found solutions!”

He ticked off his fingers one by one. “You got my help with your shot. You turned the tables on the practical jokers. You handed Billy the biggest shot of the summer—and when he made it, you turned him into a hero, at least for the day. So my question to you is: Why are you shying away from these new challenges?”

“I don’t know.” Tim looked up. “You ever feel overwhelmed by stuff?”

“Sometimes,” Dick admitted.

“What do you do about it?”

Dick thought for a moment before answering. “You ever eat a whole pizza by yourself?”

Tim frowned. “Yeah, but what does that—”

“Did you eat it all at once or one slice at a time?” Dick pressed.

“A slice at a time.”

Dick sat back with a satisfied smile. “Exactly!”

Tim stared at Dick, completely baffled. Then, slowly, he figured out what Dick was trying to say.

“My problems are like the pizza, right?” he ventured. “I can’t tackle them all at once any more than I can eat a whole pizza in one bite. But if I take the problems one at a time—like slices of pizza—I might be able to deal with them.”

“And the first problem you’re going to take care of,” Dick said, rising clumsily out of his chair, “is your shooting trouble. I haven’t forgotten about my promise to teach you a shot that could help.” He stopped at the door and looked over his shoulder. “Well? You coming or not?”

With hope rising in his chest, Tim jumped up. “You bet I am!”