Hook Shot Hero (4 page)

D
ick led Tim to the indoor gymnasium. He produced a key, unlocked a side entrance, and ushered Tim inside.

The gym was empty. Patches of late afternoon sun gleamed on the shiny wooden floor, dust swirling in the beams. Their footsteps echoed and squeaked as they moved to the bleachers.

“Wow, this place is so different when there’s no one here!” The cavernous space amplified Tim’s voice so that it sounded as if he’d yelled rather than whispered. “Is it okay for us to be here?”

Dick waved away his concern. “You’re here with me, so it’s fine,” he said. “Now, as to why we’re here. You ever heard of a hook shot?”

“Sure,” Tim responded. “Lots of NBA players use it. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar of the Lakers was the master. Magic Johnson learned from him. Nowadays, Tim Duncan is—holy cow!” His eyes widened. “Is
that
the shot you’re going to teach me?”

Dick laughed. “That’s the one. Even though I can’t demonstrate it,” he added with a gesture toward his cast, “I can talk you through it. Head to the upper-right corner of the key.”

“Should I take a ball?”

Dick shook his head. “I want you to practice the motions first.”

He continued talking while Tim went to the key. “The hook shot gets its name because the shooter’s arm hooks over his head during the shot. But that’s just a small part of the whole move. Proper footwork, body position, and well-timed release of the ball are equally crucial to getting the shot to fall.

“The hook shot is difficult to block,” Dick went on, “because the shooter’s body stays between the ball and the defender. The beauty of the shot is that you can do it any time the defense is covering you tightly. And, if for some reason you decide not to send it toward the hoop, you can convert it into a pass to an open player instead. But for now, practice it as a shot.”

He instructed Tim to turn so his left shoulder was aimed at the hoop. “The next steps happen all at the same time, but we’ll go through them one by one.”

“Like slices of pizza?” Tim said with a smile.

“Pepperoni pizza, to be exact,” Dick replied. “First, the ball. Pretend you’re holding one in your right hand. Now bring it up in an arc from low to high until your elbow is about shoulder height and the ball is above your head.”

He and Tim went through the motion together. “Obviously,” Dick said, “you’ll be moving a lot faster, so the momentum will keep the ball stuck in your hand. When the ball reaches the top of the arc, flick your wrist and shoot.”

Tim pretended to shoot.

“Good,” Dick praised. “Now for another part. The ball’s in your right hand. So use your left arm as a barrier, like you’re protecting your dribble.”

“Like this?” Tim raised his left arm so it was nearly parallel with the floor. He made sure his elbow was jutting out, ready to defend against an attack.

“Yes. You look at any picture of Kareem as he flicks in the hook, you’ll see his non-shooting arm in a position like that,” Dick said. “Now the footwork. Your left foot is your pivot foot and so stays nailed to the floor. As the ball reaches the top of the arc, push off and straight up with your right foot. That way, you’ll be at the greatest-possible height just when you’re releasing the ball.”

Tim made a face. “What are the chances my ‘greatest-possible height’ will be high enough to get the ball over Mike Gruber’s hands?” he asked.

Dick smiled. “If you do the move right, your chances are very good. Imagine a line drawn from your left elbow to the upraised ball. It goes up an angle, right? So to reach the ball, Mike, or whoever is defending you, wouldn’t just have to jump up—he’d have to jump on top of you!” He shrugged. “Sure, he might get the ball, but he’d foul you in the process. Might even get called for a technical because it’d be a pretty flagrant foul. Now, let’s see you go through the whole motion a few times.”

Tim took a moment to picture what he was supposed to do and then shot five pretend hooks.

“Not bad!” Dick said. He picked up a basketball and tossed it to Tim. “Now with the ball. Aim for the hoop.”

Tim’s first few attempts flew wide of their mark.

“Eyes on the hoop, not your hands!” Dick corrected.

Tim nodded. The next attempts hit the backboard but didn’t go in. Then, on his seventh try, the basketball kissed the glass and swished softly through the net’s strings.

“I did it!” Tim cried. He hurried to retrieve the ball, set up for the shot again—and sank it!

“Two in a row!” he crowed happily.

Two became three, but his fourth one missed. Dick instructed him to try the same shot but with his other hand and from the other corner of the key. Tim was righthanded, so most of these attempts were way off. He didn’t mind, however. He knew it would take a lot of practice to get the shot to fall consistently, no matter where he was standing or which hand he was using. But he was going to keep trying because if Dick was right, he’d finally have something that would work against Mike Gruber!

“I’m feeling really good about this shot,” he said to Dick.

“You should,” Dick replied. “Of course, you’ll feel even better about it when you know you can hit it during practice or, better yet, a game.”

Tim’s face fell. “Oh, man, that’s right! I’ve got to practice it when someone’s defending me. But who’s going to help me with that? I’ll tell you who—no one!”

T
he hook shot lesson came to an end a few minutes later because dinner was starting. Tim and Dick walked together into the dining hall, where Dick was immediately surrounded by people asking about his injury.

Tim moved away to pick up his food. He sat down at an empty table to eat, chewing slowly as he thought about his newest predicament.

The hook shot promised to be a very powerful tool. But the shot was worthless unless it worked during a game. And the only way to make it work during a game was to practice it in gamelike situations. To do that, he needed a defender.

Dick would have been his first choice, but obviously, he was out.

Then who?
Tim glanced at the table where the other boys from the Eagles Nest had gathered.
Sam? He’s been friendly, even when everyone else was ignoring me.

Even as the thought crossed Tim’s mind, Sam said something that made Mike Gruber laugh uproariously. Tim shook his head. Sam was friendly—with everyone. If he helped Tim, would he be able to keep the practice sessions a secret from the others? Tim wasn’t sure.

That was the trouble, Tim realized. He needed someone who knew how to play basketball well enough to defend against him. But if he was to keep his new weapon a secret from Mike, it would be best if that person wasn’t on the Eagles Nest team.

Who do I know who fits that description?

He finished his supper without coming up with the answer. He was on his way out the door when someone called his name.

“Hey, Tim! Wait up!”

Tim turned to see Billy hurrying toward him. “Hi, Billy, how’s it—” He stopped in mid-sentence and clapped his hand to his forehead. “
Billy!
Of course! Why didn’t I think of you before?”

Billy gave Tim a wary look. “Think of me before what?”

Tim pulled Billy away from the other campers who were leaving the dining hall and explained the situation to his friend. “So I was hoping that while everyone else is at the bonfire tonight, you could help me practice the shot. What do you say?”

Billy chewed on his lower lip. “Won’t we get in trouble for skipping the fire without permission?”

“We won’t miss the whole thing,” Tim assured him. “We’ll show up at the start. Then we’ll ask to use the latrine or something. We’ll practice for half an hour and then come back before anyone misses us. Come on, please?”

Billy let out a long sigh. “Fine,” he said. “If it’s that important to you, I’ll do it. But if we get caught—”

“I’ll take full blame,” Tim promised.

An hour later, Tim and Billy were at the bonfire with the rest of the Eagles Nest. They were singing along to a ridiculous song about a dog named Lima who had roamed away from home only to return “all nice and clean,” prompting the question, “Where, oh where, has Lima been?” The song went on and on, with campers shouting out the names of different beans like coffee, string, and jelly.

While the other boys were laughing and singing, Tim poked Billy and whispered, “Let’s go!”

Billy looked nervous, but he followed Tim into the darkness. They found the paved path that led to the outdoor courts. But before they got there, Tim heard the sound of girls laughing and basketballs bouncing on the hardtop. Members of the girls’ camp were already there.

“Change of plans!” he hissed to Billy. “This way!” He veered onto a new path with Billy at his heels.

But when Billy saw where they were headed, he stopped short. “The gym? Are you nuts? We’re not allowed in there!”

Tim knew Billy was right. But he was so desperate to practice the hook shot that he refused to give up. So when Billy started to leave, Tim caught hold of his shirt and tugged him back.

“Let’s just check the door,” he said persuasively. “If it’s locked, we leave. If not, we’ll get in a little bit of practice and then leave.”

They stared at each other for a long minute. Then Billy rolled his eyes. “I don’t know how I let you talk me into these things.”

Tim hadn’t really expected the door to be open, but the handle twisted easily in his grip. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

If the empty gym had seemed weird in the afternoon, at night it was downright eerie. Pale moonbeams cast ghostly shadows. The basket strings hung like giant spiderwebs in the gloom; all that was missing, Tim thought with a shiver, were multi-eyed, eight-legged monsters. Even the bleachers looked frightening, rising up the side walls like black, jagged cliffs. Anyone—or anything—could be lurking there!

Billy shrank back and would have bolted if Tim hadn’t grabbed his arm. Tim started to whisper that they’d only stay for half an hour. Then he heard a small sound. He turned to see what it was—and the words died in his throat.

A closet door was slowly creaking open. As he stared, a ghastly head rose out of the shadows!

B
illy let out a squeak of terror, pulled free of Tim’s grasp, lurched sideways into the doorway, and fled. Tim wanted to follow but couldn’t make his feet or legs work.

Then suddenly, the gymnasium flooded with light.

“Who’s there?”

A girl stepped through the doorway underneath the horrifying apparition. Tim was about to cry out a warning when he saw that the girl was holding a stick—and that the stick was attached to the ghost!

That’s when he recognized the ghost for what it really was: a very creepy papier-mâché clown puppet, complete with exaggerated smile, bulbous nose, and wide, staring eyes. Last year, the puppet had lived at the arts and crafts center. Tim would never admit it, but its presence was the main reason he’d disliked the place.

He recognized the girl then, too. “Wanda? Is that you?”

The girl blinked in surprise and then smiled. “Tim! Long time no see!”

Tim had met Wanda the summer before. Then, she’d had a mouth full of braces and been short and stocky. The braces were gone now, and although she only came up to Tim’s shoulders, she was slimmer. Her smile was just as warm and friendly as ever.

“What are you doing with that?” Tim asked, pointing to the clown head.

Wanda made a face. “Kim, my counselor, made me come get it. She wants to stick it in the latrines as a joke.” She shuddered. “Can you imagine opening the stall door and seeing this?”

Tim pulled back in mock horror. “As if the latrines weren’t bad enough already!” They laughed together.

“So now you know why I’m here,” Wanda said, leaning the clown head against the door frame. “How about you?”

Tim decided there was no harm in telling Wanda the truth.

“Hook shot, huh?” she said when he was finished. “That’ll be one tasty move to get under your belt.”

“Yeah, too bad I can’t work on it tonight,” Tim said. “My defender ran away when he saw ol’ clown face.”

Wanda tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I could help you,” she offered.

Tim considered accepting. Then he thought about how he’d feel if Wanda got in trouble because of him. So he shook his head.

“Thanks, but I don’t think so. Not because you’re a girl!” he added hurriedly when Wanda frowned. “I don’t have permission to be here. If I get caught—”

“I have permission,” Wanda interrupted. “If anyone comes by, I’ll just say you were helping me find the clown.”

When Tim still hesitated, she put her hands on her hips. “What? Don’t think I’m good enough?”

“I’m sure you’re a great basketball player,” Tim hastened to say. “But I really need to practice with someone a little, you know”—he gestured helplessly—“
taller.
” He hoped she wasn’t as sensitive about her height as he was about his.

To his relief, she burst out laughing. “Yeah, too bad I can’t grow a foot in the next minute! Although,” she added, “I could grow a head taller!”

She picked up the clown and held the stick so that the head was eyeball to eyeball with Tim. “How you like me now?” she growled, shaking the puppet and making a length of cloth attached to the clown’s neck flutter.

Tim chuckled. “Okay! I guess any practice is better than none—even though it means facing
that!
”

He found a basketball, and they moved to center court. Wanda got into the best stance she could while holding the puppet stick. Tim dribbled toward the three-point line. Wanda matched him step for step. The puppet actually did make her seem much bigger and taller; Tim held out his left arm to protect the ball, even though she couldn’t possibly go for a steal.

He reached the top corner of the key and set himself for the hook shot. Wanda stuck close to him, bobbing the puppet around in an imitation of a real defender. Tim tried to ignore it as he swept the ball up from his hip and sent it over the clown’s head and toward the hoop with a flick of his wrist. He landed, mentally crossing his fingers that the shot would hit its mark.

It hit, all right, but a spot high on the backboard instead of close to the hoop. It ricocheted off at an angle and landed on the opposite side of the court.

Tim shook his head in disgust and retrieved the ball. On his second attempt, the ball struck the front of the rim and bounced off. But the third time he took the hook, it flew in a perfect half circle before swishing cleanly through the strings.

“Yes!” Tim cried, jabbing a finger at the clown. “In your face, Gruber!”

Wanda laughed. “Is that what we’re calling it?” She studied the clown’s face. “You know, I can see the resemblance! I hereby dub this creepy clown Gruber!”

“Works for me,” Tim said with a grin.

“That last hook shot was working for you, too,” Wanda said. She repositioned herself behind the clown. “Gruber and I are ready whenever you are!”

Tim practiced the hook shot for another twenty minutes. He used his right hand most of the time, only shifting to his left at Wanda’s suggestion. He bricked every attempt from that side. But when he started to get down on himself, Wanda made a joke or said the trouble was with Gruber the clown, not Tim.

They called it quits when Wanda realized she’d been away from her cabin for more than half an hour. They turned off the lights and went outside. She locked up the gym, bid Tim a hasty good-bye, and took off at a run. The puppet bounced above her, the cloth around its neck flying out behind it like a cape.

Seeing the cape reminded Tim of Keanu zooming around like a superhero.
Too bad capes are only used in basketball during the NBA Slam Dunk contest,
he thought as he walked back toward the Eagles Nest.
I bet Keanu
would like basketball if he got to wear one during practice. I can see him now: cape around his neck, arms reaching up as he leaps to take off in flight!

He chuckled at the image. Then suddenly, a new thought struck him. He stopped in his tracks.
Arms up as he leaps
, he mused.
That’s how a defender blocks a shot. I wonder …