Long Shot (11 page)

“I'm fine,” I mumbled as I slipped past her. “I just want to get to the car and go home.”

I felt like I was close to tears and the last thing I wanted was to cry in front of everybody. I stumbled out the door, down the steps, and toward where we parked the car. I could hear my mother behind me.

“Nick, wait up,” she called out.

I slowed down but didn't stop. She came up beside me.

“You're limping.”

“A little.” I'd been landed on going for a loose ball. My first thought was about what had happened to the coach twenty years before. I was so relieved when I got up with just a limp.

“Your team really played well.”

“We lost.”

“But you almost came back there in the second half.”

“All that matters is that we lost.”

“Is that what your coach said?” she asked icily.

“He didn't say much after the game,” I said.

“Maybe he didn't have any voice left after all that yelling he did
during
the game,” she said.

I stopped at the back door of the car and waited as she opened her side and hit the door release allowing me in. I threw my bag in and climbed in after it.

My father was nowhere to be seen. I wondered where he was. My mother climbed into the front seat and started the car.

“Where's Dad?” I asked.

“Your father won't be too long, I hope,” she said.

I slumped farther down in the seat. I didn't want to see anybody and I didn't want to talk to anybody.

“Here he comes,” my mother said.

My father climbed into the passenger seat.

“Did you talk to him?” she asked.

“Talk to who?” I asked.

“The coach,” my mother said.

“Why did you want to talk to him?” I asked. Was he going to tell him off for benching me? It wasn't like I didn't deserve it … I guess.

“We both thought that somebody should talk
to him,” my mother said.

“About what?” I questioned, getting more anxious by the second.

“About what I saw in the game. That was the most disgusting thing I've ever seen in my entire life!” my mother said shaking her head angrily.

“I'm sorry … we didn't lose by that much … I tried as hard as I could … I didn't mean to disappoint everybody,” I sputtered, trying as hard as I could to fight back the tears.

“It was a good game. You played well,” my father protested. “Coming back and only losing by four points to a team that much older is a victory.”

We'd all played much better — especially L.B. His outside shooting was a big part of the reason we'd gotten so close. If only I could have done more.

“I didn't mean to get benched … I just kept screwing up, and I'm really sorry I let everybody down,” I blabbered and the tears started to flow.

My mother reached over the seat and grabbed my hand. “Nicky, I'm not upset about
you
. It's that … that,
man
… that supposed coach!”

“The coach?”

“Yelling and screaming and ranting and raving! He was going on like the world was at stake instead of some basketball game!”

“He really was into the game, wasn't he?” my
father said with a laugh.

“Into the game?” my mother said in disbelief. “Is that what you call it?”

“He coaches like he used to play, with all his heart,” my father said. “Did you see the way he brought them back and forced everybody on the team to play so well? That man really knows basketball.”

“But what did he say when you talked to him?” my mother asked.

“It was hard to talk because there were so many people around. He said that they could have played better.”

“But didn't you go over to talk to him about how he acted?” my mother asked, sounding confused.

“No … I just wanted to ask him when he'd be making his final decision about who was on the team.”

“You mean you didn't say anything about his behavior … about yelling at everybody, including our son?”

My father shrugged. “Is that what you wanted me to talk to him about?” Now my father sounded confused.

“Of course! Isn't that what you wanted to say to him?”

“I just wanted to talk about the game … how the kids did … how Nick did. You know, things like that. Basketball things.”

“I don't care about any of those things,” my mother protested. “All I know is that he isn't a very nice man. And I don't think I want my son playing for a man like that.”

“You don't want him to do what?” my father asked in disbelief.

I straightened up in the seat. What was she saying?

“You heard me. I don't think we should let our son have anything to do with that man. Look at him,” she said, pointing at me. “He's in tears!”

“He's in tears because he thought you were mad at him!”

“That wasn't the reason and —” my mother suddenly stopped. “I think that it would be best if we talked about this later … by ourselves … after Nick goes to bed.”

“I think that
would
be better,” my father agreed.

A deep, heavy silence suddenly filled the car. I was grateful that they weren't arguing, but scared of what they'd be saying when they started again. The strangest thing was that I wasn't even one hundred percent certain who I wanted to win the argument.

* * *

I waited in bed for ten minutes before making my move. I figured they'd start to talk about things
soon, if they hadn't already began. Ever since we'd gotten home they'd both been talking about other things. Talking really politely and calmly about things that I knew neither wanted to talk about. They were just waiting for me to go to bed so they could start discussing things.

I climbed out of bed and crept to the door. I could just barely hear voices. I couldn't tell what they were talking about. If they were talking about my basketball future, they were doing it very quietly. They hardly ever fought and when they did it usually wasn't very long or loud. There were only a couple of times I'd heard them get as angry as they had during the car drive home tonight.

There wasn't much point in even trying to listen from my bedroom door. I might as well go back to bed … or get closer. I moved from my door to the top of the stairs. I could hear them more clearly, but not enough to make out exactly what they were saying, so—

“It's just basketball!” my mother said loudly, her voice suddenly becoming audible.

My father's voice answered back, but I couldn't make out any of his words. I needed to get closer now that I knew for sure that I was the topic of their conversation.

I took a tentative step down the first stair. I moved slowly. Down the second and then the third and the fourth steps. Then I was struck by
the thought of what would happen to me if they caught me eavesdropping on them?

I'd be in big trouble … unless I told them they had woken me up with their loud conversation. Then they'd feel too guilty to get mad at me. Reassured I started down again. I stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

“I've never complained about him playing so much basketball,” my mother stated loudly.

“Hah! Of course you have!” my father replied, and he was right — she did complain about me playing ball too much.

“Well, maybe I've said a word or two, but I've never
stopped
him from playing.”

Now it was her turn to be right. She never had stood in my way. She complained about it but she was always there to drive me to and from places, and to cheer me on, and to bring out drinks for me and my friends when we were playing on the driveway. She was even starting to understand the game.

“Then why are you trying to stop him now?” my father asked.

“Do I really have to go through this again? Don't you know?” she questioned.

“I just want to make sure I fully understand your objections, that's all,” my father replied.

“Fine. It's simple. I object to that man. You saw the way he was carrying on and heard the
things he said.”

“I heard him yelling, but he was just being intense. Basketball is an emotional game,” my father argued.

“But it's only a game. Nothing that happens out there is life and death!”

“It's not life and death, but it is important. If you'd ever played the game you'd know,” my father tried to explain.

“I've never done lots of things, but that doesn't mean I don't know what's right and what's wrong.”

“But if you'd ever played, or even ever dreamed about the game, you'd know what a wonderful opportunity it is for Nick to play under this coach.”

“A wonderful opportunity for what? To be brow-beaten, yelled at, and humiliated?”

“Of course not. An opportunity to learn about basketball. A season under this coach could elevate his game to a whole new level,” he said. “Didn't you see how excited he was tonight?”

“I don't know if that was excitement or fear.”

Fear … that was what I was feeling out there a lot during the game. Fear of losing, fear of making a mistake, fear of the other team … and fear of the coach and what he'd say.

“You saw how upset he was after the game,” my mother continued.

“It's all right to be upset when things don't go right,” my father argued. “Besides it's not like he
couldn't use a little toughening up.”

Toughening up … what did he mean by that? Didn't he think I was tough enough?

“We're talking about our son, not a piece of leather. Besides, if we're not careful you'll kill his love of the game.”

“That'll never happen. He loves playing basketball,” my father protested.

“I wonder if he still will after playing a season with that man? How many times have you seen him out on the driveway playing basketball the last two weeks?”

“He's been out there practicing a lot,” my father answered, and he was right, I was out every night.

“I didn't say practicing, I said playing.”

“What do you mean?” my father asked.

“I mean out there, either by himself or with Kia or other kids, just fooling around playing basketball, having fun.”

“Well …”

“He doesn't play anymore. He's just standing out there practicing his free throws, or his fade in shots or —”

“Fade
away
shots,” my father said interrupting her.

“I don't care what they're called. All I know is that it's supposed to be fun and it looks like work.”

“He's just trying to be the best he can be. Would you be arguing if he were spending this much time
on his homework or on writing stories?”

“That's different,” my mother countered.

“I don't think it is,” he said. “He's trying to be the best he can, and this coach can help him reach his potential. If I'd had somebody like that when I was a kid, there's no telling how far I could have —”

“Is that what this is all about?” my mother demanded.

“Is that what all what is about?”

“You think it's right for Nick because you think that's what you would have liked to have happen to you when you were a kid.”

“Of course, I would have loved to have had somebody like Len Barkley be my coach when I was young. Who wouldn't want that?”

“I wouldn't want that,” she said.

“Hah! Then maybe this isn't about what
I
want, but what
you
want!”

“Me?”

“Yes. Because you wouldn't want to have somebody handle you like that, you don't think that it's right for Nick either.”

“That's not it at all!” she stated loudly. “I'm offended that you'd even suggest that!”

“And how is that different from you accusing me?” my father demanded.

“Well … well … well …” my mother stammered.

I waited for her to continue. And waited. And
waited. There wasn't a sound. Why weren't they talking? Were they that angry that they weren't even going to talk any more? If I didn't like them fighting, I really didn't like the silence of them not fighting.

“I'm sorry,” my father said. “I didn't mean to get you so upset.”

“I'm sorry too,” my mother answered. “I didn't mean anything by what I said … honestly … I'm just worried about Nick.”

“I know you're worried. And I understand why. I really can see both sides,” my father said.

“So can I. I know how much both of you love basketball.”

“About the only thing I don't know is how we're going to resolve this,” he said.

There was more silence.

“Maybe we should just be getting to bed,” my father said. “It's getting late. Maybe if we get a good night's sleep, we can figure what to do tomorrow. We can at least talk about it tomorrow.”

“I wonder if it would help if we asked Nick to be part of this discussion?” my mother said.

Now there was something I didn't like even more than them making the decision for me. Did they expect me to choose who I was going to agree with and who I was going to disappoint?

“It makes sense for Nick to have input into something this important,” my father agreed.
“Tomorrow night we'll all sit down and try to come to some sort of agreement. Now let's get to bed.”

I turned and silently scampered up the stairs before they could discover me. I slipped in my door and pulled it almost completely closed after me. I climbed into bed and pulled the covers up all the way over my head.

I started to think. Would it be better for them to make the decision or for me to make the decision? I tried to imagine what it would be like not to play basketball. Then I tried to think how it would be to spend an entire season playing for Coach Barkley. Maybe it would be better if they made the decision for me. At least that way I'd have somebody to blame.