Second-String Center (3 page)

“He is.” Dunk reached toward Krystal’s plate. “You’re not going to eat that egg roll, are you?”

“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not.”

“You never eat them.”

“You
always
do.”

“Why waste it?”

“It’s greasy.”

“I’ll run it off tomorrow. If I make the team, that is.”

D
unk ran up the steps to the middle school the next morning, eager to check the roster before homeroom. He was even more nervous this morning than he’d been at the tryouts. He couldn’t eat his breakfast.

He was early; the school halls were mostly empty. But he could see David and Ryan down at the end of the corridor near the gym, looking at the bulletin board.

The roster was posted there for all to see. Dunk breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted his name third on the list.

Yes!
he thought.
All that work was worth it.

Louie had made it, too. Dunk was glad to see that. There were some better all-around players who hadn’t made the cut, but one thing was obvious from the list: this team was guard-heavy. Dunk and Louie added some much-needed bulk to the lineup.

Dunk hurried out of the locker room after school and up to the court. He wanted to get in some extra shooting before the workout started, but he also wanted to thank Coach Davis for putting him on the roster.

“You earned it,” Coach said. “I like how you hustle. But your biggest role on this team will be to keep Jared on his toes. Make him work every single day in practice, for every shot and every rebound.”

“Got it.” It wasn’t quite the role Dunk had been hoping for—he wanted to see significant playing time in the games. But being a bench-warmer was better than getting cut. And he knew that by pushing Jared in the workouts, he would definitely be helping the team progress.

So when Coach lined them up for some five-on-five half-court action, Dunk eagerly set up in a defensive position behind Jared.

The apparent starting five—Spencer at point guard, Willie and Miguel on the wings, Jared at center, and Fiorelli in a floating guard/forward role— would be on offense the whole time. Coach had Ryan Grimes covering Fiorelli, Lamont on Miguel, David Choi on Spencer, and Roberto Sanchez on Willie.

“Notice anything significant?” Coach asked.

“Yeah,” said Fiorelli. “Spencer’s got mustard or something on his chin.”

Spencer wiped at his face and looked at a small yellow smear in his hand. “That’s been there since lunch?” he said in frustration. “Why didn’t anybody tell me?”

“It looked good on you,” Fiorelli said. “I thought it was some kind of makeup.”

“Thanks a lot, bro.”

Coach bounced the ball once and everyone looked at him. “This is a little more important than Spencer’s grooming. The second line”—he swept his hand toward Lamont and David and the others—“are all taller than the starters. Dunk and Jared being the lone exception. What I’m saying is, that’s going to be a common situation for us this season. We’re fast but small. Most teams are going to out-height us.

“We work the ball around; we look for good shots. We run the fast break when we have the opportunity, and we hustle
every single second
that we’re on defense. And despite the general ‘shortage,’ we have the best big man in the league in Jared. So we
do
pound the ball inside.”

Coach handed the ball to Spencer. “Run the offense,” he said. “This is not a scrimmage, it’s a controlled situation to get the starters thinking like a team. Defenders, when you get control of the ball, pass it back to me and the offense will set up again.”

Jared had been quiet all afternoon, but he became vocal as soon as the ball was in play. He shouted for the ball, backing into Dunk to get in position and waving for the pass. Dunk tried to plant his feet, and he kept both hands up, but Jared was big and strong and elusive.

Jared had three baskets before Dunk finally stopped him, deflecting a shot toward the corner, where Ryan grabbed it for the defenders. Dunk nodded as his floormates yelled, “That’s it, Dunk!” and “In his face!”

But Dunk was rubbing his collarbone, which had collided hard with Jared’s elbow. In fact, Dunk figured he already had three significant bruises. Jared was putting forth a very physical effort.

Dunk dug in and continued to play hard defense. Jared made some shots, and Coach finally whistled him for an offensive foul when he sent Dunk flying on the seat of his pants. But Dunk managed a few stops and hauled down some rebounds. He was feeling good about his play when Coach brought Louie in to take his place.

 

 

After practice, Jared stopped Dunk on the way out of the locker room. “Sorry if I was all elbows out there,” he said. “Nothing personal.”

“I never thought it was. But the refs will be all over you if you pull that in a game.”

“I know. It won’t happen. Just had to get it out of my system.”

Dunk shrugged. “Well, don’t expect me to be a punching bag. I’ll give it right back.”

“You better.”

Dunk nodded toward the door. “You walking home?”

“Of course.”

Dunk threw his knapsack over his shoulder and pushed the door open. It was dark out, but the streetlights lit up the blacktop basketball court outside the gym. They walked across it and headed for the Boulevard.

“Good to be back on the court,” Jared said. “I would have given anything to be there yesterday.”

“What happened?”

“Just some stuff that came up.”

“Like what?”

“Nothing good.”

“No?”

Jared just shook his head, and they kept walking.

Dunk didn’t push it, but he could tell something had Jared shook up. It wasn’t like him to take cheap shots at an opponent, especially a teammate. He certainly didn’t need to; Jared was bigger, stronger, and more talented than any of the other players.

The wind was in their faces as they turned onto the Boulevard, and it carried a very light drizzle.

“You thirsty or anything?” Dunk asked.

“Definitely. All that running.”

They ducked into a small grocery. Dunk picked up a bottle of water and looked at it. He’d dropped several pounds since summer by cutting back on soda, but he wanted a lift after practice. So he grabbed a Coke and vowed that it would be the only one he drank this week.

It was raining a little harder as they stepped back outside. But Jared dropped his gym bag on the sidewalk and leaned against a bench, taking a swig of his drink. He turned and stared up the Boulevard. “You in a hurry to get home?” he asked.

“Pretty much,” Dunk replied. “I’m hungry. My parents expect me.”

“Yeah. I thought maybe you’d want to stop by the YMCA or something. Shoot some free throws.”

Dunk gave a surprised look. “Whew,” he said. “I’m worn out from practice. I think I’ll pass.”

“Okay.” Jared picked up his bag and shrugged. “I’ll go there anyway.” He started walking back toward the Y. “See you tomorrow, I guess.”

Dunk watched Jared walk away. Dunk was a gym-rat, too. He spent many hours at the Y, playing pickup games and perfecting his free throws. But enough was enough.

He had the distinct impression that Jared simply didn’t want to go home.

J
ust one week later, the season got under way. And though the Hornets opened up at home, they couldn’t have had a tougher opponent.

Palisades visited the Hudson City gym, looking to atone for a narrow loss to the Hornets in last year’s league championship game. Palisades featured lanky point guard Leon “Neon” Johnson, the league’s best shooter.

All of the Hornets were aware that Jared had been excused from school for the afternoon, but he was expected to be at the game. But as Dunk put on his uniform in the locker room, it was obvious that Jared hadn’t shown up yet.

“Where is he?” Spencer said to no one in particular. Everyone knew who “he” was.

“He said he’d be here,” Fiorelli said. “Jared never misses
anything
important. Not sports, anyway.”

“Where was he at this afternoon?” Lamont asked. “The dentist or something?”

“He wouldn’t say,” Fiorelli replied. “Probably that. Probably has to get braces and he didn’t want anyone busting on him about it.”

“
I
got braces,” Lamont said. “So does Willie and Choi and Alex. Who cares? Nobody busts us.”

Fiorelli shrugged. “Maybe it’s something else then.”

“He’d better
get
here,” Miguel said. “Palisades is good. They’ll eat us up inside if we don’t have Jared.”

Dunk swallowed hard. He looked at Louie, who looked just as worried. If Jared didn’t get here, either Dunk or Louie would take over at center.

“Don’t take it as an insult, guys,” Miguel said. “But you know what I mean. Neither one of you has Jared’s experience.”

Dunk checked the clock on the wall above the entrance to the shower room: 3:36. Game time was in less than half an hour. Still plenty of time, but what if Jared didn’t show? Would Coach start Dunk?

As if on cue, Coach stuck his head into the locker room. “All right, boys, let’s get out there,” he said. “Four laps, some stretching, the layup drill, and free throws.”

The small gym was filling up with spectators, mostly parents and kids from the school. The Palisades players were already at one of the baskets, shooting layups. They looked big and quick. Dunk took a deep breath and started jogging around the perimeter of the court with his teammates.

During the shooting drill, Coach called Dunk and Louie out of the line and over to the bench. “Feeling good?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Definitely.”

“Jared’s late, obviously,” Coach said. “I don’t know when he’ll get here, but we’ve got to make some adjustments.”

He looked straight at Dunk and poked him lightly in the chest. “You’ll be starting.” He turned to Louie. “And you’ll be out there plenty. I’ll rotate you two at center until Jared gets here. In and out, like two minutes at a time. We play an up-tempo game, so you’ll have to hustle your butts off, come out for a breather, and get right back out there and run.”

“Who else is starting?” Louie asked.

“We’re going with the small, quick lineup. Spencer, Miguel, Willie, and Fiorelli. Remember, we run the fast break. That’s our bread and butter. When you get a defensive rebound, you find the outlet man
immediately
and get up the court.”

Both boys nodded. “I’ll give you everything I’ve got,” Dunk said, even though he was suddenly feeling ill.

“I know you will. Now go warm up some more.” Dunk looked around and spotted some of his friends in the bleachers. His parents and aunt had said they expected to arrive by halftime, but they didn’t seem to be here yet.
Just as well
, Dunk thought.
This might not be pretty.

He looked down at his sleek new uniform, the nicest one he’d ever had on.

The red jersey had the number 15 in big bold figures on the front. The knee-length red shorts had wide white stripes down the sides.

Dunk shook the opposing center’s hand and stepped into the midcourt circle. The guy was at least an inch taller than Dunk—probably a six-footer—but thinner, with narrow shoulders and big ears. He could jump, though, and he easily tapped the ball to Neon Johnson to start the game. Dunk raced to the paint, putting himself between the basket and his man, number 11.

“Get it inside,” called one of the Palisades forwards. They were certainly aware that Jared was not on the court, and figured they could exploit this new guy. Dunk heard the comment. He pressed into his opponent.

And here came Johnson’s bounce pass. The center grabbed it and started to dribble, backing into Dunk, who struggled to hold his ground.

The guy stopped his dribble, pivoted left, then swung toward the basket and shot. Dunk jumped and brought his arm down hard, whacking his opponent on the shoulder. The whistle blew as the shot banked off the backboard and into the hoop.

“Yeah, Marty!” shouted Johnson.

The referee pointed to Dunk, then turned to the scorer’s table and said, “Foul on number fifteen, red.”

Dunk shut his eyes quickly and frowned. Spencer jogged over and put his arm on Dunk’s back. “Good pressure,” he said. “Keep on him.”

Marty sunk the free throw, so Palisades was up, 3-0, after only twelve seconds.

“Right back at ’em,” Fiorelli said to Dunk. Spencer was bringing up the ball, shadowed closely by Johnson. Spencer passed to Miguel in the corner. Miguel drove toward the basket, but his path was blocked and Dunk was not in position yet. So Miguel passed back to Spencer.

Dunk sprinted to the basket, breathing hard.

The Hornets’ offense was not complicated. The four quicker players passed the ball around the arc, looking for a shot, while Dunk moved in and out of the paint, ready to receive a pass or step up and set a hard screen if one of his teammates drove into the lane. The Palisades center guarded him tightly, keeping a hand between Dunk’s shoulder blades.

Fiorelli had the ball in the corner. He pump-faked a shot, and his opponent bought it, leaping to block the ball. Fiorelli squirted past him and bounced the ball to Dunk.

Dunk took it and swung back his arm, pressing into his opponent. Another Palisades player ran over to help out, but Dunk got the shot off anyway as he felt the sting of a wrist against his cheek. The shot missed.

Again came the whistle. The referee picked up the ball and stepped over toward Dunk and the Palisades center. “Let’s clean it up,” he said. “Too many elbows flying; I’ll call those fouls all day.”