Stealing the Game (10 page)

Having said that, we still wanted to beat them. Not because they were bigger, richer, or better dressed, but because when it was game time we
always
played to win. If they had been
smaller, uglier, poorer, and called the Lawn Gnomes, we would’ve still wanted to crush them. That’s how the game is played, with everybody trying their hardest to win. That’s when
basketball is the most fun.

My team gathered under the basket while we waited for the Gold Coasters. Their uniforms were gold on the front and back, with white piping on the sides of the jersey and shorts. They all wore
LeBron XI PS Elite iD shoes, which cost $310 a pair. I’d only seen them in magazines before today.

“Don’t look so worried,” Rain said to us as we stared at their flashy shoes. “We’ve got this.” Apparently she had overcome her earlier fear. Either that or
she was a good faker.

“I’m not worried,” Roger said with bluster.

“I am,” Tom said.

“I’m a little worried,” Gee said.

Rain said, “Dr. J once said, ‘Being a professional is doing the things you love to do, on the days you don’t feel like doing them.’”

“We’re not professionals,” Gee said. “We’re eighth graders.”

Rain scoffed. “That doesn’t mean we can’t act like professionals.”

The Gold Coasters ran onto the court. Was it just me or were they all synchronized running again?

“Let’s do this,” Masterson said. He sounded like he was in a hurry to swat us like annoying bugs and get on with the fun part of his day.

“What’re we playing to?” I asked.

Masterson looked over at Rand/Fauxhawk. “What’re we playing to, Coach?”

Without even consulting Jax, Rand said, “Game’s to twenty-five, straight up.”

“Okay?” Masterson asked me.

I nodded. Most games at the park went to fifteen, but these guys had driven all the way over here for a workout.

“Do or die for the ball?” Rain said innocently as she dribbled the game ball to the top of the key.

Masterson grinned at Rain’s short, skinny body, her blue Nike shorts hanging so far past her knees they might have been long pants. Her Walmart bargain shoes. It wasn’t that her
parents couldn’t afford nicer gear, it was just that they were having trouble adjusting to their tomboy daughter. They thought this was just a phase that she would grow out of. They
didn’t know Rain.

“Knock yourself out,” Masterson said.

Rain shot the three and the ball swooshed through the net.

So far, the plan was working.

MASTERSON
’
S
mouth dropped open.

“Suckers,” Roger muttered.

“No more freebies!” Rand hollered from the sideline. “You should have shot the ball yourself, moron!”

Rain stood at the baseline with the ball and said to Masterson, “You ready to play or what?”

“Just bring the ball in,” Masterson said.

“Take who takes you,” I said, and started moving around the court.

The game started off in our favor. They’d underestimated us because of our size and the fact that we looked like a bunch of rejects from a student remake of
The Sandlot
. We took
advantage of that by snapping passes around their lazy defense and firing off five quick points before they snagged a rebound and got possession.

“Get to work!” Rand barked at them. “You look like you’re square dancing, not playing basketball. The next one of you who gives up a point is walking home.”

That was when their physical size took over. They fired their passes around the court with just as much skill as we did. Plus, if they got a fast break, their longer legs took them downcourt
faster than us. We didn’t underestimate them, though, so we kept the defensive pressure on with waving hands and sliding feet. A couple times we forced a bad shot, but because of their
height, they were able to grab the rebound and shoot again. It wasn’t long before they were in the lead, 15–8.

If something didn’t change, they would win the game within the next five minutes.

But what could we do? They played just as well as we did and they were bigger. Not much wiggle room there.

“Come on, guys, we can do this,” Rain said, clapping her hands to inspire some enthusiasm in us.

Roger was huffing from pushing against Danforth, who was big enough to push back, and tall enough to shoot ten-foot jumpers over Roger’s head.

Gee was muttering curse words in Spanish as he fought to defend against Clement’s spin move around the pick.

Tom was holding his own against Lambert’s fancy dribbling.

Rain was doing a good job of swatting at the ball every time Bendleton got possession, and she was boxing him out from the rebounds better than the rest of us. But Bendleton was having no
problem shooting over her.

Masterson and I seemed to be pretty evenly matched. What I lacked in height I made up for in slightly better court sense and passing. But he was their best rebounder and I hadn’t figured
out how to stop him yet.

As always at times like this, a dozen sports movies about underdogs flooded into my brain.
The Karate Kid
,
The Bad News Bears
,
The Mighty Ducks
,
Hoosiers
, and
more. And as always, I forced them out of my brain because sports movies are mostly crap. It’s a myth that a downtrodden team of ragtag misfits can use nothing but “heart” to beat
a team that plays better. The team that plays consistently better ball will almost always win. One of the only ways they can lose is if they get overconfident and therefore lazy. They stop hustling
for every loose ball, they slacken on defense.

That wasn’t going to happen here. These guys were beasts on defense and treated every second of the game as if their families were being held hostage and would only be released if they
won.

So forget all those dumb movies. The other way to beat the physically superior team is through superior strategy.

While Masterson was tying his shoe, I summoned my team for a ten-second huddle and told them our new strategy. They nodded agreement.

First, we had to get possession of the ball. We couldn’t afford to just hope they missed and that we somehow got the rebound.

We needed to set a trap. Instead of man-to-man defense, we slid into a zone, which is almost unheard of in playground ball. This allowed us to better double-team their shooters. Like most big
guys, they’d spent most of their time practicing their inside game, using physical size to shoot jumpers, layups, and hooks. The double-teaming forced them to pass the ball more, looking for
the open player.

They were getting frustrated, hesitating just a bit with each pass as they tried to force a shot but couldn’t. I let out a quick whistle to let my team know this was the time. Roger and I
double-teamed Masterson, flailing our arms and swatting at the ball. As planned, that left Danforth open. Danforth cut toward the basket and shouted, “Here!”

Masterson saw him. Roger and I lifted our hands in the air and jumped up and down to prevent the air pass, leaving him one option. He took it. Masterson bounce-passed around me to Danforth. But
Tom was waiting for it. He darted in the ball’s path, caught it, and dribbled down the court, pulling up at the three-point line.

Most of the Gold Coasters had followed close behind and were scampering into defensive position.

Now for the offensive part of our strategy.

Rain positioned herself at the top of the key, just outside the three-point line. Tom snapped the ball to her as Gee, Roger, and I set up a series of screens for her. She fired the three. It
rattled against the hoop, then dropped in for two points.

15–10

We pulled the same play twice more. Each time Rain sank the basket.

15–14

“Yes!” Jax shouted with a fist pump.

“Let it rain, Rain!” Roger taunted.

“Time out!” Rand yelled.

“It’s playground ball,” Roger said. “There’s no time out unless someone’s hurt.”

“Maybe his feelings are hurt,” Rain said with a grin.

I looked to Jax, but he just shrugged helplessly. I shook my head. When had my tough, not-afraid-of-anything older brother become such a wimp? Again I thought about Theo and wondered if
he’d found out anything about what had happened to Jax at Stanford.

By now, some of the regular players were starting to show up at the park. The Kneebrace Dads and the high schoolers wouldn’t be here for another hour or so, so it was just middle school
kids. I don’t know if it was Rand’s loud cursing and screaming or the Gold Coasters’ gold uniforms and expensive shoes, but most of the kids had stopped shooting around to come
over and watch our game.

The Gold Coasters ran back onto the court.

Masterson stood in front of Rain. He’d switched defensive positions with Bendleton.

Just as we’d planned.

Rain stayed out on the three-point line, moving around it just enough to keep Masterson thinking that we were looking to give her the ball. Actually, we only wanted to get Masterson out of the
paint so he couldn’t rebound or shoot there. We knew that Rain’s shooting wouldn’t win the game. The Gold Coasters had been smart enough to adjust to our previous play. But
neutralizing their best rebounder might give us the edge we needed.

With Masterson out on the three guarding little Rain, we had to take advantage of the situation before they adjusted again. Tom sank a couple at his sweet spot near the free throw line. Gee
dribbled under the basket, faked a pass, then flipped up a little reverse layup. Roger had his hook swatted away twice before he faked the hook, then slipped under Danforth’s outstretched
arms for a baby layup. I managed a couple fadeaway bank shots over Bendleton.

20–15. We were winning.

“
TIME
out!” Rand yelled.

This came after Rand screamed a bunch of curse words that made a couple moms over at the toddler playground turn their heads and glare in disapproval.

Jax grinned at me.

“Dude, we’re doing it!” Roger said excitedly. “We’re beating these robots.”

“Unbelievable,” Gee said, shaking his head.

“Game’s not over,” I reminded them.

“Thank you, Debbie Downer,” Rain said.

“Nice playing, guys!” one of the court-siders shouted through cupped hands.

“Keep it going!” another chimed in.

There were about a dozen onlookers now. I recognized most of them.

When the Gold Coasters trotted back onto the court, Masterson was once again guarding me. Our strategy had gotten us the lead, but now that everything was back to status quo, I didn’t know
if we could get those last five points before they got their ten.

Rain snapped a pass to me and I felt Masterson’s hip slam into mine, knocking me forward a couple steps. I assumed it was an accident until I tried to go around Tom’s pick and
Masterson deliberately ran into Tom, knocking him to the ground.

The court-siders let out a wincing “Ooooh!”

“Dude!” Tom said to Masterson, rubbing his palms where they’d scraped against the cement.

“You were moving,” Masterson said.

“I was stationary,” Tom said.

“You going to play, or cry?” Rand yelled from the sideline.

“Ball up,” Tom said.

Rain threw the ball in to Gee. Clement swatted at Gee’s hands and arms like Edward Scissorhands. He finally knocked the ball loose, grabbed it, and fired it to Bendleton, who made an easy
layup.

“Foul!” Gee said. “No basket.”

“Foul?” Clement argued. “That was clean.”

“You hacked me a dozen times, man.”

“Hands are part of the ball.”

“Hands, yeah, but not my arms.” Gee stuck out both his arms to show the red marks all the way up each to the elbows. “You hacked me so much my grandparents have
welts.”

This was the main problem with pickup games. Tradition says that if someone calls a foul, then it’s a foul. No arguing. Of course, lots of players abuse the rule by calling ticky-tack
fouls every time they get touched or if they miss the shot. Still, the call is the call, and out here we don’t argue the call.

“Respect the call,” I said.

Clement glared at me. “Respect this,” he said, and gave me the finger.

“Is that your IQ, or the number of times you’ve ever been right?” Roger said. He puffed up his chest and I knew he was ready to throw a punch.

I grabbed the ball from Bendleton’s hand and walked back to the top of the key. “Foul, no basket.”

Masterson looked ready to argue, but he seemed to know I wasn’t going to back down.

For the next five minutes it was more of the same. Shoving, holding, charging. Lots of fouls called. Lots of arguing. But through it all, the Gold Coasters kept making baskets and creeping up
the score until we were tied at 20–20.

Their strategy was working against us as well as ours had worked against them. The fouling, stalling, arguing took us out of our flow, which gave the advantage to height.

When I got the ball next, I juked around the court, making Masterson follow me as I wove in and out. Roger set his usual brick-wall pick, but Masterson managed to slip around it and stay with
me. I dribbled back out to the three-point line, passed to Rain, and set a pick. They were so worried about Rain making the shot that Masterson hesitated, following me so he could stick his hand up
in her face. She bounce-passed to me, I fired the three, and it dropped in with a whisper of net.

22–20.

Some light applause and cheers rose from the court-siders.

Rand stomped a couple feet onto the court to yell, “You lose this game and I’m cutting one of you from the team today!”

I could tell from the expression on Masterson’s face that Rand wasn’t bluffing.

The Gold Coasters pressed us even harder, knocking into us, using moving screens, hacking our arms. They got a rebound off Tom’s missed jumper and tossed it to Masterson, who started
backing me toward the basket so he could use his height to hook over me.

But I had my arm bar in his lower back and was pushing hard against him. I’m a lot stronger than I look, thanks to playing with Jax when I was younger. Frustrated that he wasn’t
making progress, Masterson snapped his head back straight into my nose.