A Free-Throw-Shooting Machine!

At the foul line, Red trapped the ball soccer-style under his left foot. He placed a finger over each earplug and took several breaths. Then with both hands, he picked up the ball, squared his shoulders, and looked at the front rim. He dribbled three times low to the ground—hard dribbles—and then stood back up. He spun the ball until his fingers were around the word SPALDING. He looked at the rim again, extended his arms, and took the shot.

Underhanded.

Swish.

“Boo-yah!” I shouted. “Twelve!”

I scooped up the ball, dribbled it back, and put it on the line next to Red. Then we went right into our handshake: “High-five, high-five. Elbow, elbow,” we said together. “Right, right, left, left, fist, fist, knuckles, blow it up. Turn, jump, bump … boo-yah!”

We’d started doing the handshake after Red hit his seventh in a row.

At the end of practice, Coach Acevedo wanted everyone taking foul shots until we got picked up. Red and I shot with the group at the hoop by the stage, but since we walked home and could stay the latest, we went last.

At the line, Red went through his routine and took his next underhanded free throw.

Swish.

“Thirteen!” I leaped. “Unstoppable!”

I grabbed the rebound, we danced through our handshake, and Rip went back to work.

“What a performance Red is putting on,” I play-by-played. “Do I hear fourteen?”

Swish.

“Fourteen!” I hammer-fisted the air.

“Blake Daniels can’t miss.” He popped his Warriors logo. “Blake Daniels is on fire.”

“He sure is!” Coach Acevedo clapped, walking up.

Red turned. His fists shot to his cheeks.

“I’ve been watching you the whole time,” Coach Acevedo said. “You’re a free-throw-shooting machine!”

“No one’s better than Red from the line,” I said.

“That’s what I’ve heard.”

“You have, Mr. Acevedo?” Red hunched his shoulders and squinched his nose. “I mean, Coach Acevedo.” His fists tapped his cheeks.

“I have.” Coach Acevedo turned to me. “You said Rip’s a basketball nickname. Like Rip Hamilton from the Detroit Pistons?”

“You’ve heard of him?”

“Absolutely,” Coach Acevedo said. “Excellent team player. Always hustling. Made everyone around him better.”

You know when you’re playing ball and there’s always that one kid who’s running around in warp speed? Well, that’s me. That’s why I’m Rip. Like the guard on the Pistons who never stopped moving. He was also known as the Running Man and wore number thirty-two.

I’m number thirty-two.

I have another nickname: Gnat. Teams called me that the year I played on the third-grade select team because when I play defense, I can be annoying. Really annoying. I’m the kid who picks off the lazy inbounds pass and the kid who sneaks up on the big man posting up down low and strips him from behind.

I love it when teams call me Gnat.

Red set himself on the line and went through his routine.

Swish!

“Fifteen!”

Coach Acevedo grabbed the rebound.

“Listen, Red,” he said, walking the ball back to the line. “I know you’re not allowed to play in games. Your mom and I had a long conversation earlier in the week.”

“You did, Coach Acevedo?” He pinky-thumbed his thigh.

“We did. The hospital where she’s a nurse is right near my apartment. I met her after work.”

I gripped the back of my neck. This was it. This was the moment. I had no idea how Red was going to react.

“I want you on our team, Red.” Coach Acevedo glanced at me and then flipped the ball to Red. “You show up for practices, I’ll make sure you’re both on our team.”

“I’ll show up for practices!” Red dropped the basketball and hugged Coach Acevedo.

I’d never seen Red hug someone he just met.

“I’ll show up for practices!” he repeated. “Did you hear that, Mason Irving?”

I hammer-fisted the air.