Everyone’s parents were here for the rematch against Millwood, but they weren’t on the stage like for the game against Voigt. They were on the sideline across from our bench.
Millwood’s fans had the stage. Millwood’s fans filled the stage. Millwood had something to play for. After they beat us last time, they had lost a second game. Today they needed a win to qualify for the playoffs.
That’s what Coach Crazy was yelling about: “This is a playoff game!” he shouted. “We need today. We’re taking it to this team. Just like last time. As soon as that ball goes up…”
With my basketball eyes, I spotted Avery wheeling into the gym. A second later, Red saw her, too.
“Avery Goodman!” He waved. “Avery Goodman’s here.”
She didn’t park next to the parents. Instead, she rolled across the court to our bench.
“This is for players only,” I said. “You can’t be here.” I pointed to the far sideline. “Our fans sit—”
“Fans?” Avery laughed. “Dude, those aren’t fans. Those are parents. You have one fan here, and your one fan is watching her first basketball game from right here.”
I knew better than to argue.
Across the gym, Suzanne and my mom stood by the door. Suzanne had to be here today. If Red was going to be on the bench down the sideline from Coach Crazy, Coach Acevedo insisted she be here.
I checked Red. His earplugs were in. His back was to Coach Crazy.
“Let’s bring it in, United,” Coach Acevedo said.
We hustled into a huddle in front of our bench.
“Excellent to see you here, Avery,” Coach Acevedo said. “We could use a good-luck charm today.” He winked at Red standing behind her and then thumbed the court. “I don’t have to tell you who we’re up against today, but we play the game because anything’s possible. Anything. And I have a good feeling about today.”
“I have a good feeling about today, too, Coach Acevedo,” Red said.
“Every team needs a Blake Daniels.” Coach Acevedo slide-stepped to Red, gave him a quick pound, and then hopped back to the middle. “That’s our attitude today. That’s our body language. That’s how we play.” He patted his chest. “We play like we all have a good feeling about today.” He checked the iPad. “Rip, Keith, Wil, Maya, Jason—you’re our first five.”
“Let’s do this,” Keith said. He held out his fist.
I gave him a pound.
“Hands in, Clifton United,” Coach Acevedo said.
He waited for every hand.
“On three,” he said, “we say ‘team.’ One, two, three…”
“Team!”
* * *
Millwood’s Mega-Man batted the opening tip out of bounds, so we got the ball first. I took the inbounds from Maya in the backcourt. I expected a suffocating, full-court press, but no. My man hung back by the three-point circle. I crossed half-court, faked to Wil, and then hit Keith with a pass as he rolled off Maya’s pick.
Stop. Set. Pop. Shoot.
Swish!
“Clifton United’s winning!” Red shouted. “Go, Keith Krebs!”
I turned to sprint back on defense, but before my first foot landed, I spotted the inbounds pass. A lazy, lollipop pass. I changed direction, Rip Hamilton–style, plucked the ball out of the air, and shot the layup.
Swish!
“Go, Clifton United!” a few parents cheered.
“Great hustle, number thirty-two,” shouted Keith’s dad.
Coach Crazy was shouting, too.
“What kind of pass was that? What are you doing out there? Use your heads.” He jabbed his fingers into his temple. “How could you let that gnat steal the ball?”
Gnat.
Coach Crazy called me Gnat. It was the first time all season anyone had called me Gnat.
Millwood was careful inbounding the ball this time, but I still acted the gnat in their backcourt. It took them four passes to get over half-court.
My man had the ball in the frontcourt. With my basketball eyes, I checked Maya on my right. Suddenly, she bolted from her man, and we swarmed the point guard, four arms waving. He tried dribbling through us, but instead, he dribbled off his knee.
Tweet!
“Blue ball going down,” the ref called.
Maya scooped up the rock, flipped it to the ref, and then raced out of bounds.
“Ball’s in.” The ref handed the ball to Maya.
She whipped it inbounds and hit Keith streaking down the court.
A breakaway layup.
“Time-out!” Coach Crazy exploded. “Time-out!”
Tweet!
“Time-out, Orange.” The ref pointed to the Millwood bench.
Coach Acevedo charged onto the court.
“That’s how we get things going!” He gave pounds all around. “That’s how we’re playing today. We’re keeping this body language all game.” He turned to me. “Rip, heads-up basketball out there. Way to catch them sleeping. Maya and Keith—great pass, great finish. That was a thing of beauty.” He clapped hard. “Let’s keep playing Clifton United basketball.”
* * *
We kept playing Clifton United basketball, and at the end of the first, we led by ten.
But in the second, Millwood chipped away at our lead, and by late in the quarter, they trimmed it to two. With eight seconds left, I drew a foul and sank both ends of a one-and-one.
At the half, we led 24–20.
“Get ready for them to start using their bodies,” Coach Acevedo said at halftime.
“They aren’t already?” Keith said.
“That big kid with the glasses needs to cut his nails,” Emily added. She held out her arm, which was covered in scratches.
“They’re going to get even more physical,” Coach Acevedo said. “When they do, we don’t get caught up in it. We keep our body language. We keep playing like we have a good feeling about today. We keep playing Clifton United basketball.”
* * *
In the third quarter, Millwood came out on fire. They scored the first eight points and jumped in front, 28–24.
“Take it to them!” Coach Crazy shouted. “Take it to them!”
Their fans were raging, too.
“Mill-wood!” they cheered and clapped every time they had the ball. “Mill-wood!”
“Dee-fense!” they cheered and clapped every time we had the ball. “Dee-fense!”
Now at any other point this season, I would’ve said we were done. No way were we digging ourselves out of this hole.
But not today.
Today, that doubt didn’t creep in. Not even for less than a nanosecond. Not only was I playing like I had a good feeling about today, I did have a good feeling about today.
Midway through the third, Coach Acevedo brought in Mehdi, Emily, and Jeffrey. It was the burst of energy off the bench that we needed. They played in-your-grille defense and outmuscled Millwood’s monsters under the boards.
Then Keith got hot, blistering hot: A jumper from the corner. A three-pointer from the top of the key. A running one-hander across the lane.
Our parents erupted:
“Keith Krebs!” they cheered. “Keith Krebs!”
Everyone on our bench—Avery included—waved towels and banged chairs.
Heading to the final quarter: Millwood 37, Clifton 36.
* * *
“We’re throwing a curve to start the fourth,” Coach Acevedo said in the huddle. “We’re going small. Rip, Mikey, Maya, Keith, Wil—you’re our five.” He drew a circle in the air. “I want everyone running around like Rip out there. Make them chase after you. We’re going to beat them with speed and mismatches. Let’s go, hands in.”
He waited for every hand.
“On three, ‘team.’ One, two, three…”
“Team!”
* * *
On the opening play, we whipped that ball around. Millwood’s monsters tried to keep up with our passing, but they couldn’t. When the rock came back to me for the third time, I fired from the elbow.
Swish!
“Clifton takes the lead!” Red leaped off his chair. “Way to go, Mason Irving!”
“Dee-fense!” our parents cheered.
“Dee-fense!” Our bench pounded the floor.
But Millwood answered right back. They buried a jumper and retook the lead.
That’s how it went all quarter long:
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
With twenty-three seconds left, we clung to a one-point lead.
My man had the ball. He brought the ball upcourt and looked inside, but no way was I letting him make that pass. So he fed Super-Size on the wing. Super-Size took the shot.
Swish.
“Time-out!” we all shouted.
Tweet!
“Time-out, Blue!” the ref called.
Eleven seconds to go.
“Plenty of time,” Coach Acevedo said, dropping to a knee in the center of our huddle. “Eleven seconds is plenty of time.” He tapped my high-tops. “Rip, you’re taking the ball out under the basket. Here’s what we’re running.”
Coach Acevedo diagrammed the play and held up the screen. I needed to get the ball to Jason between half-court and the top of the key. Once Jason had the ball, he had two options—hit Maya in the corner or find Keith cutting toward the hoop on the far side.
“You played your hearts out this afternoon,” Coach Acevedo said after going over everyone’s assignments. “I am so proud of all of you. This is what it means to be a team. On three, ‘team.’ One, two, three…”
“Team!”
* * *
Jason, Mehdi, Keith, Maya, and I took the floor.
On the bench, Clifton United linked arms.
“U-ni-ted!” our parents cheered. “U-ni-ted!”
“Dee-fense!” the Millwood fans screamed. “Dee-fense!”
Coach Acevedo pointed to Keith and waved him closer to the three-point circle. He motioned for Jason to hold his spot.
“Three feet,” the ref said to the Millwood player defending me. He waited for the player to take a half-step back and then handed me the ball. “Ball’s in.”
I bolted down the end line. Since I was taking the ball out after a basket, I was allowed to run out of bounds. But Millwood’s defender didn’t know I could. It bought me the space I needed. I fired a baseball pass to Jason. He caught the ball over his head, turned toward the hoop, and looked to Maya. Maya ran off Mehdi’s screen, but she couldn’t shake her man. So Jason pivoted to Keith. Keith had a step on his defender, so Jason led him with a pass.
“Go! Go!” Coach Acevedo waved. “Five seconds!”
Lowering his shoulder, Keith dribbled across the three-point arc and headed for the hoop. As he left his feet, Mega-Man shifted over and leaped into the air.
The two collided.
Mega-Man’s elbow whacked Keith in the head.
Tweet! Tweet!
“Good if it goes!” the referee called. He raised his arm.
The buzzer sounded.
Keith crumpled to the floor.
The shot hit the side of the backboard and bounded away.
“Foul’s on number thirty-three, Orange,” the referee said, pointing at Mega-Man. “Blue is shooting two.” He held up two fingers and faced the coaches. “Let’s have all players off the floor. There’s no time remaining. Only the shooter…”
Under the hoop, as Keith sat up, blood poured over his fingers, which were covering his eye.
“Can I get some towels here?” The referee raced over. “Hold still, son.” He gripped Keith’s shoulder.
Coach Acevedo charged onto the court. So did Keith’s mom and dad. So did Suzanne. Within a few seconds, Suzanne was holding a towel over Keith’s eye as they all walked Keith to the boys’ bathroom.
Coach Acevedo came back out a moment later.
“Keith’s okay,” he said, jogging to our bench. “He has a cut over his eye, but it looks worse than it is. Heads bleed a lot.” He held up a finger. “Give me a sec. I need to talk to the ref and find out the situation. Keith’s out of the game.”
Keith’s out of the game.
I knew the situation. I knew the rule. If a player was unable to shoot free throws because of an injury, the opposing coach was allowed to choose any player to shoot the free throws.
Any player.
The ref, Coach Acevedo, and Coach Crazy stood at center court. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I knew exactly what they were saying.
Then Coach Acevedo trotted our way.
“Rip,” he said, waving me up.
I hustled to him.
“I need you to talk to Red,” he said. “Their coach is allowed to choose anyone from our bench to shoot the free throws. He’s choosing Red.”
“Red’s not allowed to play. Suzanne—”
“I know,” he cut me off. “I said something to her in the locker room. I had a feeling this would happen. She understands the situation.” He pulled back his hair. “He knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s a terrible thing.”
“You should tell Red he’s in,” I said.
“I think it would be better coming from you.”
I shook my head. “You should tell him.”
Coach Acevedo paused. “Okay. But I want you standing right next to me when I do.”
We headed for Red.
“Are your earplugs in?” Coach Acevedo asked, walking up.
Red pressed a finger to each ear. “They are, Coach Acevedo.”
“Good.” He nodded to the court. “You’re in the game, Red.”
“Me?” Red pointed to his number and then looked at me.
“You,” Coach Acevedo said. “You’re in for Keith.”
“I’m playing?” Red hunched his shoulders.
“You’re playing,” I said, nodding. “You can do it.”
“I don’t know, Mason Irving.” Red started to sway.
Old-man face.
“You can do it, Red.”
“I don’t know.”
“I do!”
We all turned.
Avery rolled up and hockey-stopped beside me.
“You can do it, Red,” she said. “I know you can.”
“You’re shooting Keith’s free throws,” Coach Acevedo said.
“Free throws.” Red stopped swaying. “Really?”
“Really. Their coach is allowed to pick anyone to shoot the free throws. He’s picking you.”
“I’m shooting free throws in a game?” Red basketball-smiled. “My mom said I could?” He hopped from foot to foot.
“She did.”
“Did you hear that, Mason Irving?” Red’s basketball grin grew as wide as I’d ever seen it. “I’m shooting Keith Krebs’s free throws. I’m shooting free throws in a game.”
“You ready?” I said.
“Oh, yeah! Ready as I’ll ever be, Mason Irving.”
I patted his chest. “Their fans are going to get loud.”
“I’m shooting Keith Krebs’s free throws,” he said again, hopping faster.
“Don’t listen to their fans,” Avery said. “No matter what they say, don’t listen.”
“You sure you’re up for this, Red?” Coach Acevedo said. “You don’t have to—”
“I’m your free-throw-shooting machine, Coach Acevedo.”
“You sure are.” He shook Red’s hair. It was the first time I’d ever seen Red let anyone touch his hair that way. “Every team needs a Blake Daniels.”
“Handshake for good luck?” I said.
“Handshake for good luck!”
We went right into it: “High-five, high-five. Elbow, elbow. Right, right. Left, left. Fist, fist, knuckles, blow it up. Turn, jump, bump…”
“Boo-yah!” everyone on Clifton United cheered.
Red pressed his earplugs and then bounded for the scorer’s table.
“Blake Daniels, number twenty-four, checking in.”
The referee smiled and pointed to the court.
Red took the floor.
By himself.
I checked the gym. Down the court, Coach Crazy was smiling, laughing. On the stage, all the Millwood fans were standing and shouting and waving their arms.
I clasped my hands and pressed my thumb and knuckles to my lips.
C’mon, Red. You got this. Make it. Make it. Make it.
“You can do it, Red!” Avery sat on the edge of her chair and gripped her brakes. “You got this, dude.”
“Go, number twenty-four!” Suzanne shouted. She was back on the sidelines with the parents. “Go, Red!”
All Clifton United—including Coach Acevedo—joined arms.
Red was locked in.
“Two shots,” the ref said, handing him the ball. “Good luck, son.”
“Thanks, Mr. Referee.”
Red dropped the ball and trapped it underfoot soccer-style. He placed a finger over each ear and took several breaths. He picked up the ball with both hands, squared his shoulders, and stared at the front rim. Then he dribbled the ball three quick times low to the ground and stood back up. He rotated the ball until his fingers gripped it around the word SPALDING, looked at the rim again, extended his arms, and shot the ball.
Underhanded.
Swish!
Clifton 56, Millwood 56.
We leaped.
“Boo-yah!” I hammer-fisted the air.
“Dude!” Avery cheered, waving her arms.
All our parents jumped around.
The team joined arms again. I joined one arm in Alex’s, the other in Avery’s.
“One shot,” the referee said, smiling. He handed the basketball to Red. “Good luck, son.”
“Thanks, Mr. Referee.”
Red dropped the ball and trapped it soccer-style under his foot.
“It all comes down to this,” I play-by-played softly. “No time on the clock. Knotted at fifty-six. Clifton United’s free-throw-shooting machine is on the line. He takes his dribbles, spins the ball, and stares at the rim. For the W. For Clifton United’s first win of the season. The underhanded free throw…”
Swish!
“It’s good! It’s good!” I announced. “Clifton United has pulled off the upset of the year. Clifton 57, Millwood 56. Go crazy, folks! Go crazy!”
We stormed the court.