THEY PRACTICED TWICE MORE DURING THE WEEK, EACH ONE A LITTLE LESS awful than the first one.
But not by much.
It was the Saturday of Veterans Day weekend, most of the town at the parade. They had to practice in the morning today, insanely early in the morning, seven o’clock, because the theater had been taken over by the Science Fair and the Drama Club kids needed the gym at nine. Mr. Harden was playing on the skins team with Will and Bren and Matt. Danny’s dad was moving stiffly around for Danny’s team, the shirts, pretending he was playing center, just as a way of putting a bigger body on Matt in the scrimmage and making the sides look even.
Matt Fitzgerald moved about as fast as a traffic jam on the Long Island Expressway, so even though the best Richie Walker could do was limp-jog up and down the court himself, they could sort of keep up with each other.
They were about forty-five minutes into what was half game and half practice, Danny’s dad stopping them every few minutes to give them one more variation on the offense he wanted them to use against a man-to-man.
It was then that Danny spotted Ty Ross standing just inside the double doors, at the opposite end from the stage. He was in his baggy white shorts, down to his knees, new McGrady blue-and-white sneakers you could spot from a mile away, a Middletown High T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, Ty apparently wanting to show off arms as skinny as his legs.
Danny gave him the chin-up nod, Ty did the same back.
When Richie Walker spotted Ty, he told everybody to take a water break and relax for a minute.
Danny and his dad walked over to Ty, Danny saying, “You must be in the wrong gym, dude.”
“Hey, Ty,” Richie said.
“Mr. Walker.” Ty ducked his head. “My mom was on her way over to Springs, she has to help them set up for some auction or something tonight. I was supposed to help her, but then I remembered that you guys practice early on Saturday.” He grinned. “She sort of gave me a reprieve.”
They all stood there for a moment, nobody knowing what to say about that. Then Richie said, “You want to play some?”
“Would that be okay?” Ty said.
Richie said, “If it’s okay with your mom.”
“She’s cool.”
Danny said, “What about your dad?”
Ty looked down at the McGradys, the left one untied. He was wearing those socks that barely made it above the top of your high-tops.
“He’s playing tennis right now.”
Richie put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s just basketball, son. But I don’t want you to get into trouble with your father.”
“My mom said that as long as it was okay with you, it was okay with her, we—the Vikings—don’t practice again until next Tuesday.”
“Well, then, thank you for coming, Ty, because you may have saved a broken-down old man’s life. You play with Danny. And I am going to sit my worn-out butt down.”
Then he changed the teams around a little, stacking the other guys, making it Will, Bren, Matt, Michael Harden and his dad. He put Oliver Towne and the O’Brien twins with Danny and Ty.
“Let’s play some damn ball,” Richie Walker said.
They started over, jumping it at center court, Ty against Matt. Ty back-tipped the ball to Danny and as soon as he did, Danny gave him the eye, Ty breaking toward their basket, Danny feeding him perfectly, Ty catching the long pass on one bounce and laying the ball in off the backboard.
As they ran back to set up on defense, Ty changed lanes so he could give Danny a quick low five. He was smiling over the play, as if they’d drawn it up beforehand.
Danny wasn’t.
He’s not the one in the wrong gym, Danny thought.
I am.
When practice was over, Ty used Will’s ever-present cell to call his mother and ask if he could go with Will over to Danny’s house.
Most of the other kids had beat it out of the gym when Richie had said they were done for the day. A bad sign, Danny knew, for a bunch of guys who were supposed to be there because of their burning love of the game.
Of course the only reason Danny’d had any fun was because he’d had Ty to pass to.
Ty said he was getting a busy signal on his mom’s phone, but she was probably on her way, since her shift at Springs ended at nine, and there was a better chance of her robbing the King Kullen supermarket than there was of her being late for anything.
So they were all standing outside in front of the gym—Danny, his dad, Ty, Will—waiting for Mrs. Ross when Mr. Ross pulled up in his black Mercedes, left the car in the fire lane that was really just a drop-off spot in front of the gym, came up the stairs fast at them, taking the last steps two at a time.
“What’s he doing here?”
He was talking to Richie about Ty, as if Ty weren’t even there.
Richie said, “You should probably ask Ty that.”
“I’m asking you,” he said, pointing a finger at Richie, not quite touching him, but getting it up there near his face.
“Ty showed up and it was lucky he did, because we’re short players. I asked if it was all right and he said that his mom said it was, she’s the one who dropped him off.”
“My wife,” Mr. Ross said, “doesn’t make our son’s basketball decisions for him.”
Danny wasn’t as interested in Ty’s dad as he was in his own, wanting to see how he was going to play this, Mr. Ross bossing him now the way he liked to boss everybody else in town.
“You’re making a big deal out of nothing,” Richie said, standing his ground, not backing up, keeping his voice calm. Putting his eyes on Mr. Ross and calmly keeping them there.
“He doesn’t belong here.”
“He’s twelve,” Richie said. “If he can find a game on a Saturday morning, he ought to be allowed to play in it, you ask me.”
Mr. Ross said, “You think I can’t see what you’re doing here?”
“You mean other than getting up to ten kids so we could scrimmage.”
“Dad,” Ty said.
“Stay out of this.”
Richie said, “C’mon, Jeff. He didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t do anything wrong. I told him that if he doesn’t have a conflict with your team, he can practice with our team anytime he wants to.”
Then Richie said, “And backing up a second? What do you think I’m doing here?”
“You’ve made it abundantly clear by putting this team of yours together that you think some grave injustice was done to the kids who didn’t make the cut. Well, I don’t. And I don’t want the other kids on the Vikings to even get the idea, from my son, that they have some sort of alternative if they don’t like the way things are going.”
Richie Walker barked out a laugh. “You think I’m, like, recruiting your kid?”
Danny stood there, not moving, barely breathing, curious to see when Mr. Ross, the most important guy in Middletown, was going to figure out what a jackass he was making of himself, in front of them, in front of his son.
“You just coach your little team and I’ll coach mine,” he said. He took Ty by the arm now and said, “Let’s go.”
Danny was afraid that Ty was the one about to cry over basketball.
But he didn’t.
Richie said, “Why don’t you go easy on the boy?”
Mr. Ross stopped, turned around, nodding, a phony smile on his face. “You know,” he said, “there’s nothing I like better than getting parenting advice from the experts.”
He and Ty went down the stairs to the car. When they got there, Mr. Ross stood on the passenger side and opened the door, waiting there until Ty was inside.
When the car was gone, Danny said to his dad, “He was pretty angry.”
And his dad said, “Only for the last twenty years or so.”