5

Gruber! Are you kidding me? Tim thought with dismay. Every fiber in his body screamed for him to run in the opposite direction. But he didn’t. Dick was counting on him, and he wasn’t about to let him down, Mike Gruber or no Mike Gruber.

Mike didn’t look all that pleased to see him, either. “Too bad Derek broke his leg,” he said. Maybe Mike really felt sorry for Derek, but Tim guessed there was a second, unspoken part to the comment: “Too bad Derek broke his leg—because now I’m stuck with you!”

Dick cleared his throat. “You guys have two options for how to work with your kids. One, you can stick together and teach them in one big group. Or two, you can each take three and work with them separately.”

“Separately,” Tim and Mike answered immediately and in unison.

“Well, so long as you’re sure,” Dick said dryly. “Now help me lower the hoops a few feet.”

“Lower the hoops? Why?” Mike asked.

“These guys are a lot smaller than you,” Dick reminded him. “They won’t be able to reach the rim if we don’t drop it down.” He moved to the farthest hoop.

Mike shot Tim a sideways glance and smirked. “Maybe you’ll be able to hit a few now yourself, huh, shrimp?” he taunted as he headed to another basket.

Tim was fishing for a retort to fling back when Dick called, “Heads up! Here they come.”

Six little boys walked toward them with a counselor. Introductions were made all around, and then the counselor left with a promise to return in an hour. Mike immediately took his three mentees to the far court. Dick departed soon after, leaving Tim alone with his three kids—and wishing he hadn’t fallen asleep before reading the papers Dick had given him. Maybe there was something in them that would have given him a clue on how to begin!

“Uh, okay,” Tim said. “So which one of you guys is Red?”

The smallest of the boys lifted his cap, exposing a thatch of bright orange hair.

“Oh, right,” Tim said. He was a redhead, too, but his hair color was more copper than carrot. “And who’s Peter?”

A chubby boy with glasses raised his hand.

“That means you’re Keanu, right?” Tim said to the third boy, who, to his consternation, began flapping his arms.

“I can fly,” Keanu cried, “because I have superpowers! Zoom!”

Tim was trying to figure out what to say to that when a loud voice from the other end of the court interrupted his thoughts.

“When I’m talking,” Mike was saying, “I expect you to listen! Not bounce balls! Not poke each other! You got it? Good! Now sit down.”

The boys sat down, and Mike began describing a drill they were going to do. Tim eavesdropped for a moment. Mike sounded well prepared for the mentoring duties. And no wonder—he’d signed up for the program weeks ago, while Tim had been drafted for it just the night before.

He racked his brain, trying to come up with something—anything—to get the boys moving. He arrived at the simplest idea.

“Okay,” he boomed, “three laps around the court! And no slacking!”

The three little boys looked at one another and then set off at a trot. But by the end of the second lap, they were all gasping so hard that Tim was afraid they’d pass out. So he told them to stop.

“It’s so hot!” Red whined as he collapsed onto the grass. “I’m going to burst into flames!”

“I’m hungry,” added Peter. “Isn’t it time for lunch yet?”

Keanu was the only one who kept running. But as far as Tim could tell, he was back to pretending to be a superhero.

Tim glanced toward the other end of the court. Mike’s kids were busy passing the ball back and forth, but Mike wasn’t watching them. He was watching Tim—and laughing.

Tim’s face reddened. Then he turned to his boys. “Enough,” he said harshly. “You’ve got one lap left. Move it.” He stabbed a finger at them and then at the court.

Red shrank back. Peter’s bottom lip trembled slightly. Keanu stopped in midzoom, his expression crestfallen. Then, one by one, they started jogging.

That’s better, Tim thought, hands on hips. Got to show them who’s boss around here.

Yet as he followed their progress around the court, Dick’s suggestion to show them that basketball was fun came back to him.

Okay, so they’re not having fun now, he thought. That doesn’t mean I can’t make it fun! He scratched his head, trying to figure out exactly how he could make drills enjoyable for seven-year-old boys.

It was a question he didn’t find an answer to, at least not in the next hour. Those sixty minutes proved to be the longest in Tim’s life. Dribbling, passing, shooting—the boys did everything he told them to do. But they performed each task with so little enthusiasm that Tim felt like he was punishing them. He didn’t know who was more relieved when their counselor reappeared, him or them.

“Good job, guys,” he said. He wasn’t really expecting a reply—but it still hurt when he didn’t get one.