Our last practice went on forever, and everything about it was weird. There were no girls there, just the guys. We didn’t do suicide sprints to warm up, just laps around the gym. And we didn’t do any drills, just multiple games of one-on-one. Each coach had a list of who was supposed to play who, and they walked around making notes on their clipboards during every matchup.
The pairings weren’t random. The final cuts were still being decided, and everyone knew it. We were all out to play our top game.
With only six baskets in the gym, we couldn’t all play at once, so there was time to catch my breath between games.
At first, I tried to guess the meaning behind each matchup — like when they started me out against a ninth grader who I’d pegged for starting center. I decided it was because I was the only guy tall enough to block his jump shot — which I did, but only occasionally, and not nearly enough to win or even keep it close.
After a while, I stopped thinking and just played. It was my last practice, and I wanted to make it a good one. So I found a rhythm and stayed there, no matter who I was paired against. I concentrated on getting my shots, driving to the net and making sure I boxed out my opponent — limiting them to one shot and taking things one rebound at a time.
I won some and lost some, and I didn’t use my inhaler once.
At the end of the practice, the coaches let us play full-court five-on-five while they consulted over their clipboards.
Finally, Coach Koniuk blew the whistle. “Okay, guys, bring it in!”
“The moment of truth,” Aidan said, passing me on the way to the bench. “It’s been fun playing with you, Wheezy!”
“I want to thank you all for your hard work during tryouts.” Coach Koniuk rubbed his hands together. “We had a difficult decision to make. I wish we could keep every one of you.”
“Quit it with the sappy stuff, Coach!” Aidan yelled. “Just tell us who made the team.”
Coach Koniuk shot Aidan a look like the one I’d seen Gran give Trev when he took too many sausages at dinner.
“Coach Johansen will post the junior team, and I will post the senior team. The list will be up on the wall when you’re done getting changed. For those of you who didn’t make it, I hope to see you out again next year.”
Coach Koniuk didn’t look up from his clipboard, but I was certain he was talking to me.
“And for those of you who did make the team,” Coach Johansen added, “let’s make this a championship year for the Cougars!”
There was a chorus of “Yeahs!” before everyone dashed to the changeroom. I grabbed my backpack off the bench and trailed along behind.
Inside the changeroom, a few of the ninth graders were laughing and talking about their plans for the weekend, clearly certain they’d made the team. The eighth graders concentrated on getting changed as quickly as possible. I assumed they were anxious to know if they’d be on the junior team or the senior team. The seventh graders were mixed. Some looked terrified, some looked relaxed, but all of them were getting changed fast. Except me.
I took my time. I wasn’t anxious to relive the experience of being cut.
When I finally exited the changeroom, there was a wall of guys surrounding the list. Over the tops of their heads, I squinted at the list for the junior team. Mentally detaching myself from the yapping around me, I ran down the list of names.
Trevor Bach was there.
But not Hudson Pickle.
I did a one-eighty and forced myself to walk toward the exit, even though I wanted to run. With every step, I ranted in my head: I will not lose my cool. I will not lose my cool.
Basketball was a stupid sport.
What was the point of running up and down the court, over and over, trying to get a stupid ball in a stupid net? Ditto for hockey.
Anyway, sick people like me probably shouldn’t play sports. And firefighting? Who needed a career when you were destined to die young?
I will not lose my cool. I will not lose my cool.
As I pushed open the gym door, my eyes started to water. I quickly wiped my face and tried to convince myself that I was allergic to the janitor’s pine-scented cleaner. I didn’t want anyone to think I was crying.
I had prepared myself. I had told myself to expect this. But I was still shocked. I couldn’t really believe it was happening.
I will not lose my cool.
And Trev hadn’t even shown up for the last few practices!
How did he make the team, but not me?
I will not lose my cool.