Things settled into a routine. Every day after school I'd shoot around with Luke until Mom drove up. As soon as she pulled on the emergency brake, Luke would grab his sweatshirt, give me a wave goodbye, and I'd go upstairs to my room to study. About an hour later Mom would call Scott and me down for dinner, and afterwards it was back to the books.
Every time a teacher posted scores, my percentage went up. Unless I totally bombed the finals, I was likely to end up with C+'s and B's. Nothing that would please my mom, but plenty good to keep me eligible. The Sunday night before tryouts officially began, Luke phoned. "Your grades a problem?"
"No," I said. "Not anymore. How about yours?"
"I told you, Nick. Nothing but A's for me. Always and forever."
Neither of us spoke for a moment. Then I said what we were both thinking. "You think we can make the varsity?"
Luke laughed. "No way we're playing JV's. We're going to make the varsity and we're going to play serious minutes."
I had trouble sleeping that night. You see other guy's games, guys like Matt Markey or even my brother. You watch them play and you can spot weaknesses right away. But you can't see your own game, or at least not clearly. You never know what you look like to a coach.
Monday dragged. I couldn't pay attention in class, and my stomach was rolling over. I started worrying that I was coming down with diarrhea. I could imagine myself during try-outs racing to the toilet every five minutes.
Classes finally ended and I headed to the gym. I walked slowly, trying not to seem too eager. On the way I checked out the other guys heading to the gym. Some of them were returning starters like Carlos Fabroa and Tom McShane, who'd played center and power forward. But there were lots of guys I didn't know.
I swung open the locker room door and stepped inside. Immediately I spotted Luke. From the way he'd talked on the telephone and acted at P.E., I thought he'd be completely cool. But I could see he was as nervous as I was. His brown skin looked less brown, and his eyes darted around. "Hey, Luke," I croaked, but he barely nodded back to me.
I understood. My mouth was too dry for me to do much talking either. I opened a locker, yanked off my pants and shirt, and pulled on my gym clothes. I was about to close up the locker when I got the shock of my life. In walked Trent Dawson.
What he was doing there was a total mystery. Okay, so he played tough defense and could create his own shot off that stutter-step dribble of his. But the guy had none of the other stuff you need to succeed. He never stuck with anything; he didn't know how to follow rules or play as a member of a team; he was flunking all his classes. For him to think he could make the varsity was a total joke. Only it wasn't funny, because I had a sinking feeling that somehow, some way, he'd mess things up for me.
I wasn't the only guy stunned to see Dawson suiting up. The whole locker room hushed as he entered. I guess he could feel all the eyes on him, because without warning he turned on Brian Chang, a junior guard. "What are you staring at?" he snarled. Chang looked away quickly.
When I stepped on the court, all I heard was the sound of basketballs bouncing and shoes squeaking on the hardwood floor. It seemed as though there were one hundred guys trying out, though the real number was closer to thirty.
I stayed away from the court where Carver, Fabroa, and the other varsity players were shooting, instead choosing a basket off to the side where Luke was warming up. When he spotted me, he fed me a bounce pass. I took the ball in for a lay-in. Just seeing one shot go down made me feel better. After that it was jumpers, runners in the key, a few free throws.
Eventually Coach O'Leary blew his whistle and called us together. "Good to see you out here!" he boomed. His big face was bright red and little beads of sweat had formed on his forehead. He held a basketball in front of him, and he swatted it hard with his open palm. He smiled. "Now I know what you're thinking, especially you new guys. That I'm a fat, freckled Irishman with a beer belly. And it's all true. But I know this game, gentlemen. I know this game. And if you listen to me, I'll teach it to you." He bounced the ball. "Three lines, everybody, pass and cut, pass and cut. Let's see if you know how to run a fast break."
In a game you want to be the one to finish off a fast break, to rack up the easy two points and improve your shooting stats. But that first time through the line, guys would pass and pass until we were on top of the hoop and finally somebody had to shoot. Everybody was competing to seem the least selfish player—everybody except Trent.
His first time down he took a pass at half court and then dribbled all the way in for the lay-in, leaving his teammates totally out of it. It was comical, and I saw a grin crease O'Leary's face. I don't think he'd ever seen that done before. He blew his whistle, explained the point of the drill to Trent, and play resumed.
Next came a rebounding drill, keeping the ball alive off the glass. Eight lines, four guys per group—nothing fancy. O'Leary was looking for some legs that could elevate. It was a chance for Luke to show his athleticism, and he did.
After that it was chest passes and bounce passes, the boring stuff. While we were doing those drills, O'Leary came around and took down our height, weight, and the position we were trying out for. "Point guard," I said, when he came to me.
"So you want to run the whole show?"
"No," I said quickly. His red eyebrows went up quizzically. "I mean yes." The eyebrows went higher. "I mean no."
He laughed. "Relax, Nick. I'm just having a little fun." He started to walk away, then turned back. "Your brother isn't turning out?"
I shook my head. "He's playing his trumpet instead."
Coach O'Leary nodded. "That's what I'd heard. Is he any good?"
"I don't know much about music," I said, "but he sounds good to me."
"Well, we're going to miss him. He was a good guy to have on the team. Kept other guys steady, always gave his best. You tell him I said that."
"I will," I replied, thinking how surprised my father would have been to have heard O'Leary praise Scott.
A couple minutes later O'Leary blew his whistle and called us to him. "There are thirty of you out here, but there are only twelve uniforms in my office. To make this team, you've got five days to prove to me you want a uniform more than the guy standing next to you." He motioned to the other side of the court. "Over there is Darren Nolan, our team manager. If you want to stay on this team, you treat him with respect. Those little pieces of paper he's sticking on the wall are your squad assignments. Find your name and pick up the right color jersey." He stopped, and a little smile came to his eyes. "Okay, gentlemen, time to show what you've got."
It was chaos then. Guys crowded around the slips of white paper stuck up on the wall underneath the farthest hoop. It took me a while, but finally I found my name. I was on the Red team. I scanned the list of names. A rush of adrenaline came when I saw Luke was on my team, but it disappeared when I saw Trent was on the Red team, too.
I couldn't believe my bad luck, then realized it hadn't been luck at all. O'Leary wanted us comfortable on the court, so he'd teamed us with guys from our P.E. class. It cut down on the time it would take to get used to teammates. For most guys the set-up probably worked. For most guys.
I was the point guard, our team's main ball handler. Only I couldn't get going. My hands didn't feel as if they were mine. The ball kept getting away from me, off my knee, my toe, my thigh, as if it had a will of its own.
Luke was feeling the pressure too. When he was wide open, he short-armed his shots, barely hitting the rim. When he was closely guarded, he flung up wild shots instead of passing off. Part of his trouble was my fault. I wasn't getting the ball to him in rhythm.
Afterwards Luke and I walked home together. Most of the way we didn't talk; we were both too down. But just before he peeled off, Luke motioned toward Trent, who was a block ahead. "He's probably got a better chance of making the team than I do. He rebounds well, chases down everything, never quits."
I scoffed at that. "Come on. The guy's a wrestler, not a basketball player. He'd foul out of a real game in about three minutes."
Luke snorted. "Yeah, well, better to be a wrestler than to be nothing, which was what I was." We lapsed into silence. Then Luke forced himself to smile. "It was only one day. We've got four more."
"Right," I answered, trying to pump myself up, "we'll show them tomorrow."