Thursday night we took on the Franklin Earthquake in their gym. At the team meeting after school, Coach O'Leary had us sit on the bleachers while he gave out the standard information: game time, address of the school, maps for anybody who needed one.
Once the details were taken care of, he paced back and forth. You could hear him breathing through his nose like a mad bull about to charge. Finally, he lit into us. "We're two and five this year, a lousy record. But we're not a lousy team. Or at least I don't think we are. These Franklin kids think they're going to run over us. They think we're nothing." He stopped and surveyed us, catching each guy's eye in turn. Some looked away; some didn't. I didn't. "Tonight is gut-check time. Tonight we'll see what you've got."
Mom had agreed to give Trent a ride to the game. When Scott heard that at dinner, he got furious. "Why don't you have the guy move in with us? He studies in our kitchen, eats the food out of our refrigerator, shoots hoops in the yard. Now we taxi him around. The only thing left is to get him a bed."
"What are you getting riled up about?" I said. "It's just a ride."
"It's not just a ride and you know it. I live here too, you know. Katya won't come around if Trent's here all the time. And I'll tell you something else. He knows where Zack is—and his mom does too. I'll bet you anything they're sending him money, helping him. It's not right, and it's not right for us to do anything that helps them."
His speech over, he stood, threw his napkin down, and left the table. "Where are you going?" Mom asked.
"I'm going to phone Katya. I'll get a ride from her. I'm not getting in the car with Trent."
Mom and I finished dinner in silence. We could hear Scott make his phone call, hear his voice cheer as he got the answer he wanted. When he went upstairs, Mom asked if there was some other way Trent could get to the next game. I shook my head. "And the basketball in our yard every night? And the studying at the kitchen table? There's no other place he could, go?"
"I'm the only friend he's got."
She put her elbows on the table, rested her chin on her hands. "But you're not the only son I have."
"Come on, Mom," I pleaded. "Riding with Katya is hardly some ordeal for Scott."
"I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about the other things. You don't really know how deeply involved Trent is in all of this, do you?"
"He's not a bad guy, Mom. I know that."
"That's not the question. The question is whether he's done bad things."
She wasn't happy about driving Trent, but she was true to her word. She even made small talk with him in the car, telling him how great it was that he'd raised his grades so that he could play: the school-is-more-important-than-sports routine. He barely answered. Instead he kept unzipping his bag, rooting around in there to make sure he had all his stuff, then zipping it closed.
We were the last to arrive. I had to drag myself up the long stairway to the gym, but Trent took the stairs two at a time. Inside the locker room I nodded to Luke, to Carver, to the other guys, and they nodded back. But there was a wall between Trent and me and the rest of the team.
O'Leary called us to a chalkboard by the door. He put the names of the starters up, and underneath he listed Brian Chang's name. Below them, in a group of four, were the other second-stringers. Neither Trent's name nor my name was on the board at all.
"Listen up," he said, clapping his hands for attention.
"This place is a snake pit. It's going to be crazy out there. Brian, you be ready. You're first off the bench. You four"—he tapped the second group of names with his chalk—"you'll rotate in toward the end of the first quarter. And if you don't see your name up here"—this was for Trent and me—"don't think that means you aren't playing. I'll use you anytime I need you, so keep your head in the game. Now let's go!"
As I took the court, it was as if I was carrying around a whole suitcase of stuff weighing me down. I was mad about the way the guys froze me out, froze Trent out, mad about being blamed for the early losses, mad about being benched by O'Leary, mad about being left behind when the team went to Victoria, mad about my dad not coming to the game. My name being left off the blackboard was one more thing to stuff in that suitcase.
I was sluggish all through warm-ups. I never looked for my mom, never even glanced at the Franklin guys. It wasn't until the horn sounded and we headed to the bench that I even noticed Trent.
He was trying to be stone-faced. His mouth was straight, his jaw tight, but his eyes—his eyes were glowing. You'd have thought he was starting the game, instead of being buried at the end of the bench.
I couldn't figure it. Then, as the band played the "Star Spangled Banner," I remembered the questions he'd asked about the uniform, the way he kept checking his bag in the car, and suddenly I understood. This was his first real game. He was somewhere he never thought he'd be, doing something he never thought he'd do.
O'Leary was right about Franklin—they didn't take us seriously. You could see it in the sloppy way they opened the game. Their guards were lightning quick, but instead of letting their natural ability have its way, they tried too much, forcing passes into tight spaces, looking to make the highlight reel.
But it wasn't just the guards. Their star, a tall muscular black kid named Robby Wilkes, was doing dipsy-doodle stuff instead of taking the ball strong to the hole. A couple of spinning jumpers actually went down for him, which encouraged him to try even more circus shots.
Because of Franklin's sloppy play, we hung close through the first quarter. When Fabroa needed a breather, Chang got the call. Those Franklin guys could have eaten him alive if they'd pressed. But they played soft, and when he's not pressured, Chang does okay. He actually nailed a three-pointer at the buzzer that put us up 12–11.
The Earthquake's coach must have given his team an earful during the break because they came out charged for the second quarter. On their first possession Wilkes powered straight to the hoop—nothing fancy—for a driving dunk. Immediately they slapped on a full-court, trapping press.
Their press had energy, but I could see how to beat it. Their guards were quick, but other than Robby Wilkes, the front-line players were plodders. All Fabroa had to do was wait for the trap to come, then make one good pass over the top to Markey or Carver or Luke, and we would have been off for the lay-in or the short jumper. But time after time Fabroa tried to make his pass before the double-team reached him, and those passes would get picked off. Then it was the Earthquakes racing to the basket, with us watching.
Quickly they pulled out to an eight-point lead. O'Leary called time-out. He looked at Chang and then at me. I'm faster, and what we needed was speed. But it was Chang who got the nod.
Fresh legs matter. For a couple of minutes he did better than Fabroa. But with three minutes left in the half, Franklin changed tactics. Instead of a trapping, zone press, they went man-to-man. They had their fastest guard hound Chang the length of the court, using the other guys to fill the passing lanes. Chang couldn't break the one-on-one pressure, couldn't make the pass. On four straight possessions he turned the ball over. Franklin's gym was rocking, and O'Leary's time out did nothing to slow the momentum. At the half we were down 37–19.
O'Leary railed at us in the locker room, but when you haven't played, it's hard to listen. Back on the bench at the start of the second half, I found myself hoping we'd fall even farther behind. Thirty points down and I figured O'Leary would stick both Trent and me in.
But Franklin took off the press at the start of the third quarter, and their intensity came off, too. We didn't cut into their lead, but they didn't extend it. At least not for most of the quarter. Then Fabroa sat down and Chang came in for the last two minutes of the third quarter. He immediately threw away a couple of passes and made a stupid foul. The quarter ended with Franklin making a 9–2 run that stretched their lead to twenty-five. O'Leary turned sideways in his seat, a scowl on his face, and looked at Trent and me. "Abbott ... Dawson, you're starting the fourth quarter."
The game was over. Carver was on the bench; Luke was on the bench. There were more people eating hot dogs out in the lobby than there were up in the stands, but Trent didn't care. It was the "Star Spangled Banner" all over again. He was in a game, in a real game, and his eyes were shining. And if it was good enough for him, then it was good enough for me.
Trent was so pumped up that for the first couple of minutes he was wild, bouncing around like a pinball, totally disrupting Franklin on one possession but then giving up an easy basket on the next. When the ref whistled him for a charging foul his fists clenched, but then he turned and raced down-court, and I breathed easier. His first shot—a little jumper from the free-throw line I set up with penetration—was halfway done before it rattled out. Still, he drew the foul. He must have bounced the ball twenty times before he took the foul shot. It was a bullet, bricking off the back rim with so much force that the Franklin guys smiled. I sidled over to him. "Just like in my back yard," I whispered. He nodded, and his next shot was perfect.
With four minutes left he hit his stride and I hit mine. For the rest of the game we dominated that court. He'd haul down a rebound, give me a quick outlet pass, then fill a fast-break lane. I'd dance a pass through the defender's arms back to him for a driving lay-in, or I'd pull up and stick the jumper myself.
It was garbage time, and with their big lead the Franklin defenders weren't exactly up in our faces. Still, by the final buzzer we'd cut the twenty-five-point lead to twelve—and that's good playing at any time. As we walked off the court I saw the Franklin coach staring at Trent and me, wondering what would have happened had we played earlier. I hoped O'Leary was wondering the same thing.
In the car on the way home, Trent didn't exactly rattle on nonstop, but when I mentioned a shot or a rebound, he'd talk about it a little, and he couldn't keep that crooked smile from his face. "You were wonderful," Mom said to him. "Simply wonderful."
When Mom pulled onto our block, her headlights played on Trent's house. There were three cars and two motorcycles in the driveway, and more cars parked in front. Every light in the house was on. I looked at Trent; his face was tight.
"You want to come in for a little while?" I asked.
"That's okay."
"You sure?" I said, rubbing my hands together against the cold. "We could play some cards or something."
He shook his head. "No."
"See you tomorrow then."
"Yeah. See you."
I went inside, talked to Mom a little, then sat on the sofa by the window and stared across the street at Trent's house. Every once in a while his front door would open and somebody would spill out, laughing or swearing—or both. Our windows would rattle from the volume of the stereo until the door slammed shut again. The party was still going strong when I headed upstairs to my bedroom.