Chapter 40

Funny what you focus on while you’re on the bench. Everybody figures you’re champing at the bit to get back in, but I was playing so bad I hoped Coach Baldwin would leave me out. I was thinking about Sam. How could anyone marry the wife of a guy he had killed?

“Timberline, you’re in!”

I ran to the scorer’s table, checked in, and looked at the clock—2:03 remaining. It was 35–33, Coronado. Number 23 was shooting two free throws. He made the first but missed the second. Duncan got the rebound and threw an outlet pass to me.

“Push it up!” Coach yelled. “Go to the middle!”

I sliced between two defenders and headed for the basket. At the foul line, one of their players slapped at the ball and it hit my knee and bounced away. I could only watch, hoping one of their players wouldn’t pick it up and go for a layup at the other end.

Out of nowhere Duncan shot to the sideline and grabbed it just before it went out-of-bounds. He looked over his shoulder, falling out-of-bounds, and tossed it to me right before his feet touched. Three players, including #23, swarmed. I pivoted left but couldn’t find an open man. The ref was about to call five seconds on me when Duncan whistled. I rolled the ball through #23’s legs straight to my teammate. All alone, he stepped to the three-point arc and fired a long shot. The swish of the net was the best thing I had heard since little Wally’s giggle the night before. The ref put both hands in the air. We were tied at 36.

Mr. Swift went wild, flailing his clipboard and hollering, “Yes! Yes!”

We got back into our zone defense quickly and tried to keep the ball from #23. With 33 seconds left, their point guard shoved a bounce pass toward the big guy and he gathered it in. He faked left, turned right, and hit a layup.

“That’s okay,” Coach said during a time-out. “We have 30 seconds to get off a good shot. You’ve fought them tough all the way. Let’s finish well.” He diagrammed a play I had seen a hundred times. Duncan throws to the open man, then goes straight to the basket where he takes a pass and lays it in. Nine times out of 10, the defense forgets about him and Duncan has an easy layup.

I fought my way through a screen and got open. Duncan threw me the ball and went for the basket. Number 23 came out and blocked the passing lane. Duncan waved at me, but it was too late. A defender picked him up.

Before I could pass, #23 knocked the ball out of my hands. It slammed to the floor and bounced high, heading out-of-bounds. But #23 jumped, grabbed the ball, and threw it at me. Hard. I tried to duck, but the ball bonked off my face and out-of-bounds.

Their ball.

Only 22 seconds left.

And there was blood on the court.

Mine.

My eyes watered, and I saw little white things swimming in front of me. Someone handed me a towel, helped me up, and walked me back to the bench. I could tell by the boots that it was Sam. The parents clapped, but Mr. Swift was yelling at the refs.

One of the moms gave me an ice pack for my nose. My teammates patted me on the back. If I hadn’t felt like I had a basketball growing out of my nose, I would have enjoyed the attention.

Coronado hit two more foul shots and won 40–36. We all lined up to slap hands and say, “Good game.” I was the last player in our line, and #23 was the last in theirs.

He stopped and shook his head. “Hey, man, sorry. I was trying to bounce it off your leg, not your face.” His voice was high, even higher than mine. He put a hand on my shoulder. “No hard feelings?”

I shook my head. “Ith all righ” was all I could manage.