Chapter 7
Monday couldn’t have come soon enough. Normally PJ loved the weekends, but he didn’t want to see any of his friends from the team, since they all probably still hated him. And he couldn’t go down to the park courts to practice because it rained Saturday morning to Sunday night.
Early Monday morning, PJ walked down the quiet halls of Westfield Middle School toward Coach Turnbull’s office.
The office door stood open, so PJ reached in and knocked on it. “Hey, Coach T?” he said nervously.
“Oh, Harris,” Coach Turnbull said. He was sitting as his desk, sipping coffee out of a mug that said I Love Dogs. “Come on in.”
“Do you hate me as much as the rest of the team does, Coach T?” PJ asked. He sat down in a chair.
The coach put down his mug. “Hate you?” he asked. “What are you talking about, Harris?”
“You know,” PJ replied. He didn’t look the coach in the eye. “Because I lost the game for us on Thursday.”
“Lost the game?” the coach said. “That’s crazy. You missed a couple of foul shots. Lots of guys missed shots.”
PJ shrugged. “I guess,” he said.
“Listen, Harris,” the coach went on, “you didn’t lose the game for us, but you should work on your foul shot. Why don’t you talk to Dwayne? He’s got a great free throw.”
“I don’t think so,” PJ said. “Any other ideas?”
“Well, there’s Daniel Friedland,” the coach said. He looked through some papers on his clipboard. “His foul shot has really improved over the last season. I think he’s gunning for the starting five at Dwayne’s position.”
PJ thought about it. He had noticed Daniel’s shots improving a lot, even though he hardly ever played in a game. “Okay, Coach,” PJ said, getting up. “I’ll find Daniel and ask for some tips.”
“I’m glad you’re trying to improve that shot, PJ,” the coach said.
* * *
Daniel Friedland was in PJ’s math class. PJ went over to him just before class started.
“Hey, PJ,” Daniel replied. “Bummer about that game last week, huh?”
“I’ll say,” PJ said. “At least you’re speaking to me.”
“I don’t think anyone’s mad at you about it,” Daniel said. “At least not anymore.”
PJ said, “I was hoping you could give me some tips. I know your free throw has gotten a lot better since last season.”
“You noticed that?” Daniel said excitedly.
“Sure,” PJ replied. “So did Coach T. He said I should ask you for some tips.”
Daniel beamed. “Wow,” he said. He got a faraway look on his face. “You think Coach T will let me start soon?”
“Come on, Daniel, focus,” PJ said. “How did you get better?”
Daniel looked at PJ. “Huh?” he said. “Oh! Right. Well, I just practice. A lot! Like, every morning before school, I spend thirty minutes at the park courts, just shooting foul shot after foul shot.”
PJ’s eyes opened wide. “Every morning?” he said. “That’s insane. What time do you get up every day?”
Daniel shrugged. “Six. It’s no big deal,” he explained. “My mom makes me breakfast and I head to the park.”
The bell rang to start class, so PJ slid into his seat at the back of the room.
Every morning? he thought. And at six? That’s so early. I don’t know if I can do that.
* * *
The next morning, PJ’s alarm went off at six. Somehow, he managed to pull himself out of bed. He threw on some sweats and a hoodie, then some socks he found that didn’t seem too dirty.
“What are you doing up already?” his dad said when PJ reached the front door.
“I’m going to shoot some free throws at the park,” PJ said. He pulled on his basketball shoes. “I need to improve my shot if I don’t want to lose any more games for the Wildcats.”
When PJ made it to the park courts, the first thing he saw was Daniel Friedland, shooting from the foul line.
“Hey, you made it,” Daniel called out. “Nice.”
PJ said, “I guess I’ll use the other basket.”
Daniel nodded, then went right back to shooting free throws.
Man, he’s so serious about it, PJ thought. Then he went to the other basket and stood at the foul line.
PJ yawned. He glanced at his watch. It was only six thirty. School wouldn’t start for another hour and a half.
That leaves plenty of time to practice, he thought. If I can stay awake.
PJ glanced over at Daniel. He wasn’t as good as Dwayne from the line, but he was sinking most of his shots.
PJ looked back at his own basket, then at his ball. He took a deep breath, spun the ball between his palms, and lifted it up.
He aimed. And all he could think about was Daniel, behind him, watching him.
PJ took another deep breath, drew the ball back, and shot.
Brick.
The ball slammed into the metal rim with a thud, shaking the backboard and the pole. Then it bounced right back at him, over his head, and onto Daniel’s side of the court.
“Aw, man!” PJ shouted.
Daniel caught PJ’s ball and tossed it back. “No big deal,” he said. “Keep going.”
PJ glared at Daniel, who smiled and went back to practicing. PJ stood, facing his own basket, listening to the sounds behind him: the ball bouncing once or twice. Then silence. Then the ball hitting the rim and falling in, or hitting the backboard and falling in. Then the ball would bounce another couple of times and PJ would hear Daniel’s feet on the cement.
PJ’s heart raced. The sun was behind his hoop, and he squinted toward the basket. After a deep breath, he bounced the ball once, lifted it up, and shot.
The ball came off his fingers all wrong. There was no arc, and no power. It fell at least six inches short of the front of the rim and rolled onto the grass.
“No!” PJ shouted. Then he walked off.
“PJ?” Daniel called after him. “What about your ball? PJ?”
But PJ ignored him. He had one option left, and that was to quit the team.