CHAPTER 9

HOME COURT

Three months later, sitting on a bench in the South Bronx bike park, Devon’s father looked happy and relaxed, if a bit out of place. He was the only person over forty there, but somehow, he belonged. Over the past few months, he had become a sort of coach to Devon and some of the other BMX riders.

At first Devon had been a little worried that Dad’s enthusiasm might turn into the same pressure it had with basketball. But they seemed to have reached a compromise. Devon still played basketball, although less frequently than before. In return, Dad supported Devon’s BMX riding.

Just then, Jamal got air on the vert.

Dad stood up from the bench and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Get higher, Jamal!” he shouted. “Control your breathing!”

Midair, Jamal grinned.

Curtis and Julio had been coming to the bike park with Devon. Mostly to watch and sometimes to try out a trick on Devon’s bike.

For newbies, they weren’t bad. Curtis was catching on quickly. Julio was so tall that just standing upright on the bike was impressive.

And then there was Devon, cutting through obstacles like a slasher getting to the lane. He glanced over at his father and saw Dad mutter something under his breath. Devon knew what he was saying: “Ten seconds.”

This was it, the last shot.

Should I try to get some air and do some spins? Devon wondered. Or do a big trick as the grand finale?

But he remembered what Jamal had said to him when he’d first started riding. “Complicated” just means you haven’t practiced enough to make it easy.

It still wasn’t easy, but Devon was getting there.

Devon saw a mini-ramp and picked up speed heading toward it. He hit the ramp, and his bike lifted high into the air.

Devon tightened his abs and tucked his knees underneath the handlebars. Then, like a gymnast, he extended his arms and straightened his back.

He had no ball in his hand, but he was flying. Tuck No Hander. No problem.