Intense news when I get to school in the morning. Roy and Kyle got picked up by the cops for jumping three little kids out trick-or-treating last week. They hid behind some bushes on a dark path, jumped out screaming, took all the kids’ candy, and scared the crap out of them. How freakin’ evil is that? All for a few puny chocolate bars?

The talk is Roy’ll be going on a holiday—to Waterton, the youth detention center. So far, he’s still at school doing his rooster strut in the halls. Looking proud of himself, like being a criminal’s so cool. Maybe he finally went too far. One of the kids is on my Pee Wee team; Brian’s only five. Maria babysits him, and she says he hasn’t been able to sleep since then because of the monster dreams. He’s even scared to walk to school.

At lunchtime, Roy and Kyle have their cafeteria table all to themselves. Usually they’ve got about ten other Roy wannabes hanging around. Roy’s not looking quite so rooster when they leave, but he manages to fire a slitty-eyed stare at us on his way past.

D1 and D2 share the gym for practice after school, but the criminals don’t show up. Coach calls us all in to tell us Roy and Kyle are off the D1 team until the case goes to court.

“The police have three witnesses willing to testify that they saw Roy and Kyle that night, walking around carrying a couple of kids’ cartoon pillowcases,” Coach says. “Roy was wearing a Grim Reaper hood, but he’s the only one in town with shiny red basketball shoes.”

Hope he doesn’t think one of the rats was me. I’ve got enough other stuff going on.

“And two of the witnesses recognized Kyle’s voice. But, of course, the law says they’re innocent until proven guilty.” Coach looks at me. “If it’s okay with you, Bobby, I’d like to move you up. At least until Roy and Kyle get straightened away. You, too, Jeff.”

“Seriously?”

He nods.

“No problem.” I grin and give Jeff a shoulder. “I’ve been working on being pushier.”

Coach stands up and blows his whistle. “Let’s see what you’ve got. Come on in, everybody. Let’s play ball!”

I do the rocket legs thing every time I get a breakaway. Coach even calls me on an offensive foul one time. But he’s grinning after he blows the whistle.

“Looking good, Prescott,” he says when practice is done. “I like what I’m seeing!”

Maria’s standing by the gym door. Is she waiting for me? Red ribbons today—and looks like she’s holding something behind her back.

“I’ve been working on the poster.” She holds it up. “How do you like it so far?”

She used a giant black and white yearbook photo of my dad’s 1982 high school team with their ridiculously short shorts. Somehow she made them all into funny old geezers with canes and gray hair and all. Then she took a picture of this year’s team and gave them all NBA players’ bodies—they look sweet. James is about 6’10” in the picture. Looks like Shaq’s body. HOOP HEROES 4 HEALTH is in big purple letters across the top, and between the two pictures, she kind of stole a book title. That Was Then … This is Now—Who’s #1?

“Sweet!” I pass it back to her and we start walking home.

“I can still Photoshop you into the Rookie picture, if you want me to.”

“I dunno … I’m thinking about it … James’s coach said I could play, but I might just run the canteen or something. Or maybe I’ll take tickets.”

“Hannah and her friends already asked to do that,” she says, pushing into me with her shoulder. “Sorry …”

“Maybe the scoreboard, then.” I point to Joe in the poster picture. “That’s my dad’s friend, Joe, the guy whose farm I work at. He said he’ll play on the Geezers team, although he didn’t love the idea of being called a geezer.” Joe said he wasn’t over the hill yet when I asked him. And that he wished Dad could play, too. Him and me both.

When we get to her corner, Maria puts one hand on my jacket sleeve and says, “See you tomorrow?”

I give her a thumbs-up, then jog off to pick up Hannah from her friend’s house.

...

She’s waiting for me outside. “We need to hurry, Bobby—did you forget about Dad?” I grab her hand and we take off running.

Mom’s humming and cooking dinner when we get there. Her humming’s sort of like the thermometer for our family. Or maybe a barometer. The louder she hums, the better things are.

“Mmmmm …” I sniff loudly. “Ham?” Since she’s been off work, the food’s been a lot tastier.

She opens the oven door and plunks the roaster down on the counter. The sweet smoky smell makes my stomach growl. “Dad’s favorite. Scalloped potatoes, squash, coleslaw, and homemade mustard pickles.”

“I’m starving.” I pick away at the ham and try to avoid asking, but I have to know. “How is he?”

She slaps my fingers away. “Go on up and see—he’s really tired from a sleepless night in the hospital. One side of his face is swollen and it’s pretty colorful, but I don’t think the fall did too much damage.”

There’s a wheelchair parked at the bottom of the stairs. A wheelchair? I take the stairs two at a time. “Hey, Dad—how’re you doin’?” I look in through the bedroom door and make a face. “Oooo … does your head hurt?”

“Not too bad, but I sure am glad to be home.” He puts down his ice pack and pats the bed beside him. Hannah’s already tucked in under his arm on the other side. “Smells a whole lot better here than there. Tell me about your day in the outside world.”

I tell him about Roy and the little kids. “Everybody says he’ll probably go to Waterton this time.”

“Oh, swell. He can pick up a few pointers from the other crooks in there,” he says. “I feel badly for the kids he scared.”

“The brother of one of them is in my class,” Hannah pipes up. “He says his baby brother won’t even eat chocolate or chips anymore!”

Dad shakes his head, but he’s grinning. “That’s pretty serious. But I do feel sorry for Roy’s mom, too. She’s had a tough life from day one. Being a single mom and all.”

“You coming down for supper?” I ask.

“Smells great—give me a hand, will you?”

I help him get out of bed and Hannah helps him put on his orange robe. He’s so skinny, like a scarecrow without the stuffing. What’s that scarecrow song Hannah’s always singing? “If I only had a brain …” Or, for Dad, a healthy brain.

“Or maybe I should get dressed,” he says, after he ties the belt. “Do you think?”

Hannah wraps her arms around his waist. “I love your pumpkin robe.”

“It’s just us … we don’t care.” I keep hold of his arm as we walk downstairs. He’s shaky and hanging on tight to the banister on the other side.

“Might have to sleep on the couch for a while,” he says, easing himself into the wheelchair. “Looks like I’ll be stuck in this chariot for a while.” I push him down the hall and into the dining room. “Good thing our old house has nice wide doorways.”

The screen door bangs shut. “Hey, Dad.” James drops his bag in the hall and bends down to give Dad a hug. “You okay? Nice wheels! Sorry I wasn’t here last night.”

Or the night before that, or the night before that ...

Dad laughs. “Well, you didn’t miss much. Just your old man taking a tumble. But I’ll be okay. You hungry?”

“Starving!”

“Dr. Crosby wants me to come in for another chest X-ray tomorrow,” Dad says during supper. “He thinks there may have been a problem with the reading of the last one.” He kind of drops it into the conversation between bites of ham, trying to act like it’s no big deal. “He’s looking into booking an appointment for me to have a CT scan, too.”

“Maybe it’s not in your lungs.” Hannah leans over and presses her cheek into Dad’s arm. “Maybe they made a boo-boo!”

“We can always hope.” Mom doesn’t look all that hopeful, but she smiles anyway. “More ham anyone? Coleslaw?”

“Got time for some one-on-one?” James flicks me with the towel while we’re doing the dishes. Mom and Dad are watching the news and Hannah’s upstairs singing.

I was going to work on Hoop Heroes 4 Health stuff all night, but since James never asks me to do anything, I say, “Sure. Let’s go.”

“You get first ball,” he says, tossing it to me. “Remember the rockets.”

I keep one eye on him and the other on the beat-up crooked rim above the shed door. Having my glasses back helps. But he’s just so big. Every time I move, he’s right on top of me, sticking to me like Velcro.

“Dig!” he says. “Keep your head up.” Then he steals the ball and takes a shot. Perfect form.

I watch it bounce off the rim, then get myself in position for the rebound. He boxes me out, snags the ball out of the air way above my head, and rolls it in off his fingertips.

“You’re too tall,” I complain.

“But you’re faster than me,” he says. “More agile. You’ve got to play to your strengths.”

Next shot he takes, I explode up the driveway, snag the rebound, protect the ball, dribble twice, then go in for a reverse layup.

“Whoa! Who taught you that little move?” He starts clapping.

“Joe,” I say. Since you’re never around.

“Not bad, Rocket Man. You’re learning.”

Rocket Man. I start humming the song. I remember the tune from the dance, but not the words.

Even though he takes it easy on me, he still slaughters me. “You’re lookin’ good, bro,” he says, slapping me on the back. “Need some help with that Geezer game stuff?”

“We’re trying to find the right group to give our money to—if there is any money,” I say. “You could help me research a bunch of cancer charities.”

“I already checked out your Web site—it’s epic,” he says, sitting down beside me at the computer. “How’d you figure out how to do all that tech stuff?”

“It’s simple coding,” I say. “Jeff did most of it, but I helped.”

“The guys on my team are getting super pumped,” James says. “And since we haven’t lost so far this season, the Geezers will have their work cut out for them, even with Hank Jones.”

“That’s one thing I’m having trouble with—getting hold of Hank Jones. The TV business must keep a famous guy like him on the road.”

“I’ll ask around, see if anybody’s got any connections.”

I show him the digital image of Maria’s poster. “We’ll start putting them up around town next week.”

“I like the biceps she gave me,” James says, doing a body-builder pose. “But those tight booty shorts on the Geezers should be illegal, against the dress code. What else have you guys been doing?”

“Andy, Jeff, and me are basically living in the office at lunchtime, calling everybody who graduated from Oakdale in the past forty years,” I tell him. “Which is mostly everybody in town over eighteen. One lady whose son was on Dad’s team offered to do a display of old basketball pics for the lobby.”

“Sweet. Wish I had more time to help.”

Me, too.

“With all the bleachers pulled out, our gym’s got about a thousand seats, plus some standing room. Should be lots of people around for the Christmas holidays. How great would that be if we could fill it?”

“You think ten dollars is too much for a ticket?” I ask.

He rolls his chair back and folds his hands together behind his head. “I think people will pay that, especially if we get Hank. Plus, you’ll make money on the canteen.”

“Jeff’s mom’s already got a freezer full of Whoopie Pies,” I say. “It’s not like we’ll make millions but, hey, it’s better than sitting around wishing we could help.”

James leans forward and scrolls through the site. “Hoop Heroes 4 Health isn’t exactly the most original name in the world.”

I squint at him. “Got a better idea?”

He puts up both hands. “Chill. I’m just sayin’. But number four was Dad’s jersey number, so it works.”

“It’s not blockbuster,” I say, “but it’s the best we could think of in a hurry.”

He Googles cancer charities and gets thirteen million hits. “Whoa! This says there are 278 different cancer charities.”

“Seriously?” I move in closer to the screen. “Let’s pick one that’s trying to find a cure.”

“Well, cancer’s been around for a few thousand years, and scientists today believe the best we can hope for is researching ways to prolong people’s lives, help them live longer with cancer. An actual cure is pretty much impossible.”

I read through the list. Lung cancer, colorectal, breast, pancreatic, sarcoma ... “Hey, that was Terry Fox’s cancer—sarcoma … bone cancer.”

“Let’s check out the charities specific to brain tumors,” James says. “How about this one—the Brain Cancer Foundation?” He clicks on the link. “Let’s read about what they do.”

“Look at all the research grants they give out,” I say. “That sounds good. Don’t you think? And they’ve got lots of support groups, too. For people with brain tumors.”

James nods and continues scrolling through the pages. “Yeah. It’s perfect.” He points at a picture. “Some of these guys doing the research don’t look much older than me.”

“Let’s send them an email, tell them what we’re doing,” I suggest.

Dad’s already in bed by the time we’re done researching the Foundation and emailing them. Mom’s knitting by the fire.

“G’night, Mom.”

“Goodnight, Bobby—say a little prayer and keep your fingers crossed.” She looks up and gives me a tired smile. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

I drop my clothes on the floor, crawl into bed, and start thinking about God for some weird reason. I’m not too sure God’s any more real than Santa Claus. I never thought much about him after I stopped going to Sunday school in Grade 4. My Grandma P. died that year. I did think lots about where she got to. Other than that big hole in the ground, I mean. Even when she was seventy, she used to swim across the lake every year. Somebody like that couldn’t just disappear, could they?

I remember asking Mom why people get so stressed about death and what comes after. I mean, we didn’t know what this life would be like ’til we got here, right? I close my eyes and have a silent chat with God, whoever and wherever he is. I guess that’s what praying is. He doesn’t answer me but I feel better after. And who knows? He might’ve been listening. Maybe he’s got some amazing tech system where he’s tapped into the brains of everybody in the whole world. And after all, even doctors make mistakes—sometimes …