“Go Bobby! Bobby, Bobby … he’s our man …”

I get a breakaway; tied game, two seconds on the clock.

“Slurp … Slurrrrp!”

What the …?

“Rebound—go away! Off!” I push him away, then stuff my head under the covers. And then I remember. It’s December 27th. And last night we got word that Hank and his friends are stuck in the city in a blizzard that’s coming our way. People better understand it’s not our fault. But why did we put his name in such big print on the posters?

Rebound barks and starts tugging on my quilt. Seems Bailey was getting pudgy because she found herself a boyfriend on one of her escapes; Rebound’s one of her puppies. Hannah wanted to call him Toto, since he was her Christmas present, but we talked her out of it. We’re all hoping he’ll grow up to be a perfect dog, like his mother—someday. So far, he’s a chocolate-eating, garbage-digging, shoe-chewing, evil demon. Our new mantra is, “At least he’s cute.”

I tune in to the weather channel as soon as I get up. I’ve been glued to it, like, 24/7 for a week; I’m practically a meteorologist. They’re calling for a wicked storm sometime in the next twenty-four hours, but they’re not being real specific.

Except for the weather, Hoop Heroes 4 Health is looking good—healthy, you could say. I’m catching on to this pun thing. We’ve sold tons of tickets, not the whole thousand, but lots.

“Let’s go, James—we gotta get to the gym.” On my way downstairs, I bang on his door, then open it. He grunts and rolls over with his back to me.

We get there just before ten o’clock. About twenty people are already there. Maria and her decorator friends are putting up streamers and balloons. Jeff and Andy are folding programs. Some mothers are setting up the canteen in the hallway by the trophy case. I stop to look at the Snowball Cup and the other big basketball trophy in the center of the case. I lean in closer and try to find the little plaque with Dad’s name on it. There it is, right in the middle: Rob Prescott, MVP, 1981-82.

“Hey!” Maria’s arms are full of balloons, rainbow colors like her ribbons. “Are you excited, or what?”

“I guess so—but my stomach’s not that great.” James finally persuaded me I should play tonight, and the snakes are having a party in my gut already. I mean, a thousand people? “Did you hear Hank and those guys can’t get here?”

“It’ll be okay,” she says. “People didn’t really buy tickets just to see The Birdman play, anyway.”

“Maybe not, but for sure there’ll be some people that are pissed.”

By the time we head home for supper, the snow is seriously starting to pile up. The wind’s howling, whipping the snowdrifts into mountains. Mom made my favorite—pizza—but the extra pepperoni’s not settling real well in my stomach.

The roads are icy when we head back to the gym just after five. You can see maybe a foot in front of the van, like we’re driving straight into a white wall. We slide around the corner by the high school and James almost goes off the road. But not because it’s slippery; there are dozens, no, hundreds, of people lined up under the overhang outside the gym! I’ve never seen so many people in one spot in Oakdale before. Even with the wicked storm. My heart starts pounding, but it’s all good.

“Phone for you, Bobby,” Maria says as soon as I get inside.

“We’ve gotta get the doors open. Did you see all those people freezing out there?” I take the phone from her. “Hello?”

“Hey, Bobby. It’s Hank Jones.”

“Hey … you sound just like on TV.” Hank Jones! I’m talking to The Birdman on the phone—can you believe it?

“I’m at the Maple Ridge train station. They just announced they’re shutting down all the trains, and I can’t get a cabbie that’s willing to travel that far. Can somebody pick me up? It’s just me … my buddies didn’t want to risk the weather.”

Maple Ridge is fifteen minutes away. What idiot would go that far in this weather?

“What’s your number? I’ll call you right back.” I scribble the number on my hand, hang up, then stand by the outside gym door and watch the snow piling up against the fence around the soccer field. Hank’s so close. There’s gotta be a way to get him here.

I’m thinking hard when I hear a loud rumbling. Somebody’s zigzagging across the soccer field on a snowmobile. I grin and watch him strut across the parking lot.

“Hey, Roy. Wanna do me a big favor?”

...

At six-thirty, we hit the floor and start warming up. People are streaming into the stands and the buzz in the crowd is wicked. My ears are ringing. You’d think this was the NBA playoffs. I keep one eye on the door. Roy looks like some kind of ice man when he finally blows in, grinning like crazy and pumping one fist in the air.

A few minutes later, the locker room door flies open and Hank Jones flies out. He charges in for an awesome between-the-legs dribble, reverse slam-dunk, his signature shot. I’m pretty happy to see him. And I’m not the only one. Everybody starts stomping and clapping, whistling and screaming. Coach can barely get the crowd to settle down when it’s time to start. The mayor blabs on for a bit, then he passes the microphone to me. I hold it hard so my hands won’t shake. Where’s Mr. Invisible when I need him?

“Hey, everybody. Um … thanks for coming out on such a stor … stormy night.” My voice cracks on “stormy.” I clear my throat and wish I had notes. Public speaking is so not what I do for fun. I look at James sitting on the bench. He’s grinning and nodding, so I keep going.

“Um … lots of people have done lots of work on Hoop Heroes 4 Health. Most of their names are in the program. I just want to mention one, um … my dad, Rob Prescott. We all wouldn’t be here tonight—well, especially Hannah, James, and me—if it wasn’t for him. Well … him and my mom.”

Everybody laughs.

I swallow hard and keep going. “My dad’s a tough guy, and … well … he’s my hero. My hoop hero.” I put down the microphone, walk over to the Geezers’ bench, bend down, and give him a hug. Talk about PDA …

The band starts playing, and Hannah gets up to sing the anthem. She closes her eyes and sings her face off. My throat gets all dry and lumpy; I bug my eyes open to keep them from getting watery. I glance over at Dad in his wheelchair. Tears are pouring down his face. In the front row, Mom looks like she’s about to burst.

They announce the starting lines. Me, James, and Dad are all starting. Well, Dad’s an honorary starter. He’s in his chair, playing left bench … so far. We all get in a huddle and the crowd goes wild. I mean, seriously wild. Mega-PDA! I even see Joe wiping away at his eyes.

The ref blows his whistle and goes to center. Everybody’s ready. Then, instead of getting in position, all the Geezers, except for Dad, line up single-file, and march out through the main gym doors.