Basketball Disasters (2 page)

Given that his dad was only forty, Mason didn’t think he needed to worry about warding off senility quite yet. Still, his dad squinted down at the puzzle, scowling at the little boxes in their little rows.

“I thought for sure a nine went here,” he said sadly,
using his pencil eraser for the twentieth time in five minutes.

“Um, Mom and Dad?” Mason said. He hated to interrupt them, but it was now or never. He tried to keep his tone light and casual. “I was thinking that I might go out for basketball this year.”

His father laid down his pencil.

His mother set down her fork.

Oh, Mason, that’s wonderful! Oh, Mason, we’re so proud of you!

His mother found her voice first. “But, Mason.”

But, Mason?

“You’ve always said you’re not a sports person.”

If there was anything irritating, it was hearing quotes from your previous self.

“Sometimes people change” was all that Mason said in reply.

“But—basketball? Dan, isn’t that a very
physical
sport?”

Mason’s dad still looked stunned. Finally he said, “At least you’re tall. That’s something.”

“
And
I have quick reflexes,” Mason added.

Something his parents definitely didn’t seem to have.

“I suppose you could try it,” his mother said slowly. “Is Brody willing to try it with you?”

Mason wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of knowing that Brody was the one who had talked him into it.

“I think so,” he said. He reached down to rub Dog’s silky head. Dog didn’t seem to find it strange that Mason was going to play a sport. “I mean, yeah, he is.”

His mother looked somewhat relieved.

But then: “Basketball,” she said in bewilderment.

“Basketball,” his dad echoed, gazing down at his puzzle. “Wait—it’s an eight.” He wrote 8 down in the square where he had just erased 9.

“I think we need to sign up for it today,” Mason said. For good measure, he added with false heartiness, “Believe me, this is going to be great!”

His parents stared at each other in silent disbelief.

Mason’s parents drove Mason and Brody to the county YMCA that afternoon to drop off their registration forms for the six-game late-fall basketball season.

“I know we could do it online,” Mason’s mother said. “But if everybody does everything online, there won’t be any jobs left for actual human beings.”

The actual human being sitting at the information desk at the Y was a teenage boy who was chewing gum. Mason knew his mother disapproved of gum chewing in public, so he wondered if she was sorry that she had chosen to support a job for this particular actual human being.

“Now, the boys will be on the same fourth-grade team, won’t they?” she asked. Mason’s dad had already placed the registration forms on the desk and looked ready to go.

“If you put that on the form,” the boy said. He wore a name tag that gave his name as Jonah.

“We did. And do you know who their coach will be? They’ve never played basketball before.” She lowered her voice, but Mason could still hear her perfectly: “This is my son’s first experience with a team sport, so I want to make sure he gets a coach who is, you know, positive. And encouraging.”

Jonah shrugged and shifted his gum from one cheek to the other. “Usually one of the parents does it. Or sometimes a guy who likes coaching.”

“But do the coaches have experience?” Mason’s mom pursued. “Or training of some kind?” She shot Mason’s father a worried look.

Jonah shrugged again. Mason could tell that his mother thought that this actual human being was a disappointment.

As they turned onto Mason’s street on the way home, Mason saw a small moving van parked in front of the house next door—not in front of Brody’s house, which was next door to Mason’s house on one side, but in front of the other house, next door on the other side.

“I wonder if Mr. Taylor is moving,” Mason’s mother said. “He didn’t mention anything to us about it, and I haven’t seen a for-sale sign.”

Mason knew Mr. Taylor only as a middle-aged, rather stout, balding man who came outside occasionally to mow his lawn or take in the newspaper.

“Maybe somebody’s moving in who has a kid our age!” Brody sounded excited.

Mason didn’t say anything, but he didn’t want any new kids on their street. Brody had lots of other friends, and Mason had other friends, too, mainly a girl at school named Nora. But it would make things complicated to have another kid right next door, coming over whenever he and Brody were outside with Dog, wanting to take part in all their games.

Mr. Taylor appeared in his yard.

“Are you moving, Jerry?” Mason’s mother called over to him.

“No,” he called back. “My mother is coming to live with me. We’re moving in some of her furniture so she’ll feel more at home.”

As Mason’s dad opened the door of their house, Dog came bounding out to greet them, trying to lick both Mason’s and Brody’s faces at the same time, while barking his welcoming bark and wagging his welcoming tail.

Mr. Taylor came up the front walk and said something to Mason’s father that Mason couldn’t hear.

“Oh, we understand completely!” Mason’s dad said. “I’ll speak to the boys about it. I’m sure it won’t be a problem.”

Speak to the boys about what?

When Mr. Taylor had gone back to his yard to supervise the movers, Mason’s dad said to Mason and Brody, “Mr. Taylor said his mother—Mrs. Taylor—doesn’t like dogs. So be sure to keep Dog under control when she’s out in the yard, okay?”

“Sure,” Brody said.

“Sure,” Mason said.

He wasn’t worried. He didn’t particularly like
dogs
himself, just Dog. Nobody could not like Dog.

“Do you think our team is going to have a name?” Brody asked as the two boys sprawled out on the floor of Mason’s family room, with Dog sandwiched between them. “We could call ourselves the Fighting Bulldogs. Do you think that’s a good name?”

“Maybe,” Mason said.

But Mason didn’t like bulldogs: he only liked golden retrievers—one particular golden retriever. And he didn’t like fighting dogs: Dog was completely sweet and friendly. And finally, Mason didn’t think he was going to be much of a fighting bulldog himself.

This is going to be great!
Brody had told Mason.

This is going to be great!
Mason had told his parents.

Why did Mason have the feeling that it was going to be disastrous instead?

“Good morning, team!” Coach Joe greeted all the students in Mason’s fourth-grade class on the Monday after Mason had signed his life away to the YMCA.

Coach Joe was not Mason’s basketball coach. Coach Joe was Mason’s fourth-grade teacher. That’s what he wanted kids to call him: Coach Joe. Mason had been suspicious at first. Coach Joe loved sports—obviously!—and he talked about sports all the time. Mason suspected that Coach Joe thought it would be a tragedy to grow up without taking part in a team sport.

Still, as a teacher, Coach Joe was positive and encouraging—the very qualities Mason’s mother had requested in a basketball coach for Mason. All the kids liked him.

“Come on up for our morning huddle,” Coach Joe told the class.

Mason and Brody found places next to each other on the football-shaped rug by Coach Joe’s stool, as they always did. Nora sat with them, too. Nora was also tall. In her case, it probably did mean that she’d be good at basketball. Mason didn’t know if the fourth-grade teams were mixed boys and girls, or if boys and girls played in separate leagues.

There was a lot he didn’t know about basketball.

And wasn’t looking forward to finding out.

As usual, Mason and Brody had chosen a spot as far away as possible from Dunk Davis. Dunk was built like a football player, not a basketball player. Mason hoped that Dunk wouldn’t be playing basketball at the Y, but Dunk played every sport known to man, plus a few of his own invention, such as “throw a basketball at Brody’s head” and “throw a football at Mason’s stomach.” And a boy named Dunk might well go out for a sport that involved dunking.

“All right, team,” Coach Joe said, once everybody had settled down. “We’re starting a new unit in social studies this week, a brand-new ball game. Now that we’ve studied Native Americans and the age of
exploration, we’re going to move into the colonial period. And for language arts, we’ll focus on factual writing, with each of you writing a report on a famous figure of the American Revolution.”

Nora’s face brightened. Mason knew that Nora loved facts.

“We’re going to be learning about everyday life in the thirteen colonies: what folks wore, what they ate, what they did for fun. And we’ll have Colonial School Day and run our class the way they would have done it in 1750.”

He paused for effect, his eyes twinkling with anticipation of what he was going to say next.

“You’ll have to call me Master Joseph, and naughty boys and girls will wear a dunce cap and sit on a stool in the corner.”

Mason couldn’t tell if Coach Joe was joking or not. He was pretty sure he’d be safe from the dunce cap. But in 1750, Dunk would have been sitting on that stool in the corner all day long.

“All right, team,” Coach Joe dismissed them. “Back to your desks, and we’ll rewind a few centuries and see what we find.”

* * *

Most days Mason and Brody walked home from school together. Today, as they passed Mr. Taylor’s house, Mason saw a small sign placed on the edge of the lawn.

It said
NO DOGS
.

In case a dog couldn’t read, the sign also had a black silhouette of a dog in a red circle with a red line drawn through it.

Maybe because of his name, the sign seemed to be directed specifically at Dog, like a sign saying
NO MASONS
or
NO BRODYS
, complete with a crossed-out caricature of their faces.

“She hasn’t even
met
Dog yet!” Mason burst out. “He hasn’t done anything to her!”

On Dog’s walk yesterday evening, Mason had been careful to go in the opposite direction, so Dog hadn’t so much as stepped on the
sidewalk
by the Taylors’ house.

Even Brody looked troubled by the unfairness of this unprovoked ban on any and all dogs, however wonderful. But then he said, “Well, that explains it. She
thinks
she doesn’t like dogs because she hasn’t met
our
Dog.”

Mason shook his head. “She’s not going to change,” he predicted darkly.

“You changed,” Brody pointed out.

“That was different. Besides, I
did
like Dog from the start. I just didn’t know it.”

“Maybe she just doesn’t know it.”

Now Mason was getting angry. He was nothing like a crabby, nasty-tempered, dog-hating, witchy old lady.

“Maybe I’ll put a sign on my yard. It’ll say
NO OLD
LADIES
. And I’ll put a picture of a cane in a red circle with a big red line through it.”

Brody looked shocked. “Mason!”

“Okay, okay, I won’t put the cane.” His parents would never let him display a sign like that, anyway. His mother hated what she called stereotypes of people—prejudiced views of somebody based on their race or sex or age.

But didn’t Mrs. Taylor have a stereotyped, prejudiced view of Dog based on his species?

From the corner of his eye, Mason saw some movement at one of the upper windows of the Taylor house.

“Don’t look now,” he told Brody in a low voice, “but somebody is spying on us.”

“Mrs. Taylor?” Brody looked up, of course, even though Mason had just told him not to.

“Who else?” Mason muttered. “Come on, Brody, let’s go home and see Dog. Our Dog of Greatness.”

“Don’t tell Dog about Mrs. Taylor, okay?” Brody said.

“Okay,” Mason agreed.

But he had a feeling Dog would find out about Mrs. Taylor soon enough.

* * *

On Thursday morning at breakfast, as Mason was eating his plain Cheerios with milk, his mother said, “I got an email. There’s a meeting at the Y tonight for all kids who are doing basketball, along with their parents.”

“Do we have to go?” Mason asked.

“Of course!”

“Do you and I both have to go?” Mason’s dad asked her.

“Along with their
parents
,” she repeated, with emphasis on the
s
at the end of the word. “Honestly, Dan. Sometimes you’re as bad as Mason!”

Then she stopped herself, as if remembering that you were supposed to avoid labeling your child—not to mention his father—in that way.

“It’s going to be fun! We can find out if any of your other friends are on your team. And who your coach is going to be! Maybe they’ll hand out your T-shirts.”

Yes, and then she’d want Mason to put his on so she could take a picture of him to send to all the relatives:
See, Mason is doing a team sport at last!
And great would be the rejoicing throughout the land.

Then Mason remembered that he was supposedly the one who had wanted to sign up to do basketball,
that doing basketball had supposedly been all his own idea.

“Oh, goody,” Mason said.

On the way to school that morning, Mason and Brody passed the
NO DOGS
sign on the Taylors’ lawn. So far Mason had resisted the temptation to let Dog pee on the Taylors’ lawn. Mason scowled up at the upstairs window in case any dog-haters were spying again today.