Home Court (5 page)

I
was in a pretty bad mood by the time I made it home. I just wanted to head inside and maybe zone out with some TV. But when I got there, Dad was pulling up from the other direction. The big trailer bounced up and over the curb as it made the wide, slow turn into the driveway. I walked alongside the truck as it eased to a stop. Then I waited for Dad to get out.

“Now that was a full day's work,” he said, as he stepped down out of the driver's seat. He swung the door shut behind him, and turned toward me. He was about to say something else, but as soon as he got a good look at me, he stopped.

“Hey, Pops,” I said.

I could see his eyes taking in my scraped-up knee and my scratched-up arm. He was looking at me the way I once saw a guy look at his car after a fender bender downtown, carefully sizing up the damage. The only difference was that my dad wasn't thinking about the repair costs. He was probably just wondering what had happened to his kid.

“You look worse than I do,” he said, “and I've been using a wood chipper all day!”

He was trying to cheer me up. I tried to smile, but I couldn't get the corners of my mouth to move any way but down.

“I knew it was a mistake to play,” I said.

“What do you mean, STAT?” he said.

Like I said before, STAT stood for Standing Tall And Talented. I usually liked that, but I wasn't feeling all that Tall or Talented at the moment.

“I should've just gone skateboarding or played baseball with Timmy and them,” I said. The words came out in one big blurt.

“You didn't get those scratches from a hardball,” said Dad.

“I was playing hoops with Mike and Deuce,” I said.

“Nothing wrong with playing ball with your boys,” said Dad.

“No, I know, it's just …” I was trying to think of how to explain. “There are these kids who've been hogging the court. And I knew if I got dragged into it, it would end up being this whole big thing.”

I stopped and ran that back to see if it made any sense or if Dad was going to say anything about it. He was still standing there, though. He was wiping his hands on his work pants, but his eyes were still looking at mine. He was still listening to what I had to say. He knew before I did that there was more coming.

“Those guys are my best friends,” I said. “It's just that they always want me to be playing hoops with them, but I'm into a bunch of things.”

“Yeah,” said my dad. “You sure don't have any trouble keeping yourself busy.”

“I like baseball, football, skateboarding, and even reading about history and stuff,” I said. I didn't even mention the music, movies, bowling, and other things. This was my dad, and he knew me as well as anyone. That's how he knew that it was his turn to talk.

He put his big hands on his hips and looked back at the truck. Maybe he was checking something and maybe he was just putting his words in order. I think it might have been that second thing, because when he started talking, he seemed to know just what to say.

“Son, we both know that you've got a gift for basketball,” he said. “But your greatest gift is just being you. And like you said, that includes a lot of different interests. What you have to understand is that it's not one or the other. You can play hoops with your friends and still be yourself.”

“I guess,” I said.

He looked back at the trailer again, and this time he pointed to it. “It's just like you're part of my crew when you work, but you have your own thing,” he said. “Those big riding mowers can't trim around those little trees and flower bushes. They'd run 'em right over. But you've never so much as plucked a petal.”

I thought about all the times I wheeled that little lawn mower around. All the birdbaths and rose bushes I'd ducked and dodged.

“Basketball's like that,” he said. “You find your own thing out there, and your friends find theirs.” He reached over and put his hand on my shoulder. “But I'll tell you one thing, son. When you find your place out there, you won't be any little push mower on the court.”

We stood there on the lawn, and I felt those last words sink in. I appreciated it, but talking about that mower reminded me I had something else to say.

“I think this is the same group that's been messing up all your lawns,” I said. “They just started coming around here, and they made the same kind of mess on the court.”

I thought Dad would be really mad, but he just shook his head. “Listen, STAT,” he said. “I've been around a long time, and I've dealt with a lot worse than those kids. Don't you worry about that. I can take care of the lawns. You just take care of what you need to.”

Right then, I knew what I had to do. My dad could take care of his turf. Now I needed to take care of mine. That smile, the one I was trying to make before, came out on its own now.

“Thanks, Dad,” I said.

After dinner, I thought about what he'd said for a long time. Later that night, I made some phone calls. I got through to Deuce first.

“Yo, D,” I said.

“'Sup, man?” he said.

I got right to the point: “We're playing them again tomorrow.”

He didn't say anything at first. Finally he said, “You sure?”

I was.

“Trust me,” I said. “I have a plan.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He wanted to know what it was, but I couldn't tell him just yet. I was still working out the details.

“But you'll be there, right?” I said.

“Amar'e, man, it's me,” he said. “You know I will.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I know it.”

Even before I made the next call, I knew Mike would be there, too. We all would.

T
uesday started out like a time warp. It was Game Day — again! I had some of the same nerves. And a few times I wondered what I'd gotten myself — and my friends — into. But mostly I was too busy to think about that situation. I got started first thing.

“Yo, Marcus!” I said.

“What's up, Amar'e?” he said.

English class was about to start. It was our first class of the day, and while Marcus was waiting for my answer, his mouth opened in a big, round yawn.

“Sorry, man,” he said. “Still sleepy.”

“No problem,” I said. “I'm going to let you in on a time warp It was Game something. And it isn't until after school, so you'll have plenty of time to wake up for it.”

Marcus liked to be in the know. If you wanted to get his attention, all you had to do was act like whatever you were telling him was a secret. His eyes blinked open a little wider, and he leaned a little closer across the aisle between our desks.

“Yeah?” he said. “What is it?”

“There's gonna be a big game over at the basketball court on Sycamore,” I said. “You know the one?”

“Yeah,” he said. “It's near my bus stop.”

“Okay, cool,” I said. Then I looked around, acting like I was double-checking that no one else was listening. “Mike, Deuce, and I are taking on some older kids: real nasty ones.”

Marcus looked around, too.

“Yeah?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” I said. “High stakes, too. Like, sky-high.”

He was about to ask what was on the line to make the stakes so high, but the bell cut him off. We leaned back into our seats as class got started. The ball was rolling now. There were two things about Marcus. The first one I already told you: He liked secrets. The second one: He never could keep them. By third period, all his other friends would know. By fifth, most of their friends probably would, too.

There was no sense getting lazy, though, so I kept at it. I told a lot of kids, especially ones who I knew were into basketball. Timmy was a year older and a grade ahead, but I caught sight of him between classes and sprinted to catch up.

“I'll be there, big man,” he said, giving me a fist bump.

I ran into Janie before our next class. She was a really good player herself, but that's not why I absolutely had to tell her about the game. Deuce had “kind of a thing” for her. He'd admitted that once to Mike and me. He's denied it ever since, but that was like trying to get toothpaste back in the tube. I knew that having her there would guarantee he played his best.

By the time I caught up with Tavoris in gym, he already knew all about it.

“Marcus tell you?” I asked.

“Mouth of the south,” said Tavoris, smiling.

I smiled, too. I was glad so many people knew already, and glad that an older kid like Timmy would be there. The way I saw it, with so many eyes on them, even Carlos and his crew of bruisers couldn't get too out of hand. We'd only lost by three points, and just playing a fair game seemed like it might be worth a point or two. As for the other point or two we'd need, I had an idea where that might come from.

By lunchtime, people were talking about the game. There were even some crazy rumors going around.

“Did you hear?” said Deuce, sliding his tray onto the table next to mine. “They're saying one of the kids is six foot five!”

“And another one is as hairy as a bigfoot!” said Mike.

We'd all been doing our part to spread the word. Now we were doing what my dad called sitting back and enjoying the fruits of our labor.

“There are going to be a ton of kids there,” said Deuce.

“Good,” I said. “That's the plan.”

“Yeah,” said Mike. “But it's only good
if we win
.”

He was right. We were taking a big risk.

“I admit it,” I said, shrugging. “The second part of the plan is a little tougher.”

“I just hope we don't end up looking like punks in front of half the class,” said Deuce.

It was a serious point, and I would have given him a serious answer. But that was when the mixed vegetables started flying. If they were ever real vegetables, it was a long time ago. By the time they were dropped onto our lunch trays, they were slimy and a little too gray to really eat. A lot of kids thought they were just right for flinging though.

“Yo, Mike,” I said, pointing to the top of his head. “String bean.”

He plucked it out of his hair. It looked like a greenish-grayish slug. As he pinched it between his fingers, some kind of liquid came burbling out of the end.

“Nasty!” he said.

Then he turned around. Maybe he threw it back at the kid who'd pegged him with it. Maybe he got him right on the cheek. You won't hear it from me, though. Unlike Marcus, I can keep a secret.

After lunch, the nerves really started to set in. Getting a big crowd there might help us win, but it would also make it much worse if we lost. On our way to history, we walked right by the sign-up sheet for the tournament. I'd sort of forgotten about it with all of this game drama going on. I took a quick look as we passed by: just a few spots left.

I hadn't forgotten about history, though. We ducked into class just in time. I ran my hands through my hair, just to confirm that there were no vegetable slugs up there, then I opened my notebook. I'd finished writing most of the paper last night.

But I still wasn't sure exactly what Dr. King meant to me. I knew what he meant to civil rights and to America and all the big things — it said that part right in the book — but I still couldn't put that last part into words. And the paper was due
tomorrow
. Time flies when you don't know the answer.

I took one look at Ms. Bourne standing at the front of the room with a serious look on her face, and I knew copying that same answer out of the book wasn't going to cut it. On the plus side, at least worrying about that took my mind off the game for a while.

But that class ended, and so did the one after that. All I had to do next was this: play the game of my life, and hope my friends did, too!