Long Shot (5 page)

I sat at the desk in my room staring at the article. I should have been doing my homework, but instead I'd read it five or six times. Now I was just staring at the pictures – there were two.

One was of Coach Barkley, taken within the last few weeks or months. He looked pretty much like he did now — a tall middle-aged sort of guy. In the picture he was casually dressed, a sort of smirk on his face and his forehead extended way up his head where there used to be hair. He looked like somebody who lived in the neighborhood or worked at the grocery store or was somebody's father.

The other picture was different. It was the cover from the old
Sports Illustrated
. It had Coach Barkley out on a basketball court, looking like he was maybe twenty years old. There was another player as well. He was wearing a different
uniform and they were fighting for a rebound. In big red letters on the picture it said, ‘Barkley wins another one!'

I'd read the article over and over. It was funny how I almost always read each
Sports Illustrated
cover to cover, but hardly ever read that feature. It was always about some old guy I'd never heard of. Of course, it was different this time. I hadn't just read it, I'd almost memorized it.

It talked all about the things Coach Riley and my father had told Kia and me. About what a great player and a leader Coach Barkley was and how he always led his teams to victory. About how hard he worked and—

“You through with your homework?”

At the sound of my mother's voice I quickly pushed the magazine under my math book and turned to see her standing at the door.

“Almost.”

She gave me a questioning look. She walked over and pulled the magazine out from its hiding spot.

“Have you even
started
your homework?”

“Just getting ready to start,” I answered reluctantly.

“If you haven't even started, then how can it be almost done?”

“It's like you always said, the hardest part of anything is beginning it … so, since I'm almost ready
to start, I'm almost through the hardest part.”

“Very funny. Haven't you finished that article yet?”

“I've read it a few times.”

“Then what's so fascinating about it?” Mom asked.

“It's just strange having a coach who's a celebrity … or would have been a celebrity.”

“So what's he like?”

“I don't really know … he didn't really talk to us much during the try-out.”

“What does the
article
say,” she said, pointing at the magazine.

“Oh … lots of things.”

“Such as?” she asked.

“It uses a lot of different words to describe him. Things like he was a fighter, and fearless and relentless.”

“Sounds more like he was a soldier than a basketball player.”

“He was also called a killer,” I said.

“How pleasant,” my mother said sarcastically. “And just how was he a killer?”

“It described how he would throw himself into the stands to get a loose ball, or stand there and take a charge, or stand toe to toe with guys who were a lot bigger than him. He really played to win.”

“And some people play to lose?” my mother asked with a laugh.

“You know what I mean. He was very competitive.”

“As opposed to you and your father?”

She always thought that the two of us were too competitive and took basketball much, much too seriously.

“Does it say anything about the injury that ended his career?” Mom asked.

“Yep. The guy who wrote the article was there that night. It was like Dad remembered.”

“And does it say what he's been doing for the past twenty years since the injury?”

“Running some sort of business … it says he's been a ‘successful businessman'.”

“Did he stay involved in basketball?” she asked.

I shook my head. “It said that he found it too hard to watch so he didn't have anything to do with the game for a long time. He didn't even watch it on TV or read about it in the newspapers for years and years. It said it's only the past few years, since his son started playing, that he's gotten interested again.

“How old is his son?”

“It doesn't say.”

“Could he have been at the try-outs?”

“Could have been,” I said. There were a couple of people who I didn't know and one of them could have been his son.

My mother looked at the article. Being a writer
she was always interested in how something was written, even if she wasn't interested in what was written. She always said that
Sports Illustrated
had some of the best writers in the world, and it was unfortunate that they were wasting their time writing about sports when there were so many more interesting and important things to write about.

More important I could maybe understand. More interesting than sports wasn't possible.

“Oh, that's sad,” she said.

“What's sad?”

“This line … ‘and he may very well be the best player who never was',” she said.

“How's that sad? Everybody said he was a great player.”

“Who never had the chance to show that to everybody,” she said.

“He did for a while … all through high school and university. That was Dad's dream to have played for his university.”

“That's your Dad's dream, but that doesn't mean it was your new coach's dream.”

“I don't understand.”

“His whole life, probably since he was younger than you are now, basketball was the biggest thing in his life. Wouldn't you agree?” she asked.

“Yeah, sure.”

“And every step of the way he probably was
incredibly successful. What do you think his dream was?”

“To make it to the NBA and …” I stopped myself. It was so obvious.

“And he only got to live that dream for seven games. There he was at maybe twenty-one or twenty-two years of age and the thing he probably spent his life dreaming of was over.” She paused. “Where do you go from there?”

I hadn't thought about it that way. It would have been hard to have all that taken away from you.

“I should let you get back to work … or should I say
get
to work,” Mom said.

“I guess I should get going.”

Mom handed me back the article and started to walk away. She stopped at the doorway.

“Nicky, do you think you're going to make this team?” she asked.

“I hope so … maybe … I guess.”

“And if you don't?” she asked.

“I don't even want to think about it,” I admitted.

“But if you didn't make the team … if you never made any team ever again … would you still like basketball?”

“I'm sure I could make some team somewhere and —”

“I know you could, but if you couldn't?” she asked. “Would you still like basketball? Would you still fool around on the driveway? Would you still
watch it on TV and want to go to the games with your Dad?”

I didn't know what to say or what she wanted me to say.

“That's okay,” Mom said. “That probably isn't a fair question to ask you.”

I let out a big sigh of relief.

“Do you think a nice big cup of hot chocolate might get you working again?” she asked.

“It couldn't hurt.”

“Good, I'll fix us both a cup and then bring yours up to you.”

“Thanks.”

My mother started out the door.

“Mom!”

She turned around.

“I'd still play, even if it was by myself on the driveway. I just like basketball.”

She beamed, rushed into the room and planted a big kiss on the side of my face.

“What was that for?” I asked, wiping my cheek with the back of my hand.

“That was for being wonderful. So wonderful that you deserve some miniature marshmallows with that hot chocolate of yours.”

I wasn't sure what I'd done that was so wonderful, but I did know I wasn't going to argue about anything that involved me getting miniature marshmallows.

We slowed down as we came up to Kia's house. We had no sooner pulled into the driveway when she came running out to meet us. She opened the back door.

“Hi,” she sang out as she jumped in beside me and pulled the door closed.

“You sound like you're in a good mood,” my father said.

“I'm looking forward to playing a little b-ball,” she said. “How about you?”

“I'm just glad I'm going back.”

Kia only shook her head.

I knew what she was thinking, of course. She knew I was worried about getting a call telling me I'd been cut. Kia was sure that neither of us was going to be called. I knew in my head that she was right, but my gut had other ideas.

For the entire week I'd dreaded a phone call
from Coach Barkley — a call to tell me that I wasn't invited to come back to the next try-out. Every time the phone rang that was the first thought that popped into my mind. It wasn't until I was out the door, in the car, and driving away toward the gym today that I was one hundred percent certain that I was okay.

“I was thinking about dropping in with you two today,” my father said.

“You can leave us at the door,” I suggested.

“I just want to make sure you get in okay.”

“We always get in okay. You know I don't like you or Mom being there,” I said.

“I just wanted to come in and watch for a few minutes.”

“You can't,” I said.

“I promise not to say anything to you, I just want to watch for a while,” my father said. “You won't even know I'm there.”

“No, you don't understand. You aren't
allowed
to watch.”

“Not allowed?” my father questioned.

“Coach Barkley doesn't want any parents in the gym during the try-outs.”

“None at all?” my father questioned.

“He made everybody leave right away,” I said.

“He even closed the doors so nobody could peek in,” Kia added.

“Oh … that's too bad … too bad.”

“It's no big problem. You haven't been to a try-out or a practice for a long time.” I paused. “Then again, you don't even want to be there to see me, do you?”

“Of course, I want to see you play!” he protested. “I just thought that since I was there anyway, I could say hello to your coach.”

“Say hello to him?”

“Yeah, mention how much I used to enjoy watching him … maybe tell him I played against him once.”

“Sounds like you want to ask him for his autograph,” I joked.

“I was thinking that if he didn't mind he might be willing to sign my
Sports Illustrated
,” my father said, grabbing it off the seat and holding it up.

“You brought along your magazine?” I asked in amazement.

“Sure … it would only take him a couple of seconds.”

“Please don't do that, Dad! It would be so … so …”

“Embarrassing?” Kia asked.

“Yes, embarrassing. Please don't do it!”

My father didn't answer right away. “I don't think he'd really mind, but, if that's how you feel, I won't do it. At least for now.”

“Thank you.”

There was enough to be worried about without
having things complicated by my father asking for autographs.

My stomach tightened as the gym appeared up ahead. There wasn't any more time left for this conversation.

“Is it all right with you two if I bring the vehicle to a full stop or would you like me to just slow down and you can jump out?” my father asked.

“You can stop,” I said, “but don't turn off the engine.”

Kia giggled and I looked up at the rear view mirror and saw a smile crease my father's face. That was good. I hadn't wanted him to come in and embarrass me but I didn't want to hurt his feelings either.

Kia climbed out. “Thanks for the ride,” she said.