Underdog (7 page)

“In that case maybe we should head to a neighborhood with bigger houses and fancier cars so we can sell more boxes,” Kia said.

“We're doing just fine here. We still have some more time tonight, and then tomorrow
and even Friday night if we need to. We're going to make it,” I said.

“You really think so?” Ashton asked. “Hey, would I lie?” I asked, still wondering if I was.

“Hey, Mom, we're back!” I yelled as we burst through the door.

“I'm in the kitchen!” she hollered back.

We kicked off our shoes.

“Do you smell it?” Kia asked.

“Smell what?” I asked.

“Smell nothing. I don't smell anything baking. I guess there are no muffins.”

“Too bad,” Ashton said.

“But there'll be something. It would be almost impossible to leave the house without my mother feeding you something,” I said.

“My mom is the same way. She thinks I'm too skinny, so I can only imagine what she'd think of Kia.”

“What do you mean by that?” Kia demanded.

“My mother would try and fatten you up. Both of you,” he said, pointing at me.

“Sorry, my mom already has that job on a full-time basis.”

“So how did things go?” my mother asked as we entered the kitchen.

“Good. So good we were hoping you'd hold the money.”

I handed her the carton and she opened up the flaps.

“My goodness, how much money is in here?” she asked, looking shocked as she reached in and pulled out a wad of bills.

“Close to three hundred dollars,” I said.

“That's amazing!” she exclaimed.

“It's good, but not good enough…not yet,” I replied.

“Actually, it's better than you think it is.”

“What does that mean?” Kia asked.

“It means two things. I was just on the phone with your coach.”

“You were?” I asked.

“He called and wanted to know if it was definite that your father couldn't be an assistant coach this year.”

“And you told him?” I asked.

“You know what I told him,” she said.

I did. I'd just hoped that somehow it could have worked out. My father knew something about basketball—not like Coach did—but he knew ball, and we really, really did need an assistant. What would happen if Coach was tossed out of another game and there was nobody else left to work the bench?

“And while I was talking to him he told me two things that you three might be interested in. First, the registration fees are not due for another week, so that gives you more time to sell almonds.”

“That is good news,” Kia said.

“And the second thing?” I asked.

“And the second thing is that you've sold another fifty boxes of almonds,” my mother said.

“We have?” I gasped.

“How? To who?” Kia questioned.

“To your coach. He bought fifty boxes.”

“But why would he buy them from us?” Ashton asked. “Wouldn't he just buy them from his own son?”

“Because he's the coach, his son doesn't have to pay registration fees or sell anything.

But he told me he just loves those chocolate-covered almonds, so he bought a bunch. He said he'd like you to bring the boxes on Saturday and he'll pass on the money.”

“That's great!” Kia remarked.

“That means we're almost halfway there,” I said.

“Not quite,” Ashton said, “but we're getting there. I bet we can sell another thirty boxes tonight if we really tried.”

“Tonight? Aren't you three finished for the evening?” my mother asked.

“We were hoping we could get a snack and then head back out again,” I explained.

“It's going to be dark soon,” she said, “and I don't want you three out after dark. It isn't safe.”

I looked at the clock up on the wall. “We have another hour before then. How about if we go right back out now for a while, and you could bake some muffins while we're gone so they'll be waiting when we return?”

“I think that can be arranged and—” She stopped talking as the phone rang. “I'll get that. It might be your father.”

“You know,” Kia said, “we don't even have to go back out again tonight. What with the extra time and the boxes that Coach bought, we're way ahead. What do you think?”

I looked at Ashton. Part of me—especially my very tired feet—wanted to stay here. “Well?” I asked.

“You can stay if you want,” he said, “but I'm going to go back out and try to sell some more.”

“Go out by yourself?” Kia asked. “I thought you were afraid you'd scare people?”

“Maybe I can scare them into buying more boxes,” Ashton said and smiled.

“It doesn't matter if you scare them or not because you're not going to be by yourself.” I got up from the kitchen table. “Let's go.”

I doubled over and panted, trying to catch my breath. I pulled the bottom of my shirt up and wiped the sweat off my face. You'd have figured that after all these years of playing basketball—hundreds of games and millions of practices—it would be easier. Wrong. They were tough. Especially at the start of the season.

I tipped back my water bottle and took a long drink. The water wasn't even that cold anymore, but it still tasted good in my mouth and on the way down my throat.

“Tired?” I asked Ashton.

“Dog-tired. Wish you hadn't convinced me to come back.”

“Really?”

He shook his head. “Glad to be here.”

“Everybody grab a ball and get on the baseline,” Coach Barkley ordered.

I quickly put down my water bottle and scrambled to get a ball. Everybody else was chasing them down too. Nobody wanted to be the last person because sometimes Coach made that person do sit-ups or push-ups. I didn't like doing push-ups at any time, but it was so much worse when everybody else was standing there, watching, counting them off as you did them.

“We're going to have a little race,” Coach Barkley said. “Who do you think is the fastest person in this gym?”

Everybody yelled out names—mostly their own. I stayed quiet. Not only because I didn't know who was the fastest, but also because there was something about the look in Coach's eyes that made me wonder what he was up to. He was always full of surprises and tricks, and you had to really think about his questions before you blurted out an answer.

“You are all wrong,” Coach said. “Without a doubt the fastest person here is me.”

“You?” a bunch of us said in unison.

“Yeah, me. Are any of you doubting my word?”

Nobody dared to say anything, but there was doubt etched on everybody's face.

“Tristan,” Coach said, “you look like you don't believe me.”

“Oh, no, Coach, I would never doubt you. I'm sure you're faster than all of us…if you were driving in your car.”

There was a burst of laughter and Coach shot us a hard glare that stopped the laughter just as suddenly as it had started.

“Sorry, Coach,” Tristan apologized. “I know you probably were fast…you know…in your day.”

“I was really fast before I blew out my knee,” he agreed. “But I'm still way faster than anybody else here. Way faster. It's not even a contest.”

There was a silent response as everybody was smart enough to keep their mouths
shut and their expressions blank. I had no doubt that Coach was fast when he was playing, before the injury, but I'd seen him run, and that leg really held him back now. Besides, he was really, really old. He had to be in his forties at least. And even if he was faster than some of us, there was no way he was faster than everybody. Jordan practically galloped down the court. He was definitely faster than Coach was.

“Tell you what,” Coach said, “let's settle this by having a little race. Me against all of you. Here's the deal. We all start on the baseline. The first one to touch his basketball against the far wall is the winner. Agreed?”

There was a mumbling of agreement.

“And to make things interesting, I think we should have a little bet on the outcome,” Coach said.

“What sort of little bet?” I asked suspiciously.

Coach smiled, and that smile unnerved me. “If I win, you all spend the rest of the practice doing wind sprints and nobody complains.”

“And if we win?” L.B. asked.

“If even one of you beats me, then you can just shoot around or scrimmage for the rest of the practice.”

People started cheering and applauding.

“So are we going to race?” he asked.

“Hold on,” I said. I still didn't completely trust what he was saying. Not that Coach would ever lie to us, but he often had a twist, a lesson he was trying to teach, and things just didn't work out the way we thought they would.

“You have a question, Nick?”

I guess he'd been reading the expression on my face. Everybody looked at me now.

“I just want to make sure I understand what's going on,” I said.

“It seems pretty straight forward to me,” Coach said. “Just what is it that you don't understand? First one to touch their ball against the far wall wins the race. Simple.”

“And if just one of us beats you, we win,” I said.

He nodded.

“And for you to win you have to beat all of us.”

Again he nodded. “Sounds like you don't exactly believe what I'm saying,” he said. “Don't you think I'd keep my word?”

“No, of course not,” I said. “I just wanted to make sure I understood all of those words you were saying.”

“Any more questions?” Coach asked.

“One. I was just wondering what would happen if we decided we didn't want to race you,” I said.

“If you don't want to race then there's no problem,” he said. “We'll just spend the rest of the practice doing wind sprints.” He smiled, or sort of smiled. It was more like a smirk. “So you have nothing to lose by trying. If you win, you don't have to do them. Does that make sense?”

Now I knew for certain that there was a trick. I just didn't know what it was.

“Is there something still wrong, Nick?” Coach asked, trying to sound innocent.

“Yeah, there probably is…I just don't know what it is, that's all.”

Coach smiled and nodded his head slowly. That meant I was probably right, but it didn't help me figure out how I was right.

“Okay, everybody, space out across the gym. We don't want you to trip over each other,” Coach said.

We spread out along the baseline until we filled the whole width of the gym. Coach was right at the end, and I moved over so I was beside him—the better to keep an eye on him.

“Do we have to dribble the balls?” I asked, still trying to figure it out. Maybe he was going to tuck his under his arm and run like a football player.

“Dribble if you want, don't dribble if you want. It's up to you,” Coach said.

I could dribble pretty fast, but I could run faster. I'd just carry it. Maybe that was his plan and now I'd seen through it and…no, if I'd seen through it he would have stopped us. There had to be something else.

“Everybody get ready. On the count of three. One…two…three!”

We all jumped off the line and started running and—a basketball hit the far wall with a thunderous smash and bounced back toward us! Who had thrown that ball and…it all suddenly made sense. Coach had thrown the ball, and his ball had touched the far wall before any of us could touch our ball against it.

“And we have a winner!” Coach yelled triumphantly.

Everybody stopped running. We were caught partway down the gym and coasted to a stop, having already lost.

“Put the balls in the bag and come on back here to get ready for the wind sprints!” Coach called out.

We all groaned, quietly under our breath, and did what he told us. He'd won. Maybe not fair and square, but he'd won.

“Before we start, would somebody like to explain to me what I just proved with my little race?”

“That you're smarter than us?” Tristan said.

“Hopefully we all knew that long before now.”

“That you can trick us?” Kia suggested.

“That's been proved before this too. Any more suggestions?”

Nobody said anything.

“Tell you what. If any one of you can tell me what I was trying to show you, then you don't have to do the wind sprints,” Coach said.

Everybody's ears perked up.

“I'd even let you scrimmage for the rest of the practice.”

“Is this another trick?” Tristan asked.

“No trick. Does anybody know what point I was trying to prove?”

Everybody mumbled and looked at each other, hoping somebody would have an answer that would spare us from the dreaded wind sprints.

“Nick?” Coach asked.

I looked at him questioningly.

“You thought that something wasn't right to begin with. Have you figured it out yet?”

“Yeah, Nick, do you know?” Kia asked.

“Come on, Nick, think,” Tristan said.

“Yeah, think,” Kia agreed.

“You can do it,” Jamie said. “Think.”

Suddenly it seemed like it was my problem, and the whole team was counting on me to solve it. This was probably worse than doing the wind sprints. Now, if I couldn't come up with an answer, it would be like it was my fault.

“Well?” Coach asked.

“Um…you were…um…trying to teach us a lesson,” I stammered.

“Of course I was trying to teach you a lesson. And just what lesson was that?”

“The lesson is…is…that—” Suddenly it hit me. “The lesson is that a ball can be thrown faster than anybody can carry it, so a pass is faster than dribbling.”

Coach didn't answer. He just stared at me. “Yes,” he said quietly.

The whole team cheered and mobbed me as if I'd just scored the winning basket in the championship game.