Travel Team Page 8

  “Screw ’em if they can’t take a good joke.”

  “There’s the old Rich.”

  “Listen,” he said. “I know I’m not much of a parent. Not a parent at all, most times. But the more I listened to Jeff Ross, the more it occurred to me that my ass is just worn out having guys who can’t find their own jockstraps running sports. At any freaking level.”

  “I’ll help any way I can.”

  “Figured.”

  “You can pull this off?” she said.

  It came out a question.

  “We’re sure as hell gonna find out,” his dad said.

  10

  “WELL, OKAY,” WILL STODDARD SAID, LOOKING AROUND THE BASKETBALL court at St. Pat’s, eight o’clock the next Saturday morning. “We’re looking to assemble the first all-guard basketball team in history.”

  “Plus Matt,” Bren Darcy said, correcting him.

  “Plus Matt,” Danny said. “Just so’s people won’t get the idea we’re a sixth-grade team.”

  “I’ve seen sixth-grade teams bigger than us,” Will said.

  Danny and Will had written up fliers and left them around both Springs and St. Pat’s, announcing tryouts for a new seventh-grade travel team this Saturday. Will, who said he knew more about computers than Bill Gates, had even figured out a way to set up a temporary Web site, though the Web site basically had the same information as the fliers.

  The largest type on the page announced that this was all at the invitation of Coach Richie Walker, Middletown’s most illustrious basketball alumnus.

  Will had thrown in the last part.

  They had left fliers at the Candy Kitchen and Jackson’s stationery store and Fierro’s and on the bulletin board they still kept in the lobby of the Middletown movie theater.

  After all that, eight kids showed up.

  Danny. Bren. Will. Matt Fitzgerald, who didn’t just look tall, he was also as wide as one of those double-wide trailers at the trailer park outside of town when he stood next to the rest of them. Michael Harden, another decent St. Pat’s kid. He was another fifty-five incher who’d given up on trying out for the real travel team the year before.

  There was one Springs kid, Oliver Towne, a round black kid known to his classmates as the Round Mound of Towne, a play on words that came from Charles Barkley’s old college nickname, the Round Mound of Rebound. Oliver was a little taller than Danny, but not by much.

  Danny actually thought Oliver took up about the same space horizontally as he did vertically, as if every inch taller he got also became an inch wider.

  Will used to call him Roker, because he was as fat as the weatherman on The Today Show used to be, but that was before the Today guy did that deal where he had his stomach stapled shut.

  Will always seemed to know stuff like that, believing that most useful information in his life came from People magazine.

  Whatever Oliver Towne weighed, he was the closest thing to an actual forward in the gym.

  Finally, there were the only twins at St. Patrick’s School, Robert and Steven O’Brien, who announced to the other kids they were only there because their mom had made them.

  “She told us that if we weren’t going to play hockey this year because we were tired of getting up at five in the stupid morning, we were going to do something,” Robert said.

  Or it could have been Steven. Danny was never completely sure which was which. The only ones who seemed to be able to tell the O’Brien kids apart were the O’Brien twins.

  The other twin said, “She said our winter sports schedule wasn’t going to consist of us sitting on our skinny butts and playing video games.”

  Danny took a quick survey of his teammates and in his head heard one of those NBA-arena announcers shouting, “Give a big Middletown welcome to your…Middletown…Cocktail Napkins!”

  Now, if they could scare up a couple of more players, maybe they could even scrimmage.

  Danny’s dad hadn’t made much of a speech when he realized the eight players in the gym were the only ones coming. He addressed the kids, and a few of the parents who’d hung around to listen. Michael Harden’s dad, Jerry, had played with Richie Walker on the championship seventh-grade team, even if he looked a lot older now, having gone bald and put on a few since his playing days. He was a lawyer in Middletown, and after he gave Richie a hug, he asked if he needed any help.

  “All I can get,” Richie said.

  “I can help coach, I can make calls, I can organize a phone list, you name it,” he said.

  “All of the above,” Richie said.

  Then he told the kids that if they were here today, it meant they had a passion for playing ball, and he’d always had a soft spot for guys like that.

  And told them that maybe, if he managed not to screw them up, they could all have a basketball season that was a lot more than a consolation prize.

  His dad said, “Danny knows I’m the last guy who ever wants to give a speech. But bottom line here? Maybe, just maybe, we can turn out to be the kind of team nobody wants to play.”

  One of the O’Briens raised a hand.

  “Mr. Walker? How do we do that if we don’t even have enough players to play each other?”

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “Steven O’Brien.”

  He was in the red T-shirt. It meant Robert was in black.

  He motioned the other twin over. “And your name, son?”

  “Robert.”

  Richie looked hard at one face, then the other, stood back. To the red-shirted Steven he said, “I think you’ve got a few more freckles than your twin brother there, Steven, though that’s not going to help me a whole lot when you’re out on the court, so we’re going to have to ask you to color code each other at every practice.”

  They both nodded. “We switch T-shirts sometimes when our mother leaves the room.”

  “Zany,” Will said.

  “Anyway,” Richie said, “I’ll tell Robert and Steven and the rest of you that by the time we’re ready to get serious here, hopefully we’ll have found a couple of more players. If not, Mr. Harden and I will play when we want to go five-on-five.”

  Danny stared at his dad.

  Because as far as he knew, the last time Richie Walker had played in any kind of basketball game was with the Golden State Warriors.

  “One last thing before we start,” his dad said. “There’s only going to be three basic rules on this team, and I’m going to expect you all to follow them. One, if you’re open, shoot. Two, if somebody has a better shot than you, pass the ball, let him shoot. Three? Have fun.” He looked from face to face. “Did I go too fast for anybody?”

  Will had to get the last word, of course.

  “What if we’re missing our shots?”

  Richie said, “Keep shooting. That will be rule number four. Now get in two lines and let’s see what we got here.”

  Nothing, Danny decided after the first hour.

  They had nothing.

  They were either hopeless or helpless, he could go either way.

  He kept thinking that if the Vikings could see them, they’d think they were trying to get on one of those Funniest Home Video television shows.

  Even the guys who could play couldn’t play dead today.

  Danny knew that Will and Bren—Bren especially—knew how to run a three-man weave fast break drill the way they knew their own screen names; they’d all had to run the weave for any team they’d ever played for in their lives.

  Just not today.

  Not to save their lives.

  And when they’d mess it up again, his dad would just look at them calmly, no problem, and say, “Same group, let’s try it again.”

  One time Matt was the last guy to get the ball, which meant he was supposed to shoot the layup. Only the pass from Michael Harden was too low and Matt had about as much chance of reaching down and catching it, and then shooting it, as he did of getting a good grade in Spanish.

  But he did manage to drop-kick the
ball off the court and up onto the stage.

  Will immediately imitated one of those Spanish soccer announcers you heard during the World Cup.

  “Goooooooooaaaaaalllllllll!”

  Even Richie Walker, whom Danny knew wasn’t exactly the life of the party in the best of times, laughed at that one.

  To keep from crying, most likely.

  When Richie said they were going to try four-on-four, full-court, push the ball every chance you got, Danny thought things might get better, even though nobody had the height to guard Matt.

  Instead, they got worse.

  Even I stink today, Danny thought.

  He kept checking out the old clock above the stage, knowing his dad had said they would only go to ten o’clock today.

  Danny praying that none of the play-practice kids would come early and see a team that he was now thinking of more as the Middletown Rugrats. One that had scrimmaged for more than half an hour and managed to produce exactly five baskets, three for his team, two for Bren’s.

  Danny had all the baskets for his team, Bren had the two for his. He might have been slightly off with his math, but there had also been about six thousand turnovers.

  Richie Walker finally put two fingers to his mouth and gave a sharp whistle, told them all they were done for the day and to come to the middle of the court.

  “We suck,” Danny said under his breath to Will.

  Will said, “You’re being much too easy on us.”

  Danny told Will his Rugrats line and Will said, “If you remember the show, I’m pretty sure Phil and Lil are bigger.”

  Richie Walker knelt down in the middle of them. When he did, he had to put his right hand out to keep himself steady, or from falling over on his side.

  Maybe those weren’t sad eyes on his dad as much as they were hurt eyes.

  Richie said, “Before anybody starts to get down on himself, remember: This was our first practice. Wasn’t even a practice, really, as much as it was, like, orientation. So hang in there, okay?”

  Then he said, “Hey, the team I played on? The one that won? Our coach threw us out of the gym three times the first month we were together.”

  Jerry Harden nodded. “Think it was four, actually.”

  One of the O’Brien twins raised a hand. “Are we going to practice this week? We need to know because we’ve got piano.”

  Will, whispering into Danny’s ear, said, “Maybe they can play piano.”

  Richie Walker’s response was a sigh.

  Then he turned and looked at the clock.

  They sat in front of 422 Earl for a few minutes after his dad drove him home from practice.

  “You could come in,” Danny said, “if you want.”

  “I’ve got some calls to make when I get back to the Inn. It’s a big job—two jobs, actually—being both general manager and coach in travel basketball.”

  Danny could see his mom’s blue Taurus in the driveway. Somehow he could feel her watching them from somewhere inside the house. Maybe even hearing what they were saying. He liked to tell her that she had the kind of mutant hearing that could have landed her a spot fighting crime with the X-Men.

  There was just nothing much to hear right now in the front seat of the rental car.

  Until: “Dad, why are you doing this?”

  Richie turned in the front seat so he could face him, forgetting that the shoulder harness from his seat belt was still attached. He caught himself when he felt the pull of it, but even a sudden stop like that made him wince in pain.

  “Why’re you asking, bud?”

  “Because you don’t even like basketball anymore. And you didn’t like coaching, even though you’re trying to make this sound like something you couldn’t live with yourself if you passed up. That’s why.”

  Deep breath.

  Keep going.

  Danny said, “The only reason you play with me in the driveway when you show up is because it’s a way for us to have some kind of common language that doesn’t involve us talking.”

  He shot him a look to see how that one went over. His dad was actually smiling, like Danny had gotten off a good shot. Swish.

  “You’re pretty smart for twelve,” his dad said. “Smarter than I was, that’s for sure.”

  “Whatever.”

  Richie said, “Can I talk now?”

  “’Course you can.”

  “I don’t hate basketball,” Richie said. “Do I hate what happened to me? Yeah. Do I spend most of my life feeling sorry for myself? Yeah, I do, though I’m trying to cut down. I really hate what happened to me, that I never got the chance to find out how I stacked up against the big boys. And I did hate coaching the first time around. College boys with their attitudes who I could have run circles around when I was their age.” His dad was the one who took a deep breath now, letting it go.

  “Dad, I didn’t mean…”

  Richie carefully turned himself back around, so he was facing forward, those big hands on the steering wheel. “I hate that I don’t have the game in my hands anymore. Or ever again. But I don’t hate the game, bud, and I never will.”

  His dad never talked about the car accident that nearly killed him. Never, never, never. This was as close as he ever got, what losing control of his car on the wet road had done to him, how it made him feel. The whole thing feeling as if it were right next door to them.

  “But why do you want to coach us?” Danny said. “We’re gonna stink.”

  “You don’t know that. And I have to say, if you act like you’re giving up after just one practice, the other guys are gonna do the exact same thing, and we’re all wasting our time here.”

  “I’m not giving up.”

  “I watched you today, Dan. You’re the only one who acted like he hated basketball, every time you or somebody else would screw up.”

  “Yeah,” Danny said, knowing he sounded just like his father.

  “Yeah,” Richie said. “And you can’t let it happen again, because I need you. Because I’m gonna put this team in your hands. Give you more responsibility than you’ve ever had in your life.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Danny saw his mom standing on the front porch, waving at them.

  “What if I’m not good enough?” he said.

  Richie said, “No, it was the other guys who told you you’re not good enough.”

  Danny sat there. “It was a bad day.”

  “Let me tell you something I learned the hard way,” Richie said. “There’s no such thing as a bad day if you’re playing. On a team you weren’t supposed to be on. In a season you weren’t even supposed to have.”

  “We weren’t supposed to have.”

  “There you go. Go take a shower and tell your mom I’ll give her a call later and talk about the availability of the gym.”

  Danny was going to tell him he loved him, the words were right there, ready to spill all over the dashboard.

  But he didn’t.

  Because he never did.

  He just got out and ran for the front door, trying to bluff his mom by looking happy.

  It wouldn’t occur to him until later that his dad still hadn’t really explained why he was doing it.

  11

  THEY PRACTICED TWICE MORE DURING THE WEEK, EACH ONE A LITTLE LESS awful than the first one.

  But not by much.

  It was the Saturday of Veterans Day weekend, most of the town at the parade. They had to practice in the morning today, insanely early in the morning, seven o’clock, because the theater had been taken over by the Science Fair and the Drama Club kids needed the gym at nine. Mr. Harden was playing on the skins team with Will and Bren and Matt. Danny’s dad was moving stiffly around for Danny’s team, the shirts, pretending he was playing center, just as a way of putting a bigger body on Matt in the scrimmage and making the sides look even.

  Matt Fitzgerald moved about as fast as a traffic jam on the Long Island Expressway, so even though the best Richie Walker could do was limp-jog up and down the
court himself, they could sort of keep up with each other.

  They were about forty-five minutes into what was half game and half practice, Danny’s dad stopping them every few minutes to give them one more variation on the offense he wanted them to use against a man-to-man.

  It was then that Danny spotted Ty Ross standing just inside the double doors, at the opposite end from the stage. He was in his baggy white shorts, down to his knees, new McGrady blue-and-white sneakers you could spot from a mile away, a Middletown High T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, Ty apparently wanting to show off arms as skinny as his legs.

  Danny gave him the chin-up nod, Ty did the same back.

  When Richie Walker spotted Ty, he told everybody to take a water break and relax for a minute.

  Danny and his dad walked over to Ty, Danny saying, “You must be in the wrong gym, dude.”

  “Hey, Ty,” Richie said.

  “Mr. Walker.” Ty ducked his head. “My mom was on her way over to Springs, she has to help them set up for some auction or something tonight. I was supposed to help her, but then I remembered that you guys practice early on Saturday.” He grinned. “She sort of gave me a reprieve.”

  They all stood there for a moment, nobody knowing what to say about that. Then Richie said, “You want to play some?”

  “Would that be okay?” Ty said.

  Richie said, “If it’s okay with your mom.”

  “She’s cool.”

  Danny said, “What about your dad?”

  Ty looked down at the McGradys, the left one untied. He was wearing those socks that barely made it above the top of your high-tops.

  “He’s playing tennis right now.”

  Richie put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s just basketball, son. But I don’t want you to get into trouble with your father.”

  “My mom said that as long as it was okay with you, it was okay with her, we—the Vikings—don’t practice again until next Tuesday.”

  “Well, then, thank you for coming, Ty, because you may have saved a broken-down old man’s life. You play with Danny. And I am going to sit my worn-out butt down.”

  Then he changed the teams around a little, stacking the other guys, making it Will, Bren, Matt, Michael Harden and his dad. He put Oliver Towne and the O’Brien twins with Danny and Ty.