chance that if we fly the clue flag today, you might be able to salute it?”
Zach didn’t even think of responding. When you were playing like a scrub, you weren’t allowed to do anything with trash talk except take it.
Sometimes you even had to take it from the coach, who grinned at Zach as he said, “And this time, let’s not have some of us going the wrong way down a one-way street.”
It never got better. Zach’s head and body just weren’t in the game. And now the blue team—the second unit—was beating Zach’s red team.
The Reds were down by two points when Spence called a time-out with one minute to go in the fourth. David Epstein had just broken away from Zach for an easy layup. Spence knew what was riding on the last minute because everybody in the gym knew—the losing team had to run after the scrimmage was over. Not just run, but run suicides. One of the killer basketball drills of all time. Everybody on the baseline, running fifteen feet and touching the court, then sprinting back to the baseline. Then up to half-court, touching the floor there, coming back. Then the same deal, up to the other foul line, all the way back to the baseline. Finally to the other baseline, the full length of the court and back, with whatever legs and wind you had left.
It was a bear of a drill anytime but much, much worse after you’d played the equivalent of a full game.
In the huddle, Spence looked right at Zach and said, “ You are not going to be the reason the rest of us have to run today.
“Your girlfriend would be doing more for us today than you are,” Spence continued, red-faced. “Maybe we can get her out of play practice before we’re all on the baseline and Coach starts blowing his stupid whistle.”
“Leave her out of it,” Zach said in a quiet voice, not even looking at him. “This one’s on me.”
“How ’bout you get on your man, freak boy,” Spence said, “and look like an actual starter for at least one minute today?”
Zach knew he was right. And he did try as hard as he could during that last minute. Tried so hard that he forced a bullet pass into Spence that was too low and too hard to handle. The pass bounced off his knee and right into the blue center’s hands. He looked up and saw a wide-open David Epstein streaking toward the basket, completely uncovered.
Last two points of the game.
Coach P. blew his whistle and said, “Tragically, the reds must go and line up now, because apparently our second unit is stronger than our starters.”
“Because of one guy?” Spence said.
“Hey,” Coach said, “ you know my philosophy. It’s never one play that loses a game and it’s never one guy.”
Spence made a point of getting next to Zach.
“Sorry about comparing you to a girl,” he said under his breath. “’Cause if you think about it, that’s really, really insulting to girls.”
Coach blew his whistle. And the red team ran. And ran some more.
When they were finished, all of them totally gassed, Coach told Zach and Spence to pick up the balls.
Sweet, Zach thought. More alone time with my best friend in the world.
Spence picked up the balls, tossed them to Zach, who put them on the rolling rack. Neither one of them said anything until Zach said, “You take off, I’ll put them in the storage room.”
He was nearly to the gym’s double doors when the ball Spence Warren whipped at him hit him on the back of his head.
Zach stumbled forward into the rack of balls, which went bouncing away from him. When he wheeled around, the back of his head stinging like he’d been slapped, Spence had his hand up, the way guys in tennis did after they’d gotten a fluke winner off the top of the net.
“Sorry,” Spence said, grinning at him. “Thought you were looking.”
Fifteen minutes later Zach was looking.
Looking for Spence.
10
ZACH took the stairs down to the front door of the school. But instead of walking down Madison in the direction of his apartment building,
Zach didn’t even think of responding. When you were playing like a scrub, you weren’t allowed to do anything with trash talk except take it.
Sometimes you even had to take it from the coach, who grinned at Zach as he said, “And this time, let’s not have some of us going the wrong way down a one-way street.”
It never got better. Zach’s head and body just weren’t in the game. And now the blue team—the second unit—was beating Zach’s red team.
The Reds were down by two points when Spence called a time-out with one minute to go in the fourth. David Epstein had just broken away from Zach for an easy layup. Spence knew what was riding on the last minute because everybody in the gym knew—the losing team had to run after the scrimmage was over. Not just run, but run suicides. One of the killer basketball drills of all time. Everybody on the baseline, running fifteen feet and touching the court, then sprinting back to the baseline. Then up to half-court, touching the floor there, coming back. Then the same deal, up to the other foul line, all the way back to the baseline. Finally to the other baseline, the full length of the court and back, with whatever legs and wind you had left.
It was a bear of a drill anytime but much, much worse after you’d played the equivalent of a full game.
In the huddle, Spence looked right at Zach and said, “ You are not going to be the reason the rest of us have to run today.
“Your girlfriend would be doing more for us today than you are,” Spence continued, red-faced. “Maybe we can get her out of play practice before we’re all on the baseline and Coach starts blowing his stupid whistle.”
“Leave her out of it,” Zach said in a quiet voice, not even looking at him. “This one’s on me.”
“How ’bout you get on your man, freak boy,” Spence said, “and look like an actual starter for at least one minute today?”
Zach knew he was right. And he did try as hard as he could during that last minute. Tried so hard that he forced a bullet pass into Spence that was too low and too hard to handle. The pass bounced off his knee and right into the blue center’s hands. He looked up and saw a wide-open David Epstein streaking toward the basket, completely uncovered.
Last two points of the game.
Coach P. blew his whistle and said, “Tragically, the reds must go and line up now, because apparently our second unit is stronger than our starters.”
“Because of one guy?” Spence said.
“Hey,” Coach said, “ you know my philosophy. It’s never one play that loses a game and it’s never one guy.”
Spence made a point of getting next to Zach.
“Sorry about comparing you to a girl,” he said under his breath. “’Cause if you think about it, that’s really, really insulting to girls.”
Coach blew his whistle. And the red team ran. And ran some more.
When they were finished, all of them totally gassed, Coach told Zach and Spence to pick up the balls.
Sweet, Zach thought. More alone time with my best friend in the world.
Spence picked up the balls, tossed them to Zach, who put them on the rolling rack. Neither one of them said anything until Zach said, “You take off, I’ll put them in the storage room.”
He was nearly to the gym’s double doors when the ball Spence Warren whipped at him hit him on the back of his head.
Zach stumbled forward into the rack of balls, which went bouncing away from him. When he wheeled around, the back of his head stinging like he’d been slapped, Spence had his hand up, the way guys in tennis did after they’d gotten a fluke winner off the top of the net.
“Sorry,” Spence said, grinning at him. “Thought you were looking.”
Fifteen minutes later Zach was looking.
Looking for Spence.
10
ZACH took the stairs down to the front door of the school. But instead of walking down Madison in the direction of his apartment building,
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