horn went off.
Billy had stumbled right after he shot, tripping over Tony Gilroy’s leg, ended up sitting pretty much under the basket as regulation ended between the Magic and the Hornets.
It ended this way:
With his shot hitting nothing but net.
Magic 42, Hornets 40.
The Magic were still the only undefeated team in the league.
Lenny got to Billy first, then Jim, then Jeff, then Danny Timms and the rest of the guys. Mr. D came next, saying, “Okay, you guys are 10-0 but, hey, I’m 1-0.” He grinned at Billy then, looking more like Lenny than ever, and gave him some fist to bump.
It was when Mr. D stepped away to hug Lenny that Billy saw his dad standing in the corner of the gym, almost hidden by the end of the bleachers, arms crossed, not looking happy, not looking sad.
Just there.
Watching everything that was happening around the Magic’s basket.
Billy walked over to him. Maybe somebody else would have gone running after a game like this, jumped right up into his dad’s arms.
But it wasn’t like that with them.
Billy walked.
“You were here?” he said.
“Got here with about eight minutes left to play,” his dad said. “When it still looked like we were going to win easy.”
“How come you didn’t coach?”
“It was Pete’s game to win or lose,” he said. Pete was Mr. DiNardo. “You don’t just show up and tell him to move over. That’s not the way it works in sports.”
Billy wanted to get back with the guys, get back to the celebration. But before he left, he had to ask.
“What did you think of that last shot?” he said.
His dad didn’t even hesitate.
“Lenny didn’t have a guy within ten feet of him,” he said. “You should’ve passed.”
TWELVE
“Yo,” Lenny said at recess on Monday. “I still can’t believe your dad dogged you that way after we won the game.”
“Me, neither,” Billy said.
“Sounded to me like more of that tough love my dad is always joking about,” Lenny said. He used his fingers to put little brackets around tough love the way Eliza would sometimes.
“Yeah,” Billy said. “Except the joke was about as funny as the Ratner twins.”
“The Ratner twins are funny,” Lenny said. “Just not the way those two dopes think.”
They were sitting on a couple of swings that had been on the playground at West from the time when it was one of the lower schools in town. The daily four-square game was still going on, but Billy and Lenny had bagged out of it, saying they were giving everybody else a chance today.
“Not only did you make the winning shot,” Lenny said. “You made it against Tim Stinking Sullivan.”
“You noticed, huh?” Billy said. “Least somebody did.”
“He just thinks he’s toughening you up, or whatever, for the play-offs,” Lenny said. He was tossing some small, smooth rocks he’d picked up into a plastic trash can about ten yards away, hardly ever missing. Billy was sure there were probably sports that Lenny didn’t make look easy, he just couldn’t think of any.
Lenny DiNardo made everything he did look easy. Not only that, he made whatever he was doing at a given time look like the most fun thing in the world. It was why Billy had always wanted to be like him, pretty much from the first day they’d met.
“With all the stuff that’s been happening lately,” Billy said, “I’m pretty sure I’m tough enough, LD.”
Lenny gave him one of his no-worries smiles. “I hear you,” he said, and then put out his palm so Billy could give him an old-fashioned low five they’d seen in a basketball game on ESPN Classic, one where you just slid your own hand over the other guy’s, like you were trying to scoop a dollar bill or something off it.
“If my dad is gonna be like this in the regular season, I don’t even want to think about what he’s gonna be like in the play-offs.”
“We’re probably gonna need to wear helmets,” Lenny said, “and that’s just at practice.”
Billy poked Lenny, pointed
Billy had stumbled right after he shot, tripping over Tony Gilroy’s leg, ended up sitting pretty much under the basket as regulation ended between the Magic and the Hornets.
It ended this way:
With his shot hitting nothing but net.
Magic 42, Hornets 40.
The Magic were still the only undefeated team in the league.
Lenny got to Billy first, then Jim, then Jeff, then Danny Timms and the rest of the guys. Mr. D came next, saying, “Okay, you guys are 10-0 but, hey, I’m 1-0.” He grinned at Billy then, looking more like Lenny than ever, and gave him some fist to bump.
It was when Mr. D stepped away to hug Lenny that Billy saw his dad standing in the corner of the gym, almost hidden by the end of the bleachers, arms crossed, not looking happy, not looking sad.
Just there.
Watching everything that was happening around the Magic’s basket.
Billy walked over to him. Maybe somebody else would have gone running after a game like this, jumped right up into his dad’s arms.
But it wasn’t like that with them.
Billy walked.
“You were here?” he said.
“Got here with about eight minutes left to play,” his dad said. “When it still looked like we were going to win easy.”
“How come you didn’t coach?”
“It was Pete’s game to win or lose,” he said. Pete was Mr. DiNardo. “You don’t just show up and tell him to move over. That’s not the way it works in sports.”
Billy wanted to get back with the guys, get back to the celebration. But before he left, he had to ask.
“What did you think of that last shot?” he said.
His dad didn’t even hesitate.
“Lenny didn’t have a guy within ten feet of him,” he said. “You should’ve passed.”
TWELVE
“Yo,” Lenny said at recess on Monday. “I still can’t believe your dad dogged you that way after we won the game.”
“Me, neither,” Billy said.
“Sounded to me like more of that tough love my dad is always joking about,” Lenny said. He used his fingers to put little brackets around tough love the way Eliza would sometimes.
“Yeah,” Billy said. “Except the joke was about as funny as the Ratner twins.”
“The Ratner twins are funny,” Lenny said. “Just not the way those two dopes think.”
They were sitting on a couple of swings that had been on the playground at West from the time when it was one of the lower schools in town. The daily four-square game was still going on, but Billy and Lenny had bagged out of it, saying they were giving everybody else a chance today.
“Not only did you make the winning shot,” Lenny said. “You made it against Tim Stinking Sullivan.”
“You noticed, huh?” Billy said. “Least somebody did.”
“He just thinks he’s toughening you up, or whatever, for the play-offs,” Lenny said. He was tossing some small, smooth rocks he’d picked up into a plastic trash can about ten yards away, hardly ever missing. Billy was sure there were probably sports that Lenny didn’t make look easy, he just couldn’t think of any.
Lenny DiNardo made everything he did look easy. Not only that, he made whatever he was doing at a given time look like the most fun thing in the world. It was why Billy had always wanted to be like him, pretty much from the first day they’d met.
“With all the stuff that’s been happening lately,” Billy said, “I’m pretty sure I’m tough enough, LD.”
Lenny gave him one of his no-worries smiles. “I hear you,” he said, and then put out his palm so Billy could give him an old-fashioned low five they’d seen in a basketball game on ESPN Classic, one where you just slid your own hand over the other guy’s, like you were trying to scoop a dollar bill or something off it.
“If my dad is gonna be like this in the regular season, I don’t even want to think about what he’s gonna be like in the play-offs.”
“We’re probably gonna need to wear helmets,” Lenny said, “and that’s just at practice.”
Billy poked Lenny, pointed
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