Lucky Cap by Patrick Jennings Page A

six teachers and five of them were female. Story of my life. I mean, come on!
    Chase was in Savjani’s class, too, and afterward he suggested we go to the skate park.
    â€œDo you have a board?” he asked.
    I was so glad he asked. Did I have a board? I had a cutting-edge Kap “anti-gravity” board, which Evan called “spring-loaded, for extra pop.” The deck was razor-thin and light as air, and the logo and graphics looked as if they were part of the wood, not painted on. I could imagine his face when I showed it to him.
    But I played it cool.
    â€œYeah,” I said. “I have a board.”
    Lance walked up.
    â€œYou guys going to b-ball tryouts?” he asked.
    I groaned. I wanted to show Chase my board. I wouldn’t mind showing Lance, either.
    â€œWhat? You don’t play b-ball, Lorenzo? What do you play? Boring old baseball?”
    I thought about my basketball gear: my Kap shoes, jerseys, shorts, socks. I had a ball signed by Kobe Bryant.
    â€œNo, I play,” I said. “But Chase and I were just heading to the skate park.”
    That lit Lance up.
    â€œYeah, well, tryouts are now,” he said to Chase, “so if you want to make the team…”
    Chase nodded his head. “Yeah, I do.” He looked at me. “We can go to the skate park any time, Enz. Right now, let’s go show the Killer what we got.”
    It just so happened that some of what I got, I got from real, live NBA b-ballers: tips from pros in L.A., Frisco, Portland, and Seattle. Yeah, I wanted to show the Killer—and Chase and Lance and everybody—what I had learned from them.
    But I decided to hide my eagerness. Be cool.
    â€œAll right,” I said, and Chase brought up his fist for a bump. I bumped it. “Let’s show him what we got.”
    Lance looked pleased, like he hoped he would mop the floor with me.
    I was looking forward to disappointing him.
    I’d never tried out for a school team before. There were tons of guys there wanting to make the cut. A lot of guys were not going to. Would I be one of them? I didn’t think so. Not only was I in great shape and coached by the best in the game, I had the cap. I was unbeatable.
    Basketball’s a tough game. A player’s in almost constant motion: running, dribbling, jumping, shooting, passing, rebounding, defending. You have to have strength, coordination, skill, and endurance. Some of the guys who were trying out had better jump shots or layups. Some were better ball handlers. But nobody outlasted me. I didn’t dog a single drill.
    This seemed to tick Lance off, which made him screw up a lot. I made a point of swiping the ball away from him whenever I could, especially when I sensed a coach watching. I even drew a couple of offensive fouls from him, which wasn’t hard. He’s pretty offensive.
    Chase played pretty well, though he had a tendency to telegraph his moves. His fakes were a joke. I could have blocked most of his shots, stolen most of his passes, and beaten him to the basket any time I wanted. Instead, I avoided him. I didn’t want to make him look bad. I didn’t want him blaming me when he got cut, which I figured he would.
    At the end of tryouts, Killer really ran us hard. We had to run from the baseline to every single painted line on the floor and back. Because the gym was used for so many different games, there were probably a hundred lines. Guys dropped like flies, wheezing and coughing. My lungs felt like they were on fire. My leg muscles turned to jelly. But I finished with my head up. Lance and Chase finished, too, then collapsed onto their knees.
    We wouldn’t know who’d made the team till the next day when they posted the names, but as I pulled on my cap in the locker room, I was pretty sure “Enzo Harpold” would be on that list.
    â€œYou still want to hit the skate park?” I asked Chase as we stepped outside in our street clothes, our hair all