Shame by Greg Garrett Page B

play some old guys?” Tyrel Sparks asked, one eyebrow arched skeptically.
    Martel Sparks elbowed him and hissed in his ear.
    â€œI mean,” Tyrel said, his eyebrow dropping and a cheesy grin spreading across his face, “four old guys and you, Coach?”
    â€œThat’s about the size of it,” I said, laughing. “If it ever comes off. Red team—get in here.” I passed the ball in my hands to B. W., who was going to run a new play I’d drawn up.
    â€œIf we’re gonna have to play an extra game, I think we should go on strike for more money,” Micheal Wilkes said as they were walking onto the court; God help us, they were already thinking like the pros.
    â€œC’mon, you guys,” B. W. called, bouncing the basketball once for emphasis. “Less talk, more action.” And at that, the five on the court got serious. B. W. passed from the top of the key to Micheal posted low and to the left of the basket. Micheal could either take the shot, pass off to Martel coming back door, or whiz the ball back out to B. W., who looped on around to the baseline for what we hoped would be an open jumper if he could shed his man on Bird’s screen.
    They ran it again and again while I shouted off instructions: “Roll and shoot. Hit B. W. Back door. Set it up out front.” Then after they’d gotten some feel for all the different ways the play could flow, I called the second five onto the court to run it and pulled the first five to the side to watch. It looked different, of course; Albert Heap of Birds didn’t have B. W.’s graceful jump shot or keen passer’s eye, but still it was a decent play.
    Then I put the two squads out there together and had them try to defend against what they’d just learned to run. The second five had a rough time of it, both ways. Except for Jimmy Bad Heart Bull, still playing football, this was all I had, and it wasn’t encouraging to see what was actually out there once you got past the first four or five boys. One time, though, Albert Heap of Birds actually succeeded in shaking B. W.—Ramiro Garza managed to successfully set his screen by stepping in front of B. W. at the last second (illegal, last time I checked)—and Albert popped a fifteen-footer and raised his fist in triumph.
    B. W., meanwhile, shoved Ramiro Garza so hard that he tumbled backward and down onto one knee. Before Ramiro could get up—one of the few times I was grateful for his slothlike speed—I was in between the two of them.
    â€œStep back,” I said to B. W., planting a hand firmly in his chest to stop his forward progress. “What’s wrong with you? Have a seat.”
    He dropped his head and walked off the court. I checked my watch, sighed, and shouted, “Okay. Do your laps. I want to see you running, every last one of you.” And before B. W. could get up, I raised one finger to stay in place.
    â€œI’m sorry, Coach,” he said, eyes down. “I don’t know what got into me.” When we were on the court together, he said I wasn’t his dad anymore, and I should treat him the same as anyone else. Well, here was my chance.
    â€œA ref might have called a moving screen there,” I said, my voice barely carrying over the trample of feet as the pack passed in front of us. “And he might not. You have to keep playing. You know that. Remember how mad you and I used to get when Scottie Pippen was standing under the Bulls basket arguing with the ref while his man was scoring at the other end?”
    â€œYes, sir.” Apparently Lauren was the only child still willing to look me in the eyes; I hoped she’d keep that ability, although I didn’t have much hope, given my experience with the other two. If we didn’t resolve the homecoming double-date controversy soon, she’d probably run off and join a circus or whatever it is kids from unhappy