Hey, Coach! ch. 8

Since nobody died or even got injured in the kitchen that evening with mom gone for the first time and Scotty shucking his responsibility, Toby was deemed a hero, a chef, father's pride, and would be rewarded in kind with an endless bowl of ice cream at his chosen time of request.  Scotty needed him to run his basketball team that did not yet exist, not spending all his time behind the stove impressing mom with his newfound skills that he later claimed were "lernt by watching Guy Fieri on Food Network.  It's easy, you just have to become the food, that's all." They always knew that Toby had it in him to quickly become a gloater, but just now Scotty needed to cultivate his talent in other directions and when he went up into Toby's room later that night, as Toby sat on his purple bean bag spooning-in chocolate ice cream into his tiny mouth, Scotty wanted to propose something to Little Brother. "Have you ever heard of the phone app called MyTeam?" Toby didn't have it in him to split his attention between something so critical as an endless bowl of ice cream and this nonsense about a phone app. Scotty lifted the bowl out of his hands just as the giant spoon was about to take one more dive inward. "I need you to be in charge of MyTeam for me.  If you put together a team on a phone app, they will come. Download the app then put the names of the all the fifth grade boys players in it. Try to get a picture of each of them and put it in next to their name.  If that doesn't sell them, I don't know what will." Toby may or may not have heard a word of what he said. Ice cream interruption has that effect on the mind of all ages.  "I'll see what I can do," Toby said back then reached for the bowl with wild eyes.

After lunch the next day, Scotty snuck down the stairwell and onto the gym floor with his own private  indoor basketball and warmed up a bit with a few short shots.  Sure enough, there she was, the eighth grade girl.  The girl who seemed to have a string attached from her hand to the ball, smooth as silk, quick as a lynx, a sharp shooter from 15 feet.  Scotty hesitated a moment, but finally stopped thinking then put his plan into place.  He picked up his ball and rolled it violently down to her end of the court like a bowling ball and ran after it.  She saw it out of the corner of her eye, stepped to it, facing it, and slipped her toe down so the ball crawled up her leg and into left hand.  "This yours?," she asked, and didn't give much of a smile.  As Scotty ran up to her, he realized just how tall she was. She looked way more like a teenager than an 8th grader.  Very suddenly, he felt teeny and dwarfed and his plans flowed out of him and felt kind of empty. "Ah, yep, that is my ball, right there, my name is on it. That's me, Scotty Hanniful."
"Ok," she said and softly dropped it in his arms.  She made a quick spin to the corner, then a fade, swoosh. Wow.
"Um, would you want to play a game of HORSE," he sort of spoke out, a few decibels over a whisper.
Now, just about every kid that has played ball outside knew the game HORSE, but what if she was just an indoor player.  Would that sound like an unusual question.  She didn't seem to hear him at first.  She dribbled backwards to the three point line, stood, dug deeper with her shot and nailed one from the corner.  "First shot." She heard him.