Hey, Coach! ch. 9

"My biggest problem is my brother, Farley Drexel Hatcher. He's two-and-a-half years old. Everybody calls him Fudge. I feel sorry for him if he's going to grow up with a name like Fudge, but I don't say a word. It's none of my business." Blume, from Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing










First two shots, H and O, Scotty felt his little scheme was doomed.  This was no eight grader, he was thinking as her free-throw line shot slipped off her very fingertips as though she had air in them.  The O shot had barely made it to the front of the rim but because her rotation was so good, so strong, it pulled itself, just like a climber, up over the front of the rim. She didn't expect to miss. She didn't say anything to him, but spoke to herself.  He wondered if she was even talking about the game or if she was reciting some lyrics to the newest pop tune.  Who was he, anyway, a little fifth grader trying to challenge this future WNBA player.  He had missed the first two shots, the second, sickeningly, even a stinking airball.  There was nothing left in his stomach but a big bag of bad feelings.  He looked upwards for the first time, up to where the kids at lunch.  Oh, oh.  The lunch kids were standing over the railing watching and giggling.  This wasn't his home court, that's for sure.  He could see Wes and Phillip, he could see Henry and Aiden. They'd never play now, not after this.  Little Brother and his little buddies her down on the other end, just barely tall enough to see over the rail. Little Brother made a gesture with his legs like Scotty had showed him that night, to bend down deep with the legs. "If your shot is flat, you've got to get your legs into it." This had sounded silly to himself when he said it to Little Brother. What little kid even knows what that means, anyway? He'd never make much of a coach, but he could use the advice himself.  "Backboard," he called, and The Girl raised up her chin then nodded, like ok, let's get going, then be quick about it.  Scotty took his ball, started two dribbles to his right, then crossed over to the left side of the lane, maybe 15 out, and sliced the perfect angle off the board, kissing the glass, as they say. The Girl missed this one, backing right of the neck of the rim. Her eyes widened to a big blink.  To the left he went, other side of lane, cross over right, then as he pulled up he called "backboard" in mid stroke.  She missed. H-O, H-O. Uh, oh. She had a weakness.  It was his strength.  The kid murmur from up above the railings changed volume just a little bit.  It was still just kid stuff going on up there, that was for sure, but all the eyes had been keeping track.  Scotty phased it all out. He began to see not this hoop or this court, but his home hoop, his home court.  Out there it was cold and the cement slippery, but that was a difference – he was an outdoor player wasn't he?  No dribble this time, just a straight on 20 footer from behind the free throw line, "backboard," kabam.  The Girl didn't look well.  She herself looked up into the rafters. Her grade was filing in now for their lunch. These kids were tall, they were hungry, they peaked down below onto the court. "H-O to H-O-R," he said.
"It's my lunch time now, let's finish this off," she said, but held her ground, she didn't go anywhere, nowhere at all, as he expected she might.