Only he couldn’t.
Even when Lenny got a step on the guy guarding him, there was Zack, looking as tall as a tree. It was as if he was daring Lenny to step back and shoot one from the outside, even though outside shooting was the weakest part of Lenny’s game.
Jim Sarni was wide open on the left side of the basket, but to get him the ball, Lenny would have had to try to throw it over Zack.
He threw it across the court to Billy instead.
Jim Sarni yelled that he was open. When he did, Billy’s guy backed off just enough to give Billy plenty of room to shoot another three-pointer if he wanted to.
Ten seconds left.
Billy had just made this shot, was sure he could make it again. He didn’t rush, but didn’t hesitate, either, pretending he was out behind the chalk line he’d drawn in his driveway, pretending he was all by himself out there.
The ball felt perfect coming out of his hands.
In his mind, he saw it going through the basket and winning the game.
Almost.
It was just a little long, catching the back part of the rim instead of the net, bouncing away as the horn sounded.
Overtime.
Billy stood right where he was, still not believing his eyes, like his eyes had played a trick on him, until Lenny grabbed him by the arm and pulled him toward their huddle.
When they got to the huddle, Billy’s dad said, “You had the time and the room to get a better shot. It just wouldn’t have been a hero shot, I guess.”
Billy said, “But, Dad, I had just made the same exact shot a minute ago.”
“
We
didn’t need a three,” his dad said. “But
you
did, apparently.”
Because everybody had already played half the game, his dad could play anyone he wanted in the three-minute overtime. He decided to stay with the guys who had just finished the fourth quarter.
Despite missing the last shot, Billy was still in there.
“Play smart,” his dad said to them. “And play with heart. You’re playing these three minutes for the best reason there is—to keep playing.”
The next two and a half minutes were the best part of the whole game, with no letdown from either team. Lenny scored a basket for the Magic, on a nice bounce pass from Billy. Jeff Wilpon made the first three-pointer of his life. Zack Fredman hit two shots for the 76ers.
Magic by one.
Then Lenny drove to the basket, drew Zack and what looked like the rest of the 76er team to him, fed Jim Sarni for a layup.
Magic by three.
It was the 76ers ball, thirty-three seconds left, up three points.
Billy’s dad called time-out.
“No fouls,” he said. “Just play straight-up defense. Then if they miss and we get the rebound, throw it down to our end and run out the clock.”
Then he added: “
No
shots. Is that clear? No shots. If they tie us, it’ll be because they took the ball away from us.”
The 76ers did foul once, but after that they just tore around the court trying to steal a pass or the ball.
With fifteen seconds left, they threw the ball down to Zack. Lenny was guarding him by now. Zack turned on him and tried a shot he’d been making the whole game, and missed.
As soon as he did, Billy tore down toward their end of the court. Lenny must have been reading his mind, because as soon as he had the rebound, almost without looking, he whipped a long pass that Billy caught up with at the Magic’s free throw line.
Clear path to the basket.
Like it was a layup drill.
And a layup would put the Magic ahead by five points.
Billy figured that was just as good as running out the clock.
Took two dribbles, laid the ball up.
And knew the minute he did that he had shot it slightly too hard. You shot the ball enough in your life, even when you were ten, and you knew.
Billy knew.
The ball didn’t even touch the rim, just bounced off the backboard to the other side, bounced right into the hands of Zack Fredman, who had appeared out of nowhere to grab the rebound, like he’d broken some kind of speed record to get there.
The 76ers had already called their last time-out. So Zack just wheeled the way Lenny had, almost before his feet touched the ground, and threw a long pass down the court to Eric Dodds, known as Doddsie, the 76ers’ best outside shooter.
Doddsie caught the ball, looked down to make sure he was outside the three-point line, let the ball go with one second left.
The whole time it was in the air, Billy had this sick feeling in his stomach, because he was sure it was going in and they were going to a second overtime.
But in rushing to get the shot off in time, Doddsie had flung the ball up there too hard.
It hit high off the backboard like Billy’s layup, no rim at all, and the Magic had won.
Survived was more like it, Billy thought.
He was still staring at the 76ers’ basket when he heard his dad behind him.
“Are you finally done taking hero shots now?” his dad said in a loud voice you could suddenly hear all over the gym.
It was just the two of them in this part of the court, and Billy could see everybody else stopping to watch them. Because they sure weren’t celebrating with everybody else on the Magic.
“I thought I could just make the layup and put the game out of reach,” he said. “I just missed, is all.”
“What part of ‘no shots’ didn’t you understand?” his dad said, not lowering his voice, still steamed. “Or are you under the impression that ‘no shots’ doesn’t apply to you?”
And just like that, Billy was sick and tired of his dad taking shots at
him
.
Sick and tired of being picked on, sick and tired of being yelled at because of basketball, sick and tired of his dad talking about this perfect season and then doing everything to ruin it for him.
“Leave me alone!” he shouted back at his dad.
He didn’t care who heard. Not the other players, not his mom, not Peg.
Not anybody.
“You ruin everything!” Billy said.
His dad stared at him for what felt like a long time and then said, “Everything except tomorrow’s game.”
His dad walked away, saying, “Because you’re not playing in it.”
FIFTEEN
When they got home, his mom said she would talk to his dad about tomorrow’s game.
“It won’t help,” Billy said. “You think he’s going to listen to
you
about
his
team?”
“I
am
a pretty good lawyer,” his mom said. “Maybe I can change his mind. Let’s just give him some time to calm down first.”
“How long,” Billy asked, “ten years?”
His mom laughed. As she was on her way up the stairs, Billy said, “Mom? Can I ask you something?”
She stopped. “Sure.”
“Do you think you and Dad will ever get back together?” he said.
His mom, Billy knew, always thought before she gave him an answer, about anything. She did that now, leaning on the banister with her arms crossed, head tilted to one side.
Her thinking pose.
Finally she said, “I think I have a better chance of changing his mind about tomorrow’s game, let’s put it that way, kiddo.”
“I still don’t get it,” Billy said, “no matter how many times we talk about how things changed between you guys.”
“Sometimes I don’t get it, either, kiddo,” she said. She smiled one of her smiles that actually made her look sad, then said, “Maybe it’s like your team. Maybe we just started having different ideas about how ours should work.”
“Dad’s way—” Billy said.
His mom finished the sentence for him.
“Or the highway,” she said.
Billy went up to his room. He just wanted to be alone. He closed the door and tried to watch
Hoosiers
, his all-time favorite basketball movie, on his computer, but didn’t even get close to the part where the shooter in that one, Jimmy, made the shot to win the state championship.
All season long, Billy had dreamed about making that kind of shot, with the clock running down, to win the Rec League championship. And after his dad had walked out, it had seemed more important to him than ever, because basketball seemed like the best thing he had going for him.
Now he couldn’t play the game that was supposed to get them to the championship game.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come on in, Mom,” he said.
It could only be her. Ben never knocked first, Eliza never did. Not even Peg.
“I talked to your dad,” she said. “No go. His mind’s made up.” She shrugged and managed a small smile. “Again,” she said.
Billy Raynor was no crier. But he felt a heat now behind his eyes he wasn’t sure he could fight.
“Why is he doing this?” Billy said. “Why is he acting this way toward me?”
“He says he’s not the one doing anything. He said the things that have happened lately, you did them to yourself. That you need to understand once and for all that actions—”
This time Billy finished the sentence for her.
“Have consequences,” he said.
He took one of his pillows out from behind his head and slammed it on his bed. “I took a couple of dumb shots!” he said. “I’m not in the NBA. I’m ten stinking years old. Everybody in our league takes dumb shots sometimes. It’s not a big deal.”
“To your father it is,” she said. “I’m just telling you what he says. And he says the time to start making you the player he thinks you can become is now.”
“You can’t get to be a better player if you don’t play,” Billy said.
His mom leaned against the side of his door. “You want to talk about this a little bit?”
“No.”
“You want me to drive you over to Lenny’s?”
“No,” Billy said, then quickly added, “thank you.”
She left and closed the door behind her. Billy lay there on his bed, staring at the ceiling, staring at nothing, but thinking.
Saturday used to be the best day of the whole stupid week.
It was Lenny who talked him into going to the game against the Pistons on Sunday afternoon.
“I don’t care who else wants you there, dude,” Lenny said, after showing up at Billy’s front door without even calling first. “
I
want you there.”
“Not happening,” Billy said, shaking his head.
“You’re my friend,” Lenny said. “And I’m asking you to be there as my friend.”
“Do you have any idea how much it will stink, being there and not being able to play?” Billy said. “And having everybody in the whole world knowing why I’m not playing?”
“Dude,” Lenny said. “I’m not asking you to do it for
you.
I’m asking you to do it for
me.
”
Billy knew he had lost this debate right there, that there was no way he could refuse when Lenny put it to him like that.
So he didn’t.
He went.
He didn’t wear his uniform, didn’t shoot around with the other guys before the game. Got under the basket and fed them the ball instead. When his dad came over and said, “Good, you showed up,” Billy said, “I showed up for the guys.” Not even looking at him, just whipping a pass out to Jake Lazar.
“Good,” his dad said again, and walked away.
When the game started, he sat as far away from his dad as he could, all the way down in the last folding chair for their team, cheering for his teammates from there.
When he’d see something in the game he thought Lenny had missed, he’d tell him during a time-out. Or motion for him to come over when somebody on the other team was shooting a free throw.
As the Magic began to pull away in the fourth quarter, mostly because Lenny just wouldn’t let them cough up their lead, Billy was the loudest guy in the gym and didn’t care.
He was cheering as much for himself as the five guys on the court, cheering for one more game, one more chance.
When it was over and the Magic had won, 42- 32, Lenny came running over to Billy, smiling, and said, “No worries, right?”
Billy said, “Well maybe I was a
little
worried when you got that incredibly dopey fourth foul.”
Then put up his right hand and slapped Lenny the hardest possible five.
“Just trying to keep things interesting, dog,” Lenny said.
“Hey,” Billy said to him.
“What?”
“Thanks.”
“For making things interesting?”
Billy said, “Thanks for everything.”
Lenny wagged a finger at him and said, “One more game.”
“Oh,
yeah
,” Billy said.
Something in his life was going to come out exactly the way it was supposed to.
Nothing was going to get in his way now.
Nothing.
Lenny came over to Billy’s after the game, and they played video games until Billy’s mom came in and asked if anybody wanted to go into town for ice cream.
Billy and Lenny immediately started chanting
Whoo whoo whoo.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Billy’s mom said.
She said she could drop them off at Dreesen’s and pick them up in about an hour, she just had a couple of things she needed to do at the office.
Ben asked if he could come along. Billy and Lenny said that was fine with them.
Dreesen’s had far and away the best ice cream in town. Everybody in town knew that Gus, the guy who owned the place, came in early every morning, before the sun was up, to make his own ice cream. Billy didn’t know how he did it, but he liked Gus’s ice cream even better than Ben and Jerry’s.
Basically, you never passed up a chance to go to Dreesen’s.
They sat in a side booth. Lenny had what he described as a “gigundo” banana split, three different flavors of ice cream. Billy had a root beer float. Ben had a bowl of chocolate with sprinkles. When he chowed through it before Lenny and Billy were close to being finished, he said he was going next door to MacKenzie’s to check out the new comic books.