Last Shot (28 page)

“Did you discuss this with your father?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “It happened after we played golf and he’d already gone back to the office.”

She sighed. “Well, I’m sure he’ll say yes, because he loves the idea of you becoming a sportswriter and this would be an adventure,” she said. “I think he’ll want to check with Susan Carol’s dad to make sure it really is okay for you to stay with her uncle. I think a grown-up should invite you, not Susan Carol.”

Stevie rolled his eyes a little but he knew he was in good shape if the only thing standing between him and the trip to New York was a call from his dad to Susan Carol’s dad. He had been to New York before but it had mostly been to do sightseeing: Statue of Liberty, Empire State Building, several of the museums, and, just a few months before 9/11, the family had eaten dinner at Windows on the World atop the World Trade Center. He still shuddered a little when he thought about that.

But he’d never gotten to see any sports in New York. The timing was always wrong. His mom had always taken the position that since he went to sports events all the time in Philadelphia, he should do more “cultural” things while they were in New York. He didn’t mind all culture:
The Lion King
had actually been kind of cool. But he could certainly have lived without the museums.

Now he would be going to New York and there would be no culture to deal with. Just covering tennis while hanging out with Susan Carol. Maybe, he thought, he’d get to meet Nadia Symanova. Now,
that
would be cultural.

2:
NEW YORK, NEW YORK

STEVIE FELT
both very adult and a little bit nervous when his mom dropped him off at 30th Street Station for the train ride to New York. It was one thing to have the independence to ride his bike pretty much wherever he wanted in the neighborhood; it was another to board a train that would drop him off smack in the middle of Manhattan. Once he was on the train, though, he began to feel a lot more confident. It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon and the heat and August humidity seemed to have disappeared just in time for the U.S. Open. The train wasn’t very crowded, so he had an empty seat next to him, where he piled up the Sunday editions of the
Philadelphia Inquirer
and the
New York Times
as he read through them. He had felt quite cool buying the
Times
—even if it did cost four dollars—in the lobby of the train station.

The trip took a little more than an hour. Penn Station was a lot more crowded and, it seemed to Stevie, quite a bit dirtier than 30th Street Station. He followed his father’s instructions to look for signs for the Eighth Avenue exit. “There will be fewer people lined up for cabs there,” he had said. “And the cabs are pointed uptown, which is where you’re going.”

He got a cab in no time and told the driver he needed to go to 52 Riverside Drive, adding, “It’s between Seventy-seventh and Seventy-eighth streets,” as he had been told to do by Susan Carol. If the driver either needed or did not need that piece of information, Stevie couldn’t tell. He simply turned on the meter and began rocketing up Eighth Avenue, dodging between cars as if he was on a NASCAR track. In less than fifteen minutes, the cab pulled up in front of an elegant-looking older building. To his left, Stevie could see a small park. As he climbed out of the cab, he saw Susan Carol Anderson and a tall man who looked to be about his father’s age standing on the sidewalk waiting for him. Stevie’s dad had finally broken down and gotten him a cell phone for this trip, figuring it wasn’t a bad idea to have one while traveling. He had called Susan Carol from the train station to say he was en route.

“Stevie, you got
tall
!” Susan Carol said as soon as he took his suitcase from the cabbie and turned to greet his two hosts. She ran up and threw her arms around him in a hug. She had her long brown hair tied back in a ponytail and was wearing what Stevie had come to think of as the teenage girl’s summer uniform: a pullover shirt, white shorts, and flip-flops. The difference was that she looked a lot better in the uniform than most of the girls back home. In spite of her claim about Stevie’s newfound height, she was still at least two or maybe even three inches taller than Stevie. Still, he was pleased that she’d noticed he was at least closing the gap. When they untangled from their brief embrace, she turned to the man with her.

“Uncle Brendan, this is Stevie Thomas,” she said. “Stevie, this is my uncle, Brendan Gibson.”

Brendan Gibson had the same sort of easy smile that Susan Carol did. “I know all about Stevie Thomas,” he said, pumping his hand. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you. Come on in.”

Stevie wondered what Susan Carol had told her uncle about him but didn’t think this was the time to ask. Susan Carol was giving him the big smile he had seen disarm so many people in New Orleans—oh yeah, he still had a crush on her. Brendan Gibson turned around and punched buttons on the keypad next to the door and it buzzed to let them in. A few minutes later, they were on the fourteenth floor and Susan Carol was showing Stevie to a bedroom that had a view up and down the Hudson River.

“Pretty spectacular,” Stevie said as a Circle Line boat went past. He remembered taking a ride around Manhattan on one of them with his parents when he was ten.

FOOTBALL.
BASKETBALL.
BASEBALL.

Whatever the sport, Alex Myers always has his game face on…. Here’s a sneak peek at

THE WALK ON
,

the thrilling first installment of John Feinstein’s new series
,

THE TRIPLE THREAT
.

Excerpt copyright © 2014 by John Feinstein. Published by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

As soon as the snap had hit his hands, instinct had taken over. He wasn’t thinking about the score or all the eyes on him or the fact that he had called a play that contradicted a direct order from his coach. All he could see was Jonas, who was racing behind the King of Prussia cornerback and coming open just as Alex stepped up in the pocket and released the ball.

When the ball came off his fingertips, he knew he had thrown it just the way he wanted to. His momentum carried him in the direction of the line of scrimmage and he watched as Jonas, running full speed, raced under the ball at the KOP 25 yard line, gathered it into his arms, and cruised into the end zone.

Alex’s arms went into the air and he could feel his teammates pummeling him as they all ran downfield to congratulate Jonas.

“
That’s
the way to throw it, Goldie,” he heard Allison say, a phrase repeated by several others as they all high-fived their way down the field. The Chester Heights sideline had exploded, stunned by the suddenness of the touchdown—and by the quarterback who had thrown the pass. Alex knew he still had a silly grin on his face as everyone trotted to the sideline while the kicking team went in for the extra point.

Matt was waiting. He took his right hand off his crutches to give Alex a high five.

“I knew you could do it, Goldie,” he said. “I just knew it.”

Coach Gordon was right behind him.

“Was that an audible, Myers? It didn’t look like one from here.”

“No sir. I called it in the huddle.”

“Was that what I told you to call?”

“No sir,” Alex said, offering no excuse and waiting for the hammer to come down on his head.

“I called it,” Matt said. “I called it because I knew Alex could make the throw and we needed a quick score to change the momentum.”

Coach Gordon stared at his son, then at Alex as another roar went up from the Chester Heights sideline as the extra point went through, making it 17–7.

“We’ll discuss it after the game,” he said finally, turning and walking away.

Don’t miss
Stevie and Susan Carol covering
the U.S. Open Tennis Tournament
in
Vanishing Act
.

Excerpt copyright © 2006 by John Feinstein.
Published by Alfred A. Knopf Books for Young Readers.

“So, what’s
the scouting report on Evelyn Rubin?” Bobby Kelleher asked. “I see she made Boo-Hoo Three cry.”

“Stevie’s in love with her,” Susan Carol reported.

“I am not!” Stevie said. “She’s pretty and she seemed nice. That doesn’t mean I’m in love. She can really play, though. Great ground strokes, and she’s fast.”

Susan Carol was grinning. “And a beautiful smile.”

“An older woman, huh, Stevie?” Kelleher said, smiling. Without giving Stevie a chance to respond, he gestured at the TV screen propped on the corner of his desk. “The match before Symanova out on Armstrong is just about over. If you guys want good seats, we probably ought to walk over there.”

“Do we have time to eat something?” Susan Carol said.

Kelleher shook his head. “No. If you want to eat, we probably won’t get into the press section.”

“I’m not that hungry,” Stevie said.

“That figures,” Susan Carol answered, rolling her eyes.

“Bud wants to come too,” Kelleher said. “In fact, he might have a sandwich or something—he’s always carrying food.”

Kelleher turned out to be right. Collins was more than happy to offer up a choice of sandwiches. Stevie and Susan Carol each grabbed one and quickly disposed of them. They grabbed cups of Coke and made their way back outside. The temperature had gone up at least ten degrees and the number of people appeared to have doubled. Kelleher led the way, with Stevie and Susan Carol behind him and Collins, hat pulled low over his head, right behind them. Even with the cap, people were constantly screaming Collins’s name. He answered everyone but kept moving, his hand on Stevie’s shoulder to make sure he stayed close to him.

“Gotta keep moving!” he said. “If Nadia’s boyfriend isn’t there when the match starts, she’ll be very upset.”

“Where? Who?” everyone kept asking.

“Right here in front of me,” Collins would reply. “Young Steven Thomas. Don’t you read the tabloids?”

Given that Symanova was three years older than Stevie and about a half-foot taller, the notion of them as an item was pretty outrageous. But such was the power of Bud that few fans seemed skeptical. One woman wearing a tennis dress even asked Stevie for his autograph. “Not right now,” Collins said. “After the match. He’s got his game face on.”

They made it to the entrance and walked under the stands to the far side, where a small sign with an arrow said
MEDIA SEATING
. They went up a short flight of steps and came out in a section that was almost directly behind the court—which was empty at the moment. Apparently the prior match had ended. The stands were almost full and there were no more than ten seats left in the media seating area, which Stevie estimated had about 150 seats.

“Just in time,” Kelleher said.

A security guard stood at the top of the steps checking badges. He gave Stevie a skeptical look and twice looked at the photo on Stevie’s badge and then back at him. Having been through the same sort of thing at the Final Four, Stevie said nothing. When the guard went back for a third look, Kelleher couldn’t take it. “You can look at the photo a hundred times and it’s going to be him,” he said. “He’s working with me. He’s legit.”

“Whaddya think, workin’ with you makes the kid legit?” the guard said in one of those unmistakable New York accents. “I’m just doin’ my job here, okay?”

“Fine,” Kelleher said. “Are you done doing your job now?”

“You want I should just throw youse bot’ out?” the guard said.

Before Kelleher could respond, Collins, a step behind Kelleher, jumped in. “Fellas, fellas, let’s all be friends here,” he said. “Mr.…?”

“Shapiro,” the guard said. “Max Shapiro.”

“Max, nice to meet you,” Collins said, shaking hands with
the guard as if they were long-lost friends. “This is Bobby Kelleher. He’s the leading tennis writer in the country, and this is his assistant, Steven Thomas. They’re just like you and me, here to see Symanova. No one wants any trouble.”