Authors: Matt Christopher
Dick Dunbar was standing at the foul line waiting for Tim in the gym the next morning after breakfast. “I understand I’m on
special duty today,” he said with a grin, chest-passing the ball to Tim.
“I really appreciate this,” Tim told him, launching a shot.
“Well, there, see,” Dick said, retrieving the ball, “you didn’t set your feet before you shot. Now let’s start with ten shots,
and set your feet each time. Then square your body to the basket —”
“But it takes so long!” Tim protested. “What if I can’t get the time or the space to do that?”
“Well then, you don’t take the shot,” Dick said flatly. “Simple as that.”
They worked for an hour straight, without taking a
break. Dunbar showed him how to balance the ball in his hand as he rose to his jump, how to roll it gently off the fingertips
with a high arc, how to make sure his jump was straight into the air, and when in the jump to release the ball.
By the end of the day, Tim had set a new personal record of twelve straight foul shots made. He’d sunk three straight 3-pointers
twice and could feel the rhythm of the shot in a way he never had before.
“Boy, when I signed up to come here,” he told Dick as they left the gym, “I never thought I’d get a whole day of private lessons.”
“Lucky break,” Dick Dunbar said, then grinned at his own dry humor. “Break, get it? Oooo, shouldn’t have said that, I guess.
Poor Mike. Well, hey, I don’t believe you meant to break his finger.”
“You don’t?”
“Course not. You didn’t even know who was on the other side of that door.”
“I told Mike that, but he didn’t believe me,” Tim said.
“Well, you can understand how he might be feeling.”
“Sure.”
“Don’t feel too bad for Mike. He’s been coming here seven years now, and I’ll bet you that five of those years, he was the
one getting the private coaching. It’s time somebody else got the chance. And it might as well be you as anybody, right?”
The night before the big rematch with Camp Chickasaw, all of Wickasaukee, boys and girls, held a huge pep rally around the
campfire. They roared cheers into the night that echoed off the hills and back to them again. They promised to try their best,
never to quit until the game was over, and to do honor to the great tradition of Camp Wickasaukee. That meant, of course,
restoring the winning tradition by proving that their only loss had been a fluke. This was going to be the big match of the
summer, and everyone knew it.
Tim sat quietly through most of the cheers, deep into his own thoughts. Then he stared across the campfire at Billy, who at
least was joining in, shouting with all the rest of them.
Billy. His oldest and best friend. He hadn’t been so great to Billy the past three weeks. And why not?
Because he’d been too busy trying to impress these other kids, who didn’t even care about him, kids he’d never see again after
the game was over. To try to win Mike Gruber’s friendship, he’d turned against the one kid here who would still be his friend
when camp was over.
He wanted to do something to repay Billy for sticking with him in spite of the way he’d acted. Something big, to make a statement
not just to Billy, but to all the other kids as well. He went over and sat beside his friend, patting him on the knee. “Hey,
Bill,” he said. “How’re you doing?”
Billy shrugged. “I hate this cheering stuff,” he said. “It makes my ears ring for days after.”
“Listen,” Tim said, staring into the fire. “You listening?”
“Sure,” Billy said, leaning forward. “What?”
“I’m going to get you the ball tomorrow.”
“Huh?”
“You’re going to score the winning bucket.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m telling you right now, Billy — just be ready. I’ll give you the nod, and then the ball will be coming at
you. Don’t think twice — just lay it up and into the hoop.”
“Tim, wait a minute —”
But Tim was already up and walking. It didn’t matter anyway — nothing Billy could have said, then or later, would have changed
his mind. Billy was going to score the winning bucket in the biggest game of the summer. Tim was going to see to it.
T
he tension was so thick in the mess hall the next morning that Tim could barely breathe. Nobody was doing much talking. Each
camper was in his own thoughts, trying to focus on what he could do to win the match for Wickasaukee. Worst of all was the
sense of fear filling the hall — fear of what would happen if they didn’t do their best, if they messed up at the crucial
moment.
Nobody should have felt this more than Tim, of course. He was the one who’d made that last, crucial mistake against Chickasaw
two weeks ago. But somehow, he wasn’t affected by it. He felt calm and quiet inside. He was going to do what Allister Edwards
and Dick Dunbar had coached him to do — hit his shots from outside early, then look to dish to the open man.
Except that Tim, instead of looking for Donnie DeGeronimo or Bobby Last, was going to look for, and find, Billy Futterman
— the last kid Chickasaw would be watching for.
“Please,” Billy begged him when Tim reminded him of his intention as they finished their eggs. “This is a really bad idea.
I’ll only blow the shot, Tim.”
“I don’t care,” Tim told him. “You’re my best friend, and I say you’re going to get the ball and win it for us.”
“You’re nuts,” Billy said. “Everyone’s gonna hate me when I blow it.”
“If you blow it, wait a couple days and we’ll be going home, and you’ll never have to see these kids again. But guess what?
You won’t blow it. You’ll see.”
“I’ve already seen. In my nightmares.”
“Breathe, Billy. Breathe. It’s gonna be okay. Trust me.”
Tim didn’t know why, but he felt as sure of his words as he’d ever felt about anything in his life.
The morning went badly for Wickasaukee. In baseball and in soccer, Chickasaw came from behind to erase big home-team leads.
Tim won his 200-yard dash, and Billy won two events in swimming, so they were personally coming up big early, keeping their
camp in
the hunt. Tim’s back was sore by lunch, after getting slapped by so many of his bunkmates. Only Mike Gruber stayed clear of
him.
By the time of the big basketball game, word went around that Wickasaukee was down by 4 points. The game was worth 5 in the
standings. It all came down to this. To me, Tim thought. The starting point guard — the kid with the ball, and the game, in
his hands.
He warmed up, hitting shot after shot from all different angles, not letting the tension or the noise get to him. Good, he
thought. Now if only I can hit them with men guarding me …
The game began, and Billy, of course, was sitting way at the end of the bench. Tim took the ball off the opening tip from
Bobby Last, and the Eagles were off to the races. Tim dribbled to the high post, pulled up, and launched a jumper perfectly
off his fingertips —
swish!
Back came Chickasaw with 2 points of their own on a layup that Bobby Last couldn’t stop, earning a foul in the process. It
was the start of a bad game for Bobby, who by halftime was riding the bench with four fouls.
Donnie DeGeronimo, on the other hand, was taking it to the hoop every time Tim got him the ball.
When he couldn’t, Tim would pass off, find a free spot, call for the pass, and shoot it. He could feel his rhythm and was
squaring his shoulders and jumping straight up, just like Edwards and Dick Dunbar had told him.
Their advice had been good. Tim hit five of his first six shots, two of them from 3-point range. With three of four foul shots
added, he’d scored 15 points by the half! Donnie had 13, the next highest scorer. Tim took high-fives all along the bench,
and when he got to Billy, he pointed a finger at him, as if to say, “Remember what we talked about.”
Billy rolled his eyes, and who could blame him? He hadn’t played the entire first half, even with Last riding the bench. When
was Jody ever going to put him into the game? And if he didn’t, how was Tim going to find him with the ball?
Wickasaukee had a 5-point lead going into the second half. But Jody’s whole team was in foul trouble, not just Bobby Last.
Donnie had three, and so did Brian Kelly. With those three guys out, Jody would be reduced to just one more big man off the
bench — Billy Futterman. Still, he threw his starters back out there for the second half, yelling, “No fouls!” as if they
needed reminding.
Tim had played the whole first half, and he was back in now. But he switched his entire approach for the second half. Instead
of looking to shoot, he would now fake the shot, draw the defenders to him, and find his teammates for the open shot.
The strategy worked beautifully, as time after time, Tim found the others for easy points. Now it was the Chickasaw players
who were getting in foul trouble.
But then, with six minutes left and Wickasaukee leading by 10, Bobby Last fouled out. Brian Kelly went in for him and notched
his fifth foul just two minutes later. “Futterman, get in there,” Jody barked. Billy, elbowed into action by the kid sitting
next to him, got up and trotted onto the court.
Now Chickasaw mounted their biggest run of the game. With a minute left, they had crawled back to within 1 point. Then, on
a drive, their center drew Donnie DeGeronimo into his fifth foul! Donnie threw a towel violently to the floor as he sat down.
Tim thought he saw tears in Donnie’s eyes as the Chickasaw center sank both his free throws to put his camp into the lead
for the first time in the game.
Forty-two seconds left. 57–56 Chickasaw. Tim with the ball. He dribbled downcourt, slowing down to pull
time off the clock. “Go to the hoop!” he heard Jody yell. He knew Jody wanted them to score right away, so they could get
another shot at scoring if Chickasaw made a bucket. But Tim had other ideas — and he had the ball, so what he said went.
With ten seconds left on the clock, and the Chickasaw bench doing the countdown to victory, Tim drove the lane, executing
a sharp spin move to split the defense. He leapt up as if to shoot, saw the Chickasaw center’s arm come up to block the shot
— and passed it between the opposing player’s legs, bouncing it off the floor to Billy Futterman, who was standing behind
the clump of players surrounding the basket.
Billy was all alone with the ball while the crowd chanted, “Three, two —”
“SHOOT!” Tim yelled — screamed, really. And it seemed to jar Billy out of his confusion, because he threw the ball up off
the backboard — and into the hoop!
Swish!
Nothin’ but net!
The whistle blew. Game over. Wickasaukee 58, Chickasaw 57!
“I told you! Didn’t I tell you?” Tim shouted in Billy’s ear as they danced around in a circle under the basket.
“I did it. I can’t believe I did it!” Billy kept saying
over and over. And then they were mobbed by their teammates, and the whole mountain of humanity tumbled onto the gym floor.
The noise was deafening. It washed over Tim like a welcome rain after a long drought. He’d done it. He’d accomplished what
he came here for.
He was ready to go home now.
He and Billy left for home two days later. Their four weeks at Wickasaukee had come to an end, and they were leaving now with
mixed feelings.
Their last days at camp had been like a dream come true. Everyone was their friend. Billy’s reputation was redeemed, and when
kids laughed, they laughed with him, not at him.
As for Tim, he was the hero of the week. Coach Gabe made him rise from his chair at supper in the mess hall and get a standing
ovation, with kids banging their forks and knives on the tables. Tim knew he was blushing, but he didn’t care. It was an awesome
feeling to be the hero. I could get used to this, he told himself.
But he knew he’d better not. He knew there’d be losing as well as winning in his future, and he was
ready for that. If Billy had missed the big shot, it would have been a different ending here at camp for the two of them,
but it would have been all right with Tim. As far as he was concerned, he’d done the right thing as he saw it. That was what
really mattered in the end. And that was how he was determined to play it from now on.
On pickup day, he was waiting in the parking lot, sitting on his duffel bag and looking to see if one of the arriving cars
was his parents’ minivan. Billy was off at the canteen, stuffing his pockets with snacks for the long drive home, spending
his last dime on junk food. So Tim was by himself when he spotted a lone figure walking toward him out of the morning sun.
As the figure came closer, he recognized her and swallowed hard.
“Hi, Tim,” said Stephanie.
“Hi.”
“You’re leaving, huh?”
“Yup.”
“I heard. That’s why I came over. I wanted to say good-bye.”
“Oh yeah? Why?”
“Don’t be like that,” she said, sitting down next to
him on his duffel bag. “I only played that trick on you because Mike made me do it.”
“He
made
you?” Tim said skeptically. “How could he do that?”
“You know, he kept bugging me and bugging me till I said okay. I think he was ticked at you for losing that basketball game.”
“And … ?”
“And you know, I was going with him, kind of, at the time, so … ”
“So you agreed to do it, but you didn’t really want to.”
“Exactly!” She smiled at him, and for a second, he felt himself softening toward her.
“But now that you’re leaving, I wanted to tell you how sorry I was.”
“Okay. Apology accepted.”
“And, oh — here’s my number,” she said, pressing a piece of paper into his hand. “You only live, like, half an hour from me,
right?”
“Yeah, about that.”
“So if you want to call me sometime, you know, like after the summer … I mean, we could go out or something.”
“Okay,” Tim said. “Maybe I will.”
“Okay. Great!”
She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and sprang up to go. After a few steps, she stopped and looked at him over her shoulder.
“Talk to you then, huh?”
“Right.”
“Bye.”