Real Hoops (2 page)

B
en and Logan hopped off the L7 bus and jogged through the Saturday morning sunshine to the Westwood Recreation Center.

“I wonder if there will be a different crowd on the weekend,” Logan said as they turned the corner.

“Maybe,” Ben said.

As the boys got closer, they saw that all the outside courts were packed. The sounds of the games—players shouting, shoes scraping against pavement, balls hitting backboards—rose into the early November morning.

“I hope Hud’s here,” Logan said.

“He seems like the kind of guy who’s
always here.” Ben spied a familiar face. “Hey, there’s Mr. Sims. Let’s go ask him.”

Mr. Sims smiled broadly when he saw the boys approaching. “Hey, you two are getting to be real regulars around here.”

“Hi, Mr. Sims. Is Hud inside?” Ben asked.

“Nobody’s inside,” Mr. Sims said with a quick shake of his head. “They’re painting the gym. It’s closed until Monday.” He looked around at the busy courts. “We got lucky. It’s a beautiful day to play hoops outdoors.”

“So is Hud around?” Ben asked.

“Oh, sure,” Mr. Sims answered, sounding surprised by the question. “He’s on the court in back. That’s where the best players are.” He started walking away. “Come on, I’ll show you where they are. I want to check out the games anyway.”

Ben, Logan, and Mr. Sims made their way to the back of the building, zigzagging through the players standing around waiting to play.

“Did Hud transfer to Roosevelt?” Mr. Sims asked.

“Yeah.” Ben nodded.

“So when are those freshman team tryouts?”

“Tuesday,” Ben answered.

“Is Mr. George still the freshman coach up there?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s a good coach,” Mr. Sims said. Then he cast a stern eye at Ben and Logan. “Be sure to listen to him. He knows his hoops. He’ll get you guys ready for varsity.” Then Mr. Sims suddenly stopped walking. “Is Hud trying out?”

“Yeah,” Ben said. “He’s signed up.”

Mr. Sims thought for a moment. “The kid plays a little wild, but….” His voice trailed off and he pointed at the back court. “There he is.”

The three of them walked over and stood at the side, studying the action.

“There sure are a lot of older guys in this game,” Ben said. “Hud’s the youngest guy out there by far.”

“This is the regular Saturday morning crowd,” Mr. Sims said. He began pointing
out some of the players. “There’s Fitz … Joe … Helicopter. And see the chunky guy over there in the black sweats—the one with the ball?”

“Yeah.” Ben watched as the player spun around, flipped up a quick jump shot that swished through the net, and jogged upcourt, shouting, “You can’t stop that shot! You can’t stop that shot!”

“They call him Donut,” Mr. Sims said.

Ben grinned. “Why?”

“He eats ‘em all the time and now he’s kind of shaped like one.” Mr. Sims chuckled and added, “But believe me, he can shoot the ball.”

A player standing nearby looked over at Mr. Sims. “Remember that summer league game? The one when Donut poured in fifty points against that hotshot college kid?” He snapped his fingers. “What was his name? Played for Lafayette.”

“Billy Evans,” Mr. Sims said. “He
graduated
from Lafayette. He played some pro ball in Europe later.”

“Man, but Donut owned him that night.
He couldn’t miss,” the player went on, getting more and more excited with the memory. “Donut might have scored
sixty
that night.”

“That’s just summer ball,” Mr. Sims said with a wave of his hand.

“It’s still hoops,” the player protested.

“Not real hoops,” Mr. Sims insisted. “Guys don’t play defense as hard. Heck, some of the guys don’t even show up for every game of summer ball. It’s not like playing for a high school team or college team. On those teams, you have to show up. Your teammates are depending on you.”

On the court, Donut tossed a two-handed pass up toward the rim. Another player rose high above the crowd, caught the ball with two hands, and jammed it through the basket.

“Whoa, did you see that?” Logan said.

“Watch out for the rim, Helicopter!” Mr. Sims shouted. “I don’t want you breaking it.”

Laughing, Donut turned to the players on the side. “That’s game. Who’s got next?”

Hud walked off the court, looking disappointed with his team’s loss. Five new
players hustled onto it and started shooting around, greeting the other players with handshakes and fist bumps.

“Okay, let’s run,” Donut said. And the game started.

Hud spotted Ben and Logan and his face brightened. “Hey, guys. I got next game. You want to play?”

“With those guys?” Logan said, nodding toward Donut and his team.

“Why not?” Hud answered. “We can beat them.”

“Sure, we’ll play,” Ben said.

“What?” Logan said.

Mr. Sims nudged Hud. “Pick up the guy over there with the real long arms. They call him 44-Long. He can cover Donut. And Derrick, the guy next to him, is okay.”

On the court, Donut’s team made quick work of their opponents. They scored on long jump shots and fast-break baskets.

“They look pretty good,” Ben whispered to Mr. Sims.

“Anybody can look good if nobody plays defense. Just cover them tight and run them. They’ll get tired.”

Donut tossed in a final basket and called out, “Who’s got next?”

Ben, Logan, Hud, 44-Long, and Derrick headed onto the court.

“Look at this—school must be out,” Donut teased, looking at Ben, Logan, and Hud. “We got the young guys playing the old guys. Think you can beat the veterans? Okay, let’s go.”

Donut’s team hit some early jump shots and grabbed a quick 3–1 lead. But Logan snatched a rebound and tossed a pass to Hud. In a flash, Hud raced downcourt, faked left, then bounced a perfect pass to Ben, who scored with an easy layup.

A steal by Hud and another easy layup tied the score, 3–3. Hud’s basket sparked the team. Ben hustled to get open and Hud fired passes straight to him for open jump shots. Ben made them all.

“Who’s got that guy?” Donut shouted in frustration. “He can shoot.” He dribbled slowly upcourt. “What’s the score?”

“9–6,” Hud said. “We’re up. Game to ten.”

“Okay, playtime for the kiddies is over,”
Donut said. “Time to get serious.” He spun to his left and leaned back for a jump shot. But 44-Long was all over him and the ball bounced off the rim.

Hud grabbed the long rebound and dribbled downcourt with Ben trailing the play. Suddenly, Hud flipped a behind-the-back pass to Ben at the foul line for a wide-open jumper. The ball bounced up off the loose metal rim, then touched the backboard and found the bottom of the bucket!

“We won. Kids rule!” Hud shouted as Ben, Logan, and the rest of their team traded high-fives.

Mr. Sims stood on the sidelines, nodding with approval. “You guys will do just fine at tryouts.”

T
weeeeet!
A whistle shrieked in the Roosevelt High gymnasium. Thirty freshman hopefuls stopped shooting at the six baskets around the gym, and a strange silence settled over everyone.

“Let’s line up over here.” Coach George pointed to the padded wall under the far basket, then began to pace in front of the players. The coach was average height with close-cropped hair. He wore dark blue gym shorts and a white T-shirt that said “Roosevelt Basketball.”

“He looks like he can still play,” Logan whispered to Ben.

“Yeah,” Ben said. “I heard he was a point guard in college.” He elbowed Hud on the
other side of him. “You better listen to this guy.”

“Let’s find out who’s who here,” Mr. George said, looking at his clipboard. “Hold your hand up and say ‘here’ when I call your name.”

He made his way down the list. “Antonio Hudson,” he said, finally coming to Hud’s name.

“Here,” Hud said. He raised his hand as high as his shoulder.

“Put your hand way up,” Coach George ordered. “So I can see it.” He continued down the list until the final name was called. “Anyone whose name I didn’t call?” he asked. Silence. “Good,” the coach said, and handed the clipboard to one of his assistants.

“We have thirty players trying out,” Coach George said, starting to pace again. “I only have twelve team uniforms. So this is a competitive situation.” He paused, pivoted, and continued. “There will be four days of tryouts. The freshman team is designed to prepare you to become varsity players. Roosevelt High School has had twenty-one consecutive
winning seasons and we’ve won eight conference championships.” He pointed at the conference championship banners hanging on the far wall. “At the end of the week, the players who hustle, play hard, and show me they are willing to be coached will have a chance to be part of that tradition.”

Ben stood in line, staring at the banners. He couldn’t wait to get started.

“Any questions?” Coach George asked.

Silence again.

“Okay, let’s go.”

The coach did not take it easy on the first day of tryouts. He put the players through their paces.

Dribbling drills.

Baseline-to-baseline sprints.

Tests to measure jumping skills and quickness.

Coach George and his assistants, Mr. Hukill and Mr. McCracken, kept moving around the floor, giving instructions, asking names, and taking notes.

After an hour of drills and still another sprint, Ben, Logan, and Hud leaned against
the wall, gasping for air.

“Are we ever going to shoot the ball?” Ben said, catching his breath.

Logan wiped the sweat from his face. “I guess he wants to see who’s really in shape.”

“Maybe,” Hud said. “But you can’t tell who can play until you let them play.” He straightened up and put his hands on his hips. “What are you guys complaining about, anyway? Coach already knows you. You’ll make the team, easy.”

Just then, Coach George blew his whistle. “All right, line up!” he shouted, pointing to the same wall. “This time by height.”

The boys lined up. Logan—the tallest in the group—stood at the far end. Ben took a place toward the middle. Hud, who was shorter, stood a few places down from Ben.

“All right now, count off by fives,” Coach George ordered.

The boys counted off.

“One … two … three … four … five … One … two …”

Both Ben and Hud called out the number four. They traded glances, knowing they would be on the same team.

Quickly, the coaches organized games on the two cross-courts, shuttling in a new team every five minutes. Mr. Hukill and Mr. McCracken refereed the games while Coach George kept an eye on both games and took notes.

Hud started fast, driving past a defender and scoring on a twisting layup. Then, on defense, he tipped a pass, scrambled for the ball, and got it. Balancing on one foot, he fired a long pass to Ben, streaking downcourt. Ben looked up just in time, caught the ball, and laid it up and in.

The next time down, Hud drove to the basket and tossed a pass to Ben for an open fifteen-foot jump shot.

Swish
.

“Good shot, Ben,” Coach George called. “All right, let’s switch it up. Ben’s team stay out there. Let’s hustle.”

Five new players came onto the court, but no one on the new team could stop Hud either. He weaved in and out of the defense, sending passes to teammates who turned them into easy shots.

Ben hustled to get open, and whenever
he did, Hud would work his magic and suddenly the ball would appear in Ben’s hands.

After two easy wins, Ben and Hud sat on the sidelines, drinking water with their backs against the cool, hard cinder block wall. They traded fist bumps.

“Good shooting,” Hud said. “Those games at Westwood must be paying off. You’re a cinch to make the team.”

“What about you?” Ben replied. “Nobody can cover you.”

Hud shrugged. “These games are easy. I’m used to Westwood, where some guy like Donut is always fouling me.”

Coach George walked down the sidelines, glancing at his notes and giving advice to the players. When he got to Ben and Hud, the boys stood up.

“Nice shooting, Ben.” The coach smiled. “I saw you play last year and your shot looks even better now. Remember to keep your elbow in when you shoot, and follow through.”

Coach George eyed Hud and checked his notes. “Antonio Hudson, right?”

“Yeah,” Hud said. “Everyone calls me Hud.”

“Nice job running the offense and getting Ben the ball,” the coach said. “Try to keep your dribble lower. And make the simple pass. None of that fancy French pastry.”

“French pastry?” Hud asked.

“Fancy passes,” the coach explained. “Where do you play?”

“Westwood.”

“How’s Mr. Sims these days?”

“Good.” Hud smiled.

“Tell him Coach George said hello.”

Ben elbowed Hud after Coach George moved on. “Sounds like he likes your game.”

“I’m not so sure,” Hud said. “What was that stuff about French pastry?”

“Forget that,” Ben said, shrugging. “He knows who you are. That’s important. He’s just telling you what you have to do to get better. I’m telling you, you’re in.”

“Maybe.” Hud didn’t sound convinced. “When do we find out?”

“Friday.”

“How’s he going to tell us?”

“He’ll just post the team online, on the Roosevelt website.”

Coach George blew his whistle. “Okay, let’s switch it up. Hudson, get your team out there.”

Ben grinned at Hud as they jogged out to the court. “
Your
team?” he said. “You’re definitely in. We’re going to be playing some real hoops together this season.”

B
en stared out the window of the L7 bus as it wound its way through the rain-slicked streets on Saturday morning, edging closer and closer to the Center.

“Let me see the list again,” Logan said.

Ben pulled out his phone and punched in the school’s website. The two boys studied the list of names for the twentieth time.

“I told Hud he’d make it,” Ben said.

“No kidding,” Logan said. “He’s the best ball handler and passer on the team by far.”

Ben sat back and pressed his knees against the plastic seat in front of him. “You at center, me at shooting guard,” he said, almost daydreaming. “Hud at point guard. Andrew and Jordan at forward. We’re going to have a great team.”

“Eighth and Westwood,” the driver called.

Ben and Logan tumbled off the bus and jogged to the Center. The morning was cold and gray, with the unmistakable feel of winter coming.

When they arrived, only a few younger kids were playing on the outdoor courts.

“I guess everyone else is inside,” Logan said.

“Yeah. Let’s find Hud. I want to make sure he knows he made it.” Ben opened the main door of the Center and waved to Mr. Sims, who was on the phone behind the desk. The director waved back.

The gym was packed. And it was loud. Both courts were buzzing with action, with
players taking quick shots, calling to each other, and trash talking. The bleachers were filled with other players waiting for their chance to play.

Ben spied Hud standing in a corner, dribbling a basketball between his legs.

“Hey, Hud!” Ben called as he and Logan approached. Hud looked up and stopped dribbling. “You made the team!” Ben said.

Hud spun the ball on his fingertip. “Yeah, I heard.”

“We got the roster.” Ben held up his phone. The three boys sat down on the bleachers and studied the list on Ben’s phone.

“That kid Jordan can play,” Hud said.

“But I don’t think Anthony should’ve made it,” Logan said. “He can’t shoot.”

“He’s okay,” Ben said. “He just didn’t do very well during tryouts.”

“Where’s Tyson?” Hud asked. “I thought he was pretty good.”

“What team are you guys talking about?” Donut asked. He was sitting a few feet down the bench.

“The Roosevelt freshman team,” Logan said.

“Is Coach George still coaching?” Donut asked.

Before Ben could answer, another player from two rows up interrupted. “George ain’t a good coach,” he said.

“What do you know?” Donut frowned.

“I played for him.”

Donut leaned back and laughed. “Yeah, you played for him. For about five minutes. He threw your lazy butt off the team because you didn’t play any defense.”

“He was messing with my game,” the player insisted. “Never let us run. Always slowing it down—”

“And making you play defense,” Donut broke in.

Ben looked at Donut. “Did you ever play for Coach George?”

“I never played high school ball,” Donut said. “But I could have,” he added quickly. “I was a lot better than those guys on the team. Guess I just didn’t want to.” He put his hands in back of his head. “I ruled in summer ball. You can ask anybody around here, they’ll tell you: Donut ruled summer ball.”

He grinned at Ben, Logan, and Hud. “I got next, you want to run?”

He didn’t have to ask twice. They all jumped up.

Donut looked back at the player who had complained about Coach George. “Hey, Hi-Tops, we need a fifth player. You want to run too?”

“Sure.”

“You gonna play some defense?”

“Give it a break,” Hi-Tops said.

Donut’s team owned the court. Hud handled the ball and ran the offense. Logan and Hi-Tops took care of the rebounding. Ben and Donut shot the eyes out of the basket, hitting jump shot after jump shot.

“Hi-Tops doesn’t play any defense at all,” Logan complained under his breath to Ben and Hud between games.

“Neither does Donut,” Ben said.

“Yeah, but at least he can shoot,” Hud pointed out.

The team won four games in a row. They finally lost when Donut got tired and his shots started to bounce off the rim.

“Man, I couldn’t
buy
a basket that last game.” Donut sighed as the team sat down on the bleachers. Ben took a place at the end of the bench, close to where Mr. Sims stood along the wall, watching the games.

“You boys had a good team,” Mr. Sims said. “You could have kept the court all day if you’d played some more defense.”

Donut looked at the clock on the gym wall. “I got to get to work,” he announced. He grabbed a basketball and headed out of the gym.

Hud stood up. “I’ll go see if I can find a couple guys who want to play with us.”

Ben turned and looked up at Mr. Sims, who was still leaning against the wall. “Donut said he never played high school ball,” he said. “I can’t believe that. He can really shoot.”

Mr. Sims stared off into the distance. “You’re right, I don’t think he ever did play hoops in high school,” he said.

“Donut also said he was better than most of the guys who played on the team,” Ben said. “I can believe that.”

“Well, it’s easy to
say
you’re better. It’s a little harder to prove it.” Mr. Sims smiled. “But don’t get me wrong. Donut’s a good guy. He coaches a team of fifth graders here at the Center.”

“Really?” Ben said.

“Yep.” Mr. Sims nodded. “Believe me, all of his kids can shoot.”

“Hey, Ben! Logan! I got us in a game over here,” Hud called, waving his arms from the other side of the gym. Ben and Logan popped off the bench to join him.

As Ben waited in the middle of the noisy, crowded floor for the game to start, he glanced back over his shoulder at Mr. Sims. The director was still leaning against the far wall, studying the players. But his mind seemed far away, as if he was remembering something from a long time ago.