Swagger (16 page)

He returned to the seat behind his desk while I settled into a chair across from him. He had a frown on his face; the Eastlake loss was eating at him too. “I brought you in here because I just got off the phone with your New Hampshire coach.”

I sat up, my heart suddenly thumping.

Hartwell put his hands up to let me know there was no real news. “I called to tell him what a fine player you are, what a fine person you are, and how you'd be great for his team. I also explained why you were on the bench for the first half of the season. I wanted him to hear it directly from me.”

“Thanks, Coach. I appreciate it.” I paused. “Did he say anything about my chances?”

Hartwell looked directly at me,
his eyes searching out mine. “He told me that he's leaning toward the other boy. You'll need a strong finish to your season, but you're still in the running. I want him to see how well you're playing, so I've arranged with Mr. Clark to have one of his students film our next few games. He'll make a DVD of your highlights that you can send off to New Hampshire. Mr. Knecht should have done this for you, but better late than never. Is that okay with you?”

“Yeah, sure. My coach last year did that.”

The room went silent. Was that it? I almost stood to leave, but somehow I sensed Hartwell had more to say, so I waited. He moved some papers around on his desk and then looked back to me. “I wouldn't normally speak to one player about another player, but I'd like to believe that we're friends, that I can speak with you in confidence.”

I swallowed. “The other player is Levi, right?”

He nodded. “Yes, Levi. He's been skipping our tutoring sessions, and his play on the court has been way off. I'm worried about him.”

My chest tightened. I dropped my eyes. “Something's eating at him, Coach. I've tried to get him to tell me what it is, but whenever I ask, he shuts down.”

Hartwell folded his hands. “Do you have any idea what it might be?”

“I think it might have to do with his sister Rachel. I know she fights with his father, but that's just a guess.”

“So he hasn't told you anything?”

“No. Nothing.”

Hartwell unfolded his hands and the tension left his face. “Well, whatever the reason, if Levi does poorly in class, he'll lose his eligibility. That's what happened to him last year. And even if he does manage to stay eligible, we have no chance against a team like Garfield unless he gets some passion back in his game.”

I squirmed. Was Hartwell blaming me? “I've asked what's bothering him,” I said. “He won't tell me. I don't know what else I can do.”

Hartwell waved his hands in front of his face. “Jonas, I don't expect you to do anything. But with your permission, I'd like to explain to Levi just how important it is for us to make the playoffs. If Levi understands that you need to play more games and put up some numbers to win that scholarship, he just might shake off whatever is bothering him and bring some fire back. It's a win-win-win situation: good for you, good for him, and good for the team.” Hartwell paused. “So what do you say? Can I explain to him how much these games mean to you?”

I didn't answer at first. Something about Hartwell's proposal didn't sound right, but how can it be wrong to ask a guy to play hard? “Okay,” I said at last. “Just make sure to let him know it won't be his fault if Monitor College picks the other guy.”

“I won't make him feel guilty,” Hartwell said. “That wouldn't help his play at all. And Jonas, don't feel like you have to be the one to solve Levi's problems. He's got his parents, he's got his church, and he's on my radar screen. You take care of yourself and let the adults unravel whatever is bothering Levi.”

I nodded, relieved. I stood and started for the door.

“One more thing,” Hartwell said.

I turned back.

He smiled. “At practice today I'm going to tell the guys that you're co-captain of the team. Don't worry. I checked with Cash, and he's all for it.”

H
ARTWELL MUST HAVE TALKED TO
Levi about my scholarship sometime during that school day, because Levi worked hard at practice that afternoon. He wasn't the old Levi—there was no smile on his face or joy in his game—but the focus was back, and he played angry, which is a good way for a power forward to play.

Semester finals were the first week of February, so there were no games during that week. Our last game before the break was on Friday night against Skyline in their gym. We needed to get back on track after the Eastlake loss, but Skyline was a perennial playoff team. Winning wouldn't be easy. My dad left me a note on the kitchen table.
“Get these guys!”
it read.

Before the game, the Skyline players were cocky, shooting long three-pointers, joking with one another, acting as if we weren't worthy to be on the court with them. They were taking us lightly, probably because they knew we'd lost to Eastlake, a team they'd routed twice. But after we got off to a blistering start—scoring the first eight points of the game—their cockiness disappeared.

Their coach called time-out. As we huddled around Hartwell, we could hear the other coach chewing out his players. When they came back on the court, their approach changed entirely. Instead of firing up long jumpers, they pounded the ball inside.

To hold them off, we needed Levi, and for the first time in a long time, he was there. On defense he clogged the middle, blocked shots, and rebounded. When we were on offense, I didn't involve him too much. A player has only so much energy; Levi was expending his on the other end of the court. Time and again, Skyline would make mini-runs at us, but Levi would have a great block, Cash would hit a three,
or I'd sneak in for a lay-up, and we'd maintain our lead.

Midway through the fourth quarter, we were up by six points. Hartwell had subbed more, learning from his mistake against Eastlake, so we weren't exhausted. As long as we kept our composure, we'd win—or at least that's what I thought.

Then, in a matter of seconds, everything changed. DeShawn missed a jumper; Skyline rebounded and came downcourt. Instead of setting up a play, Skyline's point guard—a guy I'd had under control all game long—let fly a twenty-five-footer. He was way out of his range; it would have been an NBA three-pointer. I turned, ready to rebound, but to the astonishment of everybody in the gym, the ball whistled through. The Skyline crowd, electrified, rose to their feet and roared. In the blink of an eye, our lead had been cut in half.

You can taste fear when you're playing, and that's the taste that came to my mouth. I brought the ball into forecourt, the roar from the fans growing louder and louder: “DE-FENSE! DE-FENSE! DE-FENSE!” We worked the ball around, with nobody panicking. With ten seconds left on the shot clock, Nick flashed open. I hit him with a solid chest pass. He went up in rhythm, but the crowd noise had gotten into his head. Instead of releasing the ball, he guided it. His shot was flat and short; Skyline's center pounced on the rebound, made a quick outlet, and they were racing downcourt again.

This time my guy pulled up and let his shot fly from about thirty feet. The second he let it go, I knew—everyone knew. The crowd, which had been holding its breath while that rainbow came down from the sky, erupted.

Swish!

The score was tied with three minutes to play.

Hartwell jumped up, signaling for a time-out. “Use the weave,” he said as we huddled around him. “Just like Coach Knecht taught you. Milk the clock and get a good shot.”

Our time-out quieted Skyline's crowd a little, and so did our set play. Skyline's fans still chanted, “DE-FENSE,” but not with the same crazy intensity. As the shot clock wound down, we moved the ball around the perimeter. Then Levi's eyes caught mine. He hadn't shown any offense all game, so Skyline wasn't expecting anything from him. A second after our eyes met, he went backdoor, and I put up a lob near the rim. It wasn't a great pass, but he snatched the ball and kissed it off the glass and through. A whistle sounded—foul on Skyline. Levi calmly sank the free throw, and we were back up by three.

After the inbound pass, I got up into the face of the Skyline guard—I was not going to let him sink another three-pointer. I rode him downcourt, giving him no look at the hoop at all. Still, he rose and heaved up another long bomb. He must have figured he was so hot that nothing could stop him, but this time his shot fell five feet short and right into Cash's waiting hands. I had released downcourt, and Cash heaved the ball to me. I took it on a bounce, made the lay-up, and the game was ours.

Afterward, I studied the stat sheet. My line was a thing of beauty: ten points and ten assists. A double-double—something that doesn't happen much in high school basketball, and something that would definitely catch Richter's attention. So would the 5–1 record the team had with me as a starter. Most importantly, we'd moved one step closer to earning a spot in the KingCo playoffs.

My eyes drifted down the page to Levi's name. He had seven points, four blocks, and twelve rebounds—by far his best game in weeks. He was lacing up his shoes on the other side of the locker room. I thought about shouting,
Great game, Levi
, and waving the stat page around, but that wasn't Levi's way, and it wasn't exactly mine, either.

M
Y SCHEDULE DURING FINALS WEEK
was confusing. There were “A” days and “B” days, lunches as early as ten in the morning or as late as one in the afternoon.

Levi's schedule was equally muddled. I wanted to review the health notes with him early in the week to make sure I got it done before I studied for my harder classes. In the hall before school on Monday, I asked him what time would be good. “How about after practice today?” he said.

Even though we wouldn't play our next game until Saturday night, Hartwell didn't go easy on us at practice. “This is going to feel more like a track meet than a basketball practice,” he said that afternoon. “When we start tournament play, we'll be facing tough games one night after the next. KingCo runs Thursday, Friday, with the championship on Sunday. Once we win that and go to the state finals, we'll be looking at three more games, but this time it will be three games in only three nights. I'm going to wear you out now so you're not tired then, and I don't want to hear any whining.”

I liked that Hartwell had acted as if he was certain we'd win KingCo one week and then progress to the state finals the next. He was playing a mind game with us, but it always feels good to have a coach give you a vote of confidence.

That was by far the toughest practice of my life. We ran and ran and then ran more. After fifty minutes I was dripping sweat, and the second half of practice was harder than the first.

Afterward, Levi and I went straight to the library, pulled out our health notes, and got to it. Predictably, Levi thought he needed to learn absolutely everything, but he trusted me when I told him he could let some things go. After forty-five minutes, he'd mastered more than he needed to pass.

“How are you doing in your other classes?” I asked.

He roughly shoved his books into his backpack. “Don't worry, Jonas. I'll work with Hartwell enough to keep myself eligible. I won't let you down.”

There was a buried anger to his tone that made no sense. I thought about calling him on it, but then remembered what Hartwell had said about not trying to do too much. Instead, I punched him on the shoulder. “When this is all over, how about if we go backpacking again?” I said, laughing.

It took a while, but finally he managed to smile back. “Sounds good, Jonas. Sounds really good.”

T
UESDAY MORNING I HAD STUDY
period first thing, and I used it to check with Sam Fisher, the guy making the DVD of my highlights to send to Monitor College. Fisher, who was in my English class, was always talking about why one short story would make a good film while another one wouldn't. Film was for him what basketball was for me.

He showed me what he had done, which was to splice together segments showing me making great passes and sinking baskets. About five minutes into the DVD, he hit the Stop button. “The rest is pretty much the same. That's what you wanted, right?”

I shrugged. “I guess.”

He woke up a little. “Don't you like it?”

“Do you?” I asked, not wanting to step on his toes.

“I think it's phony, but it's what Mr. Hartwell told me to do.”

“What would make it better?”

“Including some plays you screw up. Show all your reactions, all your emotions. It'd be way more interesting, way more like a real film.”

“Go for it,” I said, recalling what Coach Russell at Redwood High had said about honesty.

Fisher's face broke into a big smile. “All right. I will.”

 

Celia had asked to meet me at Zoka for a general study session. When practice ended that day—it was another long, hard workout—on an impulse I asked Levi if he wanted to come along.

“Other than health, I'm not in any of your classes,” he said.

“That doesn't matter. You can go over your stuff while we're studying ours. It's easier to work when other people are around, and it's more fun.”

“I'll think about it.”

I ate a quick dinner and then went to Zoka. Celia and I spent an hour sipping hot chocolate, nibbling on pastries, and reviewing chemistry. I fought the impulse to nudge her toward the topics that were on the test and away from those that weren't. I was glad to finish with chemistry and turn to English and American government.

We didn't have the same teachers for those classes, but I asked Celia for advice anyway. “Keep your essays short,” she said, “and make sure your paragraphs all have a topic sentence followed by supporting details. The surest way to get a lousy grade is to ramble on and on.”