Three On Three (2 page)

“Fair is keeping my word, and I'm going to keep my word. The next time I see those cards, they're mine, so put them away. Now!”

Kia scrambled to her feet and hurried out the door to put her cards safely in her
backpack hanging in the hall. She quickly came back in and settled into her spot on the carpet among the other girls.

“And after everybody is finished with their math problems,” Mrs. Orr continued, “I want you to do a journal entry.”

Kia gave me a wink and I knew what she'd be writing about — her new cards.

“You can write about anything,” Mrs. Orr continued, “except basketball.”

“What, no basketball!” I protested, raising my hand. “But why?”

“Because some of you write about nothing
but
basketball.”

I knew that ‘some' of us meant Kia and me. I raised my hand again.

“Yes, Nicholas?”

“I've written about other things,” I protested.

“You have? Like what?” Mrs. Orr asked.

I had to strain my mind to think. “Well … I've written about playing video games, and going out with my father … ”

“And television too, watching TV,” Kia added.

“As I remember, you both have written about those things,” Mrs. Orr agreed.

Kia and I exchanged a smile.

“Written about playing basketball video games, and going out with your parents to a basketball game, and watching basketball on television,” Mrs. Orr continued. “So today you're going to — ”

A heavy knock on the door interrupted her. Two kids bounced to their feet to get it, but before they'd moved three steps, the door opened. Mr. Roberts, our gym teacher, poked his head in.

“Hi, Mrs. Orr. Can I borrow your kids for a couple of minutes?”

“I think we can spare the time.”

The rest of him followed his head into the room. Like always he was dressed in a T-shirt and sweatpants. I wondered if he even owned other clothes. I could picture him getting married in his sweats … maybe with a tie around his neck to make it more formal.

Carefully he picked his way through the class. As he passed, I drew my hands and
feet in close to my body. He was really big — it would hurt to have him step on me. He stopped at the front of the class. It seemed strange to see him by a blackboard instead of in the gym.

“Good morning, boys and girls.”

“Good morning, Mr. Roberts,” we all parroted back.

Suddenly he leaped into the air and landed on top of Mrs. Orr's desk. My mouth dropped in disbelief and a gasp rose from the class.

“There, that's better,” Mr. Roberts said. “An important announcement requires a stage.”

My eyes couldn't help but be drawn to his feet, which almost at eye level. He was wearing a pair of brand new basketball shoes. The white and black stripes made them look like high-tech, high-top zebras.

“Nice shoes,” I blurted out.

“Thanks, Nick. And interestingly, these shoes have to do with my announcement. I'm going around to all the grade three,
four, and five classes this morning. You're all invited to enter the First Annual Clark Boulevard Three-on-Three Basketball Tournament.”

The only thing louder than the cheer from the kids was the groan from Mrs. Orr.

Mr. Roberts raised a hand above his head, just like he did in gym class, to get our attention. Everybody fell silent. “Put up your hand if you like the game.”

A sea of hands shot up into the air. I tried to get my hand higher than anybody else's, like I was reaching up for a tip-off.

“Good. Now most of the rules of threeon-three basketball are the same as regular
ball. But there are only three people to a team, and both sides shoot for the same basket.”

“When will it start?” Adam blurted out.

I glanced over at Mrs. Orr, who didn't seem pleased that Adam was just yelling out questions. Mr. Roberts didn't seem to notice or care.

“The contest will start next week,” he began. “Each team will play five games and then the top eight teams will go on to the playoffs. Yes, Deidre?” he asked in answer to another raised hand.

“This isn't just for the boys, is it?”

“Of course not! Not only are some of the girls in this school excellent players …,” he said, glancing in Kia's direction. She smiled in response. “… but all students naturally compete in all activities at this school. You are going to sign up aren't you, Deidre?”

Deidre nodded her head and practically beamed. She was a pretty good player, as was another one of the girls in the class, Nandinie, but neither was even close to Kia.

A buzz went up as people began to talk about who was going to play and who wasn't.

“Quiet down,” Mr. Roberts said, “or I won't tell you about the prizes.”

“Prizes!” a couple of kids screamed out before the rest of us ‘shushed' them and they fell silent.

“Each member of the winning team will receive two tickets to the Air Canada Centre to see the Raptors play the Bulls … ”

A gasp rose from the class.

“… and a basketball personally signed by Julius Johnson.”

I had to stop myself from jumping to my feet. I looked over at Kia and her face mirrored what I felt. A ball signed by Johnson was about the only thing that could possibly be better than one of his cards.

I raised my hand and Mr. Roberts nodded in my direction. “Do we get to choose our own teams?”

“Yes you can choose your own teams, with some exceptions.”

“Exceptions?” I asked. I knew there
would be some catch.

“Yes, because the contest is open to students in grades three through five, I've had to make a rule to level the playing field. No team can be made up of only grade five students. So those grade five students who wish to be part of the contest must find at least one other student in grade three or four to be part of the team.”

That sounded like a very, very good exception.

“How many people are interested in entering the contest?” Mr. Roberts asked.

Most of the hands in the room shot up into the air. Kia had both hands held high.

“Excellent! To be eligible to enter the contest you must write a poem on basket-ball,” Mr. Roberts said.

“We have to what?” I asked in disbelief.

“You're kidding, right, Mr. Roberts?” Kia asked.

Mr. Roberts was always joking around with us in gym. If you were late for class he'd ask if you'd been abducted by aliens or been in jail. He had to be kidding.

“I'm serious. Every member of each team must write a poem about basketball to enter the contest.”

There was a stunned silence. What did writing a poem have to do with playing basketball? I could bet that nobody ever asked ‘The Jewel' to write a poem!

“And it's not just poetry that will involve basketball,” Mr. Roberts continued. “I've prepared a whole unit of study where everything — story writing, journal entries, even math — will involve basketball.” He leapt off the desk and his voice became even more animated. “I'd like kids to go on the ‘Net and search out basketball web sites. I've got a list of e-mail addresses for some of your favorite players if you want to write them. You can find basketball novels — I've set up a whole shelf in the library. I want you to think of basketball as not just a game, but a way of life! Do you think you can do that?”

“I think I can manage!” I shot back, supported by cheers from Kia and the other kids.

“Of course, you can only do all the basketball-related themes if it's okay with your teacher,” Mr. Roberts said.

The room fell silent and all eyes turned to Mrs. Orr. We were dead. This was the teacher who had just, seconds before, told us she was sick of reading about basketball, and now it was all up to her.

“Most of the other teachers have agreed to it,” Mr. Roberts said encouragingly.

“Have they?” Mrs. Orr asked.

“Most of them.”

Mrs. Orr cleared her throat and very slowly looked around the room. I held my breath and said a silent prayer.

“I think,” Mrs. Orr said, “that would be all right.”

Kids cheered. I felt like screaming, like laughing, like jumping up and running around the room, even like giving Mrs. Orr a hug — but I didn't. Instead I looked over at Kia and she was looking at me.

And I knew that she was thinking the same thing as me — who would we choose as the third member of our team?

We were excited after Mr. Roberts left, but Mrs. Orr got us down to work really quickly. The whole thing seemed like a dream. Imagine — I was going to enter a basketball contest, win prizes and even write about basketball at school. The only bad part was the poem. Poetry was majorly stupid, but what could I do?

I looked up at the clock. It was only a few minutes until recess. I hurried to finish my journal entry before the bell went.
If it wasn't finished I'd have to stay in and finish it — that was Mrs. Orr's rule.

I wrote about winning the contest, and how I'd put that ball in a place of honor. Maybe my Dad would even build a special case for it. He'd do that for something that important — especially if it involved basketball.

I was on the last sentence of my entry when the recess bell rang. I scribbled the final few words.

“All those who have handed in their journal entries are free to go to out for recess,” Mrs. Orr said.

As the kids headed for the door, I fought my way upstream to Mrs. Orr's desk and tossed my journal onto the pile of other books.

Kia was waiting for me in the hall, holding a tennis ball. “Wanna play foot hockey?” she asked.

“Of course not. We have to get a third player and then practice!”

She shrugged. “What's the point? It's not like we're going to win or anything.”

“What are you talking about?” I demanded. “Of course we can win! We're the two best players in grade three!”

“Maybe, but aren't you forgetting a couple of things?” Kia asked.

“I am? Like what?”