Time-Out
Authors: W. C. Mack
ContentsRUSSELL Theoretical Probability
For my absolute gem of an editor, the Cheetos-loving Brett Wright, who suggested we send the boys to camp
And for Mike Smith, who is no stranger to time-outs
My palms stung when I caught the ball. My sneakers squeaked against the hardwood as I pivoted left, looking to pass to someone.
Anyone.
Nicky was covered, Paul couldn't shake Nate, and my brother, Russ, was at
another
emergency meeting for Masters of the Mind. Man, I couldn't wait for the state competition to be over. After the weekend, Russ and Marcus Matthews could get back on the court and the Pioneers could get back to normal.
A full roster.
A winning streak.
“Let's keep it moving, Evans!” Coach Baxter shouted.
“I'm trying,” I muttered, looking past the waving arms in front of me.
Nuts. There had to be somebody open.
Aha!
Mitch Matthews.
I fired off a bounce pass and started hustling down the court again. I could feel the sweat drip down the back of my neck as I kept an eye on the ball, which moved from one player to the next every few seconds. Soon, Mitch passed it back to me and I dribbled a couple of times before throwing it to Paul. He tossed it to Nicky Chu, who took the shot.
Swish.
“Nice job!” Coach shouted as he clapped his hands. “See how easy that was?”
We all nodded.
When Coach told us at the beginning of practice that he wanted us to pass the ball at least
five times
between center and the basket, I'd thought he was crazy. Like, seriously crazy. But when we actually did it, it totally made sense. All the passing back and forth meant we had to pay a lot more attention to where our teammates were and where we should be.
We had to look for open spaces and work together instead of sprinting for the net. We had to take our time and “be aware,” as Coach said.
So far, so good.
“Hey, Coach, are we gonna have to pass five times in games, too?” Chris asked as he wiped his hands on his shorts. When he was done, they were striped with sweat.
“No,” Paul said.
“It's just a
drill
,” Mitch told him, rolling his eyes.
“Cool.” Chris sounded relieved.
“A drill that will help you at game time,” Coach said. “Now let's crank it up to seven passes. And don't be afraid to make some noise. Let your teammates know when you're wide open.” He blew his whistle and tossed Chris the ball. “Communication is key.”
“Communication,” my best friend repeated quietly, “is key.”
He passed the ball to Nate and I snagged it in midair. But the second I took my first step, Nate was right in my face, blocking me. I could have gotten around him and taken off, but I scoped out my passing options instead.
Just like Coach wanted me to.
“Right here!” Nicky shouted.
I threw him the ball and jogged toward the basket, hoping it would be my turn to score this time.
I got the whole idea behind good communication, but I knew for a fact that, as far as basketball goes, nothing speaks louder than points on the board.
After practice, I sat between Nicky and Chris on the locker room bench and started untying my shoelaces.
“Did you watch the game last night?” Chris asked.
“Seriously?” I shook my head, amazed he'd even ask a question like that. “When have I ever missed a Blazers game?”
“Good point.”
“Williams was awesome,” Nicky said.
“Yeah.” I started smiling. “That final shot at the buzzerâ”
“In
overtime
,” Nate added, opening a locker door.
“Was amazing,” Nicky finished.
And it was. It was the kind of moment I thought about all the time. Me, Owen Evans, saving the day with the ultimate three-pointer, a split second before the buzzer. My teammates leaping off the bench to lift me up in the air, the crowd going wild, the clip shown over and over again on ESPN, andâ
“Owen?” Mitch Matthews's voice snapped me out of my daydream.
“Yeah?” I asked, dropping one shoe on the floor and starting to work on the other double knot. Why did I tie the stupid things so tight?
“Do you think you'll go?”
I looked up at him, totally confused. “Go where?”
Mitch looked at Paul, who smirked, then Nate, who rolled his eyes.
“Hoopsters,” all three said at once.
“What? The camp?” I asked, surprised. “No. You've got to be like, fourteen.”
“Dude, haven't you been listening?” Nicky asked.
“Obviously not,” Paul said, laughing.
“Listening to what?”
“Mitch just said that they lowered it to twelve.”
“Twelve years old?” I gasped.
“No, twelve IQ points.” Paul laughed. “So you could
almost
make it.”
“Very funny.”
“Yes, twelve years old,” Nicky explained. “
And
it's scheduled during spring break.”
“Are you kidding?” I asked, my heart starting to pound.
Hoopsters had always seemed years away, just like college and the NBA draft. I'd figured I'd have to wait until high school to get my chance.
They were really taking twelve-year-olds?
I felt like I'd won the lottery, and I hadn't even bought a ticket! How cool was that? And the timing was perfect; school would be out for spring break and I'd be able to spend a whole week perfecting my game.
“I'm all over it!” I gasped. “Who else is signing up?”
Mitch sighed. “My whole family is going back to Minnesota for my grandmother's birthday.”
“What about you?” I asked Nate.
“My cousin just had a baby, so we're driving to Montana to see it.”
I couldn't believe what I was hearing! “You're gonna miss Hoopsters for a stinkin' baby?”
He shrugged. “I guess so.”
“But he'll just sleep and cry the whole time.”
“It's a girl.”
“Whatever. She won't even know you're there.”
Nate shrugged, so I turned to Paul. “Are you in?”
“My parents said it's not in the budget. They just bought a new car.”
“Nicky?” I asked.
“We're going to Disneyland,” he answered, smiling at the thought of it.
And that's what separated the men from the boys in basketball. I'd take Hoopsters over Disneyland any day of the week.
I was dedicated.
I was committed.
“Aren't you guys going to the coast?” Nicky asked, interrupting my thoughts.
Shoot! I'd totally forgotten about Cannon Beach.
“Yeah, you go every year, don't you?” Nate asked.
I nodded. “Sure, but once my parents know I can do this instead . . .”
They'll still want to go to the beach.
It was a family tradition, after all. Mom and Dad both took the time off work and we spent the week in a condo. It always rained and we ended up hanging out inside, playing board games and stuff.
It was fun and I usually loved going, but compared to
Hoopsters, Cannon Beach suddenly seemed like a big wet, windy waste of time.
“Well, I'm going for sure,” I told the guys.
All I had to do was convince my family to go to the coast without me.
Easy, right?
The whole way home, I barely even listened to Chris and Paul talking about some crazy reality TV show I'd never heard of. No matter how interesting they thought it was, all I could think about was Hoopsters.
I imagined what the camp T-shirt would look like. How it would feel to step onto a legendary court and blow everybody away with my moves.
From there, it was easy to picture my NBA career and the shoes Nike would let me design, with my name on them. They'd be limited edition, for sure. Dark blue and white, like the Pioneers uniform, with something cool like “Evans 1.0” under the swoosh. Everybody would want a pair. No, two pairs: one to wear and one to keep in the box, in mint condition.
A collector's item.
“See ya tomorrow,” Paul said, turning off at his street.
“Are you okay, O?” Chris asked when we were alone.
“Yeah.”
Evans 1.0. How sweet was that?
“Because you've been acting kind of weird.”
I laughed. “I'm just excited about the camp.”
“You're really going?” he asked doubtfully.
“Definitely.” I turned to look at him and realized I'd never asked him. “What about you?”