Time-Out (9 page)

“Let's give Russell some help, boys,” Coach called to them.

To my great surprise, I heard someone shout, “You can do it!”

I looked up and saw that it was the redhead. He gave me a thumbs-up.

“It's the final stretch,” another voice called.

I concentrated on using just enough force to move the ball in a controlled manner. I glanced upward. Only eight cones stood between me and the end of the drill.

I could handle eight cones.

“Now, you've got it,” Coach said, staying with me.

I tapped the ball again and only bumped the first cone once as I made my way past it.

“Nice!” someone shouted.

The next cone was easier, and soon enough I had a rhythm
going. It might have been an extremely slow and awkward rhythm, but it was something.

By the time I made it past the final cone, I had easily taken three times longer than anyone else. I was sweaty, embarrassed, and still wishing I was back in my room.

Then Coach said something that surprised me.

“That, boys, was a lesson not just in soccer, but in life.”

It was?

“What you just witnessed,” he continued, “was a perfect example of persistence. Russell just showed all of us what it means to stick to it, to keep trying when it seems impossible. To not give up.” He paused. “Let's give him a round of applause.”

I couldn't help smiling when the clapping began.

I was totally psyched about Orientation.

They handed out our T-shirts, which were cool, even though they were gray instead of a flashier color. They said HOOPSTERS on the front and that was the most important thing, anyway. They also gave us stopwatches that we could use to time ourselves running and as alarm clocks in the morning.

Ha! As if I'd need an
alarm clock
to wake me up during the most awesome week of my life! I was pretty sure my body would jolt awake every morning, no problem.

Then, at the very end, they told us something awesome.

“On Friday, there will be a round-robin tournament your parents are invited to attend. There will also be a special
surprise guest joining us. And that guest will present the MVP award.”

“Special guest?” I asked as the crowd left their seats, but Jackson didn't hear me.

“Usually it's a pro,” the guy behind me said.

I spun around to face him. “An NBA pro?”

“Uh,
yeah
,” he said, like that was obvious.

“I wonder who it is,” I said, starting to get excited.

What if it was Carl Walters? He was having his best Blazers season ever! Or maybe Kevin Maple? Lamar Otis? Could we ask for autographs? No, wait, if Mom and Dad were there, they could take a picture of me with whoever the guest was.

That would be even better than an autograph.

My brain was filling up with ideas about who the pro would be when I joined the rest of the guys to load up on juice and snacks.

Hands full, we all headed over to Freeman Court, where Hoopsters would officially get rolling.

I couldn't wait!

There were eight head coaches, so we were split up into eight teams. I didn't get to choose which one I was on, but I got lucky and ended up with Coach Phillips, who I'd met at Orientation.

The unlucky part was that one of my teammates was the Jerk.

And even worse than that? He was a freakishly awesome player.

The session started with running a few laps, which was cool until the Jerk (who turned out to be called Big Mike) passed me and made some snotty comment I didn't catch.

Then we did some of the drills Coach Baxter ran us through back home, which meant I was in my comfort zone. While we practiced dribbling around cones and all of the usual stuff, I tried to ignore how smooth and fast some of the guys were. I knew the campers were all under fourteen, but some of them played like grown men.

I stared at Big Mike.

And looked like them!

I concentrated on keeping control of the ball, figuring that even if I wasn't the fastest guy out there, Coach would at least see my solid ball-handling skills.

But when I looked around, it was obvious that everyone was skilled.

Seriously skilled.

I'd kind of expected to make a splash right off the bat, but the competition was fierce.

Or maybe I just hadn't had my chance yet.

“Okay, boys,” Coach Phillips said. “I want you to split up into pairs for some one-on-one.”

“Hey, Owen,” Jackson said, tapping me on the back. “Want to be my partner?”

I hadn't even noticed he was on my team.

I thought about it for a moment. I would have liked to be paired off with one of the good players, so I could prove
myself. Then again, if I played one-on-one against Jackson, I'd probably look even better.

“Uh, sure,” I said, following him to one of the baskets.

“Want to start?” he asked, offering me the ball.

Offense was my thing, so the more time I spent lining up shots, the better. “Sure,” I said, dribbling the ball a couple of times, then bouncing it between my legs, just in case anyone was looking.

“Nice,” Jackson said, but didn't make a move toward me. I still couldn't get over the Lakers jersey. Blazers gear would have made way more sense.

“Ready?” I asked, bouncing the ball back and forth, from one hand to the other.

He shrugged. “I guess so.”

I waited for him to take a step, but he didn't even move. My one-on-one was more like one-on-zero. Well, I didn't have all day to mess around. I faked left and went right, making an easy layup.

“That's two for me,” I said, tossing him the ball.

“Want another try?”

“You don't want to shoot?” I asked, totally surprised.

“It doesn't matter.”

I stared at him. “This is Hoopsters, Jackson. You're supposed to shoot.”

“I know, but it's fine with me if you want to.”

I wasn't about to turn down the first chance I'd really had to shine. I caught the ball he passed back to me, happy
to be his partner. The kid was making me look as good as Russ did.

Maybe even better.

I dribbled the ball in, trying to throw Jackson off by looking to one side, then the other. I was being super careful to make sure he couldn't tell which way I was going, but it didn't matter. His feet stayed planted on the ground.

I scored another basket with a nice loud
swish
.

“Are those Adidas made of concrete or something?” I joked as I dribbled back to the line, ready to take another run at the net.

Jackson looked at his feet and laughed. “Nope.”

“Want to try to steal the ball from me this time?”

He shrugged. “I thought you wanted to score.”

What was the deal with this kid?

“Of course I want to score, but this is supposed to be one-on-one.”

“Okay,” Jackson said. He lifted his hands and waved them in the air, like he was flagging down a bus.

“Seriously?” I asked.

“What?”

“That's how you're covering me?”

“What's wrong with it?” he asked.

Instead of telling him why it wouldn't work, I showed him. I zipped around him, dodged his arms, and made another basket. “That's two more.”

MVP, here I come.

After a few minutes and eight more points for me, Coach made us rotate to new partners.

This time, I was matched up with that kid Tyrelle I'd seen tearing it up before camp even started.

“Hey,” he said. “I'm T. J.”

“Owen,” I told him as we bumped fists.

He sniffed a couple of times, like he smelled something bad.

“What?” I asked, taking a whiff.

“What what?” he asked, looking like I'd insulted him.

“You just—”

“Are you ready to play?” he asked, then sniffed again.

I inhaled, but couldn't smell anything!

Was he trying to psych me out?

I had the ball but wished he was the one dribbling so I could see what I was up against. Instead, I watched him closely as I dribbled, trying to keep an eye on every move he made, from where his toes pointed to which hand seemed most ready to make a grab for the ball.

What I hadn't counted on was his eye contact. It was like we were stuck in a staring contest and neither one of us would blink.

At least I could focus on something other than the sniffing.

At the exact moment I glanced toward the basket, he knew I was making my move and he sprung into action.
In half a second, he had one hand on the ball, and by the time the second passed, he'd stolen it.

“What was that?” I demanded when he scored his two points.

“Basketball,” he said, smiling.

“No, you hypnotized me or something.”

“I
what
?” he asked as the smile turned into a laugh.

“You did . . . something to me. You got me all messed up.”

He bounced the ball a couple of times and sniffed again. “The point of the drill is to score, Owen.”

“I know. It's just—”

“It's just you weren't the one to do it.”

“No. You did some weird thing with your eyes and . . . never mind,” I snapped.

“Okay,” he said, bouncing the ball again. “Are you ready to guard me?”

“Yeah,” I said, hoping I was right.

The next thing I knew, he had whipped past me and scored another basket.

“Come on!”

“What? I asked if you were ready and you said yes.”

“I know, but—”

“But what?” he asked, tucking the ball under his arm.

“You didn't even look at me before you took off.”

He shook his head. “Last time you complained that I
did
look at you.”

I felt like I was on a debate team or something.

Luckily, Coach blew his whistle and it was time for us to rotate again.

I was relieved until I turned around.

Aw, man!

I should have known I'd get stuck with Big Mike.

“Hey,” I said, nodding at him. He didn't say anything back, so I knew I was right about him being a jerk. “I'm Owen.”

He picked the ball up from the floor and said, “Everybody calls you Samsonite.”

I stared at him, totally confused. “What?”

“You're the kid who can't lift his own suitcase.” He smirked as he bounced the ball once on the hardwood. “They should be calling you Samson-lite.”

“Very funny,” I muttered.

“
I
think so.” Two more bounces.

“Are we playing, or what?” I asked. I wanted my chance to show my stuff and this guy was wasting time. Eating the clock.

“Ooh, tough guy,” he said, laughing.

“I'm here for the basketball, okay?”

He looked me over from head to toe. “Sure. But just remember you asked for it.”

“Asked for—” I started, but he faked me out and went in for a layup before I got the last word out.

“How do you like me now?” he teased, throwing me a bounce pass.

I don't.

I took a moment to dribble in place, trying to get some kind of a rhythm going. The last thing I needed was for Big Mike to psych me out, but it was already too late.

“Are we playing, or what?” he asked, mimicking me.

I gritted my teeth, bounced the ball one more time, and went for it. I made it two steps and was aiming for a shot when he blocked me completely. He was so big, he didn't even have to use his arms. He was a wall and I couldn't even see the hoop.

I tried to pivot, so I could get my back to him, but he snatched the ball before I could. I jumped to get it back, but it was way out of reach. The next thing I knew, his shot was bouncing off the backboard and right in the basket.

Great.

This guy would totally steal my thunder at Friday's tournament!

Big Mike smiled at me as he dribbled the ball back and forth again, from one hand to the other, never taking his eyes off mine. “Maybe volleyball camp is more your speed.”

I shot him a dirty look, and he laughed.

As much as I wanted to run at him and grab the ball, I waited, knees bent, arms out, ready to move in whatever direction he did.

He came toward me slowly and just as I lunged for the ball, he spun around and I got nothing but back. I lost my
balance and fell over, hitting the floor at the exact same time the ball hit the backboard.

It went on like that for another few minutes, until Coach finally blew the whistle and we rotated again.

I had better luck with the next guy, but never really got going.

By the time we broke for lunch, I was happy to walk away from Freeman Court.

All I could think about on the way to the cafeteria was how mad I was that there were players as awesome as Big Mike and T. J. at camp.
I
wanted to be the star player, the guy who rocked the hardwood all week and got the MVP award.

But how was I supposed to do that when I was surrounded by hotshots?