Second-String Center Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Chapter 1 - The Deciding Factor

  Chapter 2 - Cut Day

  Chapter 3 - Sweet as a Lemon

  Chapter 4 - All Elbows

  Chapter 5 - Juggling Jared

  Chapter 6 - Payoff

  Chapter 7 - Stepping Up

  Chapter 8 - No More Fear

  Chapter 9 - The Afterglow

  Chapter 10 - Teamwork

  Chapter 11 - Opportunities Taken

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

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  Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in the United States of America by Viking,

  a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2007

  Published by Puffin Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2008

  Copyright © Rich Wallace, 2007

  All rights reserved

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Wallace, Rich.

  Second-string center / by Rich Wallace.

  p. cm.—(Winning season ; #10)

  Summary: As his own self-confidence grows, seventh-grader Dunk learns

  to be supportive both on and off the basketball court when his friend Jared

  goes through a difficult time, even though Jared’s failure would provide

  Dunk more opportunities to prove himself.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-00263-6

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  FOR SANDRA

  Game Time

  The small gym was filling up with spectators, mostly parents and kids from the school. The Palisades players were already at one of the baskets, shooting layups. They looked big and quick. Dunk took a deep breath and started jogging around the perimeter of the court with his teammates.

  During the shooting drill, Coach called Dunk and Louie out of the line and over to the bench. “Feeling good?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Jared’s late, obviously,” Coach said. “I don’t know when he’ll get here, but we’ve got to make some adjustments.”

  He looked straight at Dunk and poked him lightly in the chest. “You’ll be starting.”

  ALSO BY RICH WALLACE

  Dishes

  Losing Is Not an Option

  Playing Without the Ball

  Restless: A Ghost’s Story

  Shots on Goal

  Wrestling Sturbridge

  Winning Season Series

  The Roar of the Crowd

  Technical Foul

  Fast Company

  Double Fake

  Emergency Quarterback

  Southpaw

  Dunk Under Pressure

  Takedown

  Curveball

  1

  The Deciding Factor

  The late-afternoon wind had turned cold and was right in their faces as a half dozen boys made their way along the Boulevard. Dunk zipped his jacket up to his neck, then noticed that his right shoelace was dragging on the sidewalk.

  He stopped and bent down to tie it. Jason Fiorelli, walking a few steps behind, was deep in conversation with Miguel Rivera and nearly tripped over Dunk.

  “Sorry, bro,” Dunk said.

  “No problem, but whoa,” Fiorelli said. “What size is that shoe?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Yow. That’s huge! If you ever grow into those feet, you’ll be, like, eight feet tall.”

  Dunk smiled, placing his hands on the sidewalk and pushing himself up. Four pigeons scattered away.

  Dunk’s legs were dead tired; Coach Davis had run the players hard today—lots of wind sprints and line drills. “I think I got a blister on my heel. All that scrambling around.”

  “Get used to it,” Fiorelli said. “Coach says he’s building this team around speed.”

  Dunk swallowed hard. Speed was one of the major things he lacked. That and jumping ability. “When did he say that?”

  “In the hallway yesterday morning. Said he might even go with four guards on the floor sometimes with Jared.”

  “That’d be you, Miguel, Spencer, and Willie?” Dunk asked.

  “Probably. He wants to run teams off the court this season. It’s what works best for us. Speed is one thing we got.”

  “That could be bad news for a big, slow center like me,” Dunk said with a frown. He looked away from Jason and stared at the street, busy with trucks and buses and cars. Across the way, the window of Jalapeño’s restaurant said AUTHENTIC MEXICANO—FREE EXPRESS DELIVERY.

  “Well,” Fiorelli said, “you’re probably safe. Jared has to have somebody backing him up. He never comes out of the game unless he gets a T, but he got plenty of them last year.”

  “He had a temper, huh?”

  “Yeah, but then he got it under control. Only got kicked out of a couple of games.”

  Dunk quickly thought over his competition for a spot on the roster of the Hudson City Middle School seventh-grade team. The guys Fiorelli had mentioned were all locks, and he had to figure on Ryan Grimes, Lamont Wilkins, and David Choi making it, too.

  That left four spots. There were twenty-seven guys trying out for the team. Only a few of them were slower getting up and down the court than Dunk was.

  There was more to it than that, of course. Dunk was the best free-throw shooter in the school, and he’d become a rebounding force and a solid defender. And at five-foot-ten, he was definitely one of the bigger players.

  Still, if speed was going to be the deciding factor, Dunk’s chances looked a little bleak. Only twelve players would make the roster.

  And as much as he loved playing basketball, there was something else at stake, too. Being part of that group—competitive guys like Willie and Miguel; self-assured athletes like Spencer and Lamont; easygoing comedians like Fiorelli and David—that was something Dunk secretly longed for, too. Not for status, but just because they were fun to be around.

  The others had kept walking and were now a block ahead of Dunk and Fiorelli.

  “You worried that you’ll get cut?” Jason asked.

  Dunk shrugged. “It’s out of my hands. This coach doesn’t know me so well. I don’t know what he’s noticed. And he did cut me last year.”

  Fiorelli, Spencer, and Jared had sparked this group of players to a fifth-and-sixth-grade league championship the winter before under Coach Davis. This year’s team would be all seventh-graders, and Coach Davis had moved up to coach them again. He was only in his second year as a teacher and coach, but the players had grown to respect him.

  “You have one more tryout session to make him notice,” Fiorelli said.

  “Well, unless I turn into a tra
ck star overnight, I’ve got nothing more to show.”

  They walked past Bonita Fashions and El Torito Market. Dunk turned and pushed open the door at Amazing Ray’s 99-Cent Store. In smaller letters under the name were the words AND UP.

  “Gotta get a new notebook,” Dunk said.

  “For what?”

  “History. I can’t believe how many notes we have to take.”

  “You kidding?” Fiorelli said. “I’ve only taken, like, six pages all year.”

  “Then you must have a photogenic memory or something. If I don’t write it down, it’s gone.”

  They entered the store and walked past stacks of paper towels and laundry detergent and boxes of cereal and cases of soda. Toward the back of one of the rows, they found the school supplies.

  “Here’s a good one,” said Fiorelli, picking up a notebook with a hot-pink cover and a sticker that aid GIRL POWER. “Just your style, Dunk.”

  “Real funny.” Dunk grabbed one that had a New York Giants logo on it, flipped through it to make sure the pages were lined, then looked at the price tag. “This must be one of the ‘and up’ items,” he said. “A dollar fifty-nine.”

  He found a plain green one for ninety-nine cents instead.

  They left the store and spotted Jared Owen walking slowly toward them. Jared was the starting center, a tall, lean kid with quick moves. He and Dunk had been going at each other hard in the tryouts, but there was no ill feeling between them. Both were competitive. And for Dunk, there was a lot at stake: a place on the team.

  “What’d you do, stay after practice for extra credit?” Fiorelli asked Jared.

  Jared stared at the sidewalk. He looked upset. “Just talking to the coach,” he mumbled.

  “Must have been some mean talk,” Fiorelli said. “What’d he do, ask you to switch to cheerleading?”

  “No.” Jared practically spit out the word.

  “Hey, I’m just kidding around, man.”

  “Very funny,” Jared said. He started walking again, much more quickly.

  “Where you rushing off to?”

  “What do you think? I’m late for dinner. Aren’t you?”

  “Maybe,” Fiorelli replied. “But it’ll keep.”

  They watched Jared walk off. “Something’s bothering him,” Dunk said.

  “No kidding. He’s been like that lately. Moody, you know?”

  “Seems okay on the basketball court.”

  “Maybe, but he’s been acting strange off it.”

  A group of commuters were getting off a bus at the corner as the boys crossed Seventh Street. Dunk and Jason moved to the left to avoid them.

  “Maybe Jared’s having trouble with his grades,” Dunk suggested.

  “Nah. He takes even more notes than you do. It’s something else.”

  “Maybe he’s got an injury he’s not telling us about.”

  Jason laughed. “No way. He whines about a mosquito bite. Believe me, if he was hurt, we’d all know about it.”

  “Probably.” Whatever it was would pass, Dunk was sure. After all, what could a popular guy like Jared have to worry about? Especially during basketball season.

  Dunk had plenty to worry about, though. He was worried that he might not even have a basketball season. Tryouts were tough on the nervous system. Made it hard to sleep at night.

  Whatever happened, the wait wouldn’t be much longer.

  2

  Cut Day

  Dunk carried his sneakers out to the gym the next afternoon and took a seat on the floor, leaning against the wall. A few guys were shooting baskets at the far end of the court. Spencer was on the floor nearby, stretching.

  “Lots of scrimmaging today,” Spencer said, looking up. He was the starting point guard and a vocal leader of the team.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. You gotta figure Coach has nine or ten guys already picked, and maybe five or six in contention for the last few spots. So he’ll be watching real close what guys can do under game conditions. Guys like you.”

  Dunk took a deep breath and tried to relax, but his heart was already pounding. He’d done all right during the first two days of tryouts, but he was well aware that his performance today would be all-important. Today was cut day. A lot of players would have their hopes crushed.

  Coach Davis appeared a few minutes later and blew his whistle. He was tall and thin and looked almost young enough to be in high school. “Let’s have five quick laps around the gym, then everyone take a seat in the bleachers,” he said.

  Dunk had done a lot of running in the fall to get ready for this, so he had no trouble jogging laps. It was the sprints at the end of practice that got to him. In fact, he felt better as he finished the laps than before he had started. More relaxed, now that the sweat had begun to flow.

  Dunk had done some counting while the players were running; there were only eighteen kids in the gym. Maybe Coach had already cut some guys.

  “Where is everybody?” Fiorelli asked. “They hiding in the locker room?”

  “Everybody’s here,” Coach said. “Except Jared. He’s excused from practice today. The others have been informed that they haven’t made the team. . . . No coach likes cutting anyone, but we had more than twice as many kids trying out as we have spots for. So the rest of you are the final contenders. I’m expecting a lot of effort out of all of you today.”

  Dunk did a quick scan of his memory to see who’d been cut. Little Warren Soto was gone, and so was scrawny Mike Cooper. No surprises there. Tarik Howard hadn’t made it, but most of the other big men—Dunk’s competition at center and forward—were still around.

  But where was Jared?

  They did passing drills and rebounding drills and shooting drills for an hour, then finally took a three-minute break.

  “All right,” Coach said, “we’re going full-court for the rest of the session, people. I need to see you working out there. Nobody has made this team yet.”

  Dunk let out his breath. Who was Coach kidding? Of course some of these guys had already made the team. Fiorelli, Spencer, Miguel. But Dunk knew he wasn’t on any list yet.

  Coach pointed at Fiorelli and waved him onto the court, handing him the ball. “I want Spencer and Willie out here. You’re the guards. Ryan and Fiorelli at forward. Dunk at center. You guys put on the pinnies.”

  Dunk’s mouth dropped open. Coach was putting him in Jared’s spot. He stepped down from the bleachers. Fiorelli tossed him a blue-mesh pinnie to put on over his T-shirt.

  Coach called five more players onto the floor, including Louie Gonzalez, who’d be matched up at center against Dunk.

  Spencer waved the first five over and they huddled up. “Listen. Coach gave me a heads-up before on how he wants this to go. We’re gonna run, but he wants us pounding the ball inside mucho.” Spencer met Dunk’s eyes. “He needs to get a handle on the big men before he makes some decisions.”

  They broke the huddle. Fiorelli put his hand on Dunk’s shoulder. “Do it up,” he said.

  Dunk’s sweat suddenly seemed to turn cold, but he took a deep breath and sucked in his stomach. He was nervous. Just play the game, he told himself. Just play some basketball, Cornell Duncan.

  Dunk shook Louie’s hand before the scrimmage began. Neither said anything, but they could see what was at stake. There was a good chance that only one of them would be on the final roster. The team probably only needed one second-string center.

  Both kids were similar in size and build—tall but on the chunky side—although Dunk had slimmed down a bit since summer. Both of them had close-cropped hair; Dunk’s skin was a shade or two darker. He and Louie had been subs on the YMCA’s summer-league all-star team that played in the state tournament down at the Jersey Shore. That had been Dunk’s first taste of big-time basketball. But he’d choked with the game on the line in the semifinals.

  Dunk had vowed after that tournament to do whatever work was necessary to make the school team this winter. That had included miles of running, hours of
solitary shooting at the Y, and even a few of his aunt’s evening aerobics classes.

  It’d be great if me and Louie both make it, he thought. But this was basketball. No time to be sentimental. All Dunk could do was play his butt off and hope he didn’t make too many mistakes.

  Spencer wasted no time getting the battle under way. His first pass was to Dunk in the paint. Dunk took the ball and leaned into his opponent, but Louie was a big obstacle to move.

  Dunk shifted his right foot as if to step, then pivoted on his left foot and turned to shoot. His jump-hook brought the ball over Louie’s outstretched hands, but the ball rattled off the rim and fell toward the floor, where Lamont scooped it up.

  Dunk shook his head as he raced up the floor. He reached midcourt and looked around for Louie, who was trailing behind. It wasn’t often that Dunk was faster than the man he was covering, but he could definitely outrun Louie.

  Louie had a soft touch on his shot, though, and he scored a couple of times before Dunk finally made one. Dunk built a small rebounding edge, however, and he also blocked shots by David and Miguel. He and Louie shoved each other around pretty good, working with everything they had.

  After about twenty minutes, Coach pulled Dunk out for a rest. He sat on the bottom row of the wooden bleachers and looked around.

  This gym was small and old. The bouncing of the basketball echoed off the gray cinderblock walls. Dunk had been to a few games in this gym as a spectator; it could be an exciting place when the bleachers were full and people were yelling and stamping their feet to spur on the players.

  It’d be great to hear them yelling his name sometime, urging him to carry the load as the Hornets battled with a highly touted rival. He’d make the shots, grab the rebounds, stifle their best player with his defense.

  When Dunk went back onto the court, he was still matched up against Louie, but now they’d switched sides. Louie was with the starters and Dunk was playing with the backups.

  He felt the difference right away. Spencer and Fiorelli and the other first-teamers moved the ball at a crisper pace and were better at setting screens for each other. But Dunk’s main concern was stopping Louie, and he managed to do that pretty well while getting a couple of buckets of his own.