Second-String Center Read online

  So he was feeling good about his chances when the workout ended. He knew he belonged on this team. All he could do was hope Coach saw it that way, too.

  Before leaving for the night, Dunk stepped over to Louie’s locker and grabbed his arm. “Nice job today,” he said.

  “You, too, buddy.” Louie grinned broadly and shrugged. “That was quite a battle.”

  “You said it.”

  “Hope we’ll get to renew it real soon,” Louie said. “Like tomorrow at practice would be nice.”

  Dunk gave a tight smile and nodded. “We’ll know soon enough.”

  “Good luck with it.”

  3

  Sweet as a Lemon

  Fourth Street was dark and quiet as Dunk walked past Jefferson Elementary School toward home. A few of the houses still had Halloween decorations, even though it was already late November.

  Dunk was starving—it was well past six when he reached his front door.

  “Hello, Cornell,” his mom called.

  “Hey, Mom.” Dunk stepped into the kitchen, where his mother was boiling pasta.

  “How’d it go?”

  “I think it went well. Won’t know till tomorrow.”

  “They’re making you wait another day?”

  “Yeah. Coach said he’ll post the roster in the morning. Guess he didn’t want anybody sleeping tonight.”

  Dunk set his gym bag on the kitchen table. “What are we eating?” he asked.

  “I’ve got chicken in the oven. You can make us a salad.” She pointed at the gym bag. “And you can put that stuff right in the washing machine, Mr. Basketball. I found two days’ worth of sweaty T-shirts and socks in the hamper this morning, all mashed up and stinking wet. You know better than that.”

  “Yeah,” Dunk said sheepishly. “You sure they were my socks?”

  Mom just gave him an amused stare. Dunk was the only kid in the family.

  “Dad home yet?”

  “Any second now. He called from downtown about five minutes ago.”

  Dunk’s father worked for the city’s department of public works, and his mom was a nurse.

  Dunk opened the refrigerator and took out some lettuce and salad dressing. There were two tomatoes on the counter, and he cut them into chunks.

  “You wash your hands?” Mom asked.

  “I did it at the gym.” He opened his palms and held them out. “Not a speck on ’em.”

  “Aunt Krystal called, too,” Mom said. “You need to run over after dinner and feed her cat. She’s going to be stuck at school most of the evening.”

  Mom’s younger sister Krystal was a student at St. Peter’s University over in Jersey City. She and Dunk were close friends.

  The kitchen door opened and Dad came in, rubbing his hands together and smiling. “Smells good in here,” he said. He grabbed Dunk and hugged him tight with one arm, then kissed his wife. Mr. Duncan was a big man, always upbeat. “What’s the word, Cornell?”

  “No word yet.”

  “Tomorrow,” Mrs. Duncan said. “He doesn’t find out until tomorrow.”

  “You’ll make it,” Dad said. He picked a chunk of tomato out of the bowl and held it up, closing one eye to examine it. “If not, you can get a job as a chef. Perfectly cut tomato.” He popped it into his mouth.

  Dunk rolled his eyes. “Salad. Big deal.” Dunk did love participating in the meal preparation, though. He could sauté vegetables and scramble eggs like a pro.

  After dinner, Dunk walked back down Fourth Street to his aunt’s apartment, on the other side of the Boulevard. Hudson City wasn’t a big place—sixteen city blocks long and about as wide, nestled between Jersey City and Hoboken along the Hudson River, directly across from New York City. Dunk had always loved the neighborhood he lived in, quiet and friendly in the midst of such a huge metropolitan area.

  His end of town—just a few blocks from the Jersey City line, was mostly residential. Krystal had a tiny apartment on the second floor of a house, just one big room really, with a small bathroom, and a bay window overlooking the street.

  Her little gray cat was sleeping on the sill of the bay window, and it stretched out its front legs and stared at Dunk.

  “You hungry, Smoky?” Dunk asked, scratching the cat’s chin. “Let’s see what we got here.”

  He shook some dry food into the cat’s bowl and looked around.

  Aunt Krystal’s not much neater than I am, he thought, noticing a blue sweatshirt on the floor, a pile of dishes in the sink, and a damp towel draped over the couch. She taught aerobics at the Y and had been a great athlete in high school.

  Dunk’s mom had a penchant for neatness. Her little sister hadn’t inherited that gene.

  “Your mama’s running late,” Dunk said to the cat, who was still eating. “Uncle Dunk has to pinch-hit today. Don’t you worry, she’ll be here soon.”

  Later, as Dunk was getting set to cross the Boulevard, Krystal’s car turned the corner and she beeped the horn as she pulled to the curb.

  “Mom said you’d be late!”

  “I am late,” Krystal said. “Just not as late as I thought.”

  “I fed the cat.”

  “Thanks. Get in.”

  Dunk opened the passenger door and sat down.

  “So he’s good?” Krystal asked.

  “Who?”

  “Smoky.”

  “Yeah. He’s great. We played with his toy mouse.”

  “Cool. You hungry?”

  “Just ate. But yeah.”

  “I haven’t eaten since lunchtime. I’ll call your mom.”

  Krystal picked up her cell phone from the console.

  “I’m back in town,” she said when Dunk’s mom picked up. “Cornell’s gonna hang with me for a while. . . . He will.”

  “I will what?” Dunk asked.

  “Behave.”

  “Like I don’t?”

  “I think she means, ‘Don’t let him eat too much.’”

  Krystal drove to the Beijing Kitchen, where she got take-out food at least twice a week. “Let’s eat here,” she said.

  Dunk had been here with Krystal a number of times. The guy at the counter always flirted with her, but she didn’t seem to mind.

  Krystal ordered something called Double Wonders. Dunk said he’d just have a bowl of egg-drop soup.

  “Just soup?” said the guy, making believe that he was shocked. “When I saw you walk in, I told the chef, ‘Clear the decks. Get ready for a massive order.’”

  Dunk gave a half-smile. “I just ate dinner.”

  The guy turned toward the kitchen, which was a big open area right behind the counter. He said something in Chinese. Then he turned back to Dunk with a grin. “I told them not to kill that prize pig yet. Maybe tomorrow.”

  Dunk laughed. “Maybe.”

  Dunk was halfway through his soup when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Spencer was leaning toward the counter between Dunk’s and Krystal’s stools.

  “Hey, Spence.”

  “That looks good,” Spencer said, pointing to Krystal’s plate. “Shrimp and chicken?”

  “Yes. It’s delicious.”

  “Hey, Lin,” Spencer called to the counter guy. “Would I like this?”

  “I’ve never seen you not like anything,” Lin said. He picked up a large take-out bag and put it on the counter, pushing it toward Spencer.

  Spencer handed him some money. “My mom said to make sure we got soy sauce.”

  Lin opened the bag and peered in. “There’s some in there,” he said, but he picked up a handful of packets from below the counter and tossed them in.

  “Getting cold out,” Spencer said. “I should have worn gloves.”

  “You walking?” Dunk asked.

  “What else? It’s only six blocks.”

  Dunk suddenly found some manners. “This is my aunt Krystal,” he said.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Spencer said, sticking out his hand. “I’ve seen you around.”

  “I’ve seen you, too.”


  “Well,” Spencer said, “the family’s waiting. Nice job at practice today, Dunk. You were the man out there.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What a sweet boy,” Krystal said after Spence left.

  Dunk laughed. “Sweet as a lemon.”

  “Oh. One of those?”

  “He’s a good guy. But that ‘pleased to meet you’ stuff is an act. Spencer’s no gentleman, believe me.”

  “He seemed mature for a kid your age.”

  “Sure. Whatever that means. He’s all right; he’s just got no off switch. Never shuts up, you know?”

  “I know the type. But he seems harmless.”

  “He is.” Dunk reached toward Krystal’s plate. “You’re not going to eat that egg roll, are you?”

  “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not.”

  “You never eat them.”

  “You always do.”

  “Why waste it?”

  “It’s greasy.”

  “I’ll run it off tomorrow. If I make the team, that is.”

  4

  All Elbows

  Dunk ran up the steps to the middle school the next morning, eager to check the roster before homeroom. He was even more nervous this morning than he’d been at the tryouts. He couldn’t eat his breakfast.

  He was early; the school halls were mostly empty. But he could see David and Ryan down at the end of the corridor near the gym, looking at the bulletin board.

  The roster was posted there for all to see. Dunk breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted his name third on the list.

  Castillo, Alex

  Choi, David

  Duncan, Cornell

  Fiorelli, Jason

  Gonzalez, Luis

  Grimes, Ryan

  Lewis, Spencer

  Owen, Jared

  Rivera, Miguel

  Sanchez, Roberto

  Shaw, William

  Wilkins, Lamont

  Yes! he thought. All that work was worth it.

  Louie had made it, too. Dunk was glad to see that. There were some better all-around players who hadn’t made the cut, but one thing was obvious from the list: this team was guard-heavy. Dunk and Louie added some much-needed bulk to the lineup.

  Dunk hurried out of the locker room after school and up to the court. He wanted to get in some extra shooting before the workout started, but he also wanted to thank Coach Davis for putting him on the roster.

  “You earned it,” Coach said. “I like how you hustle. But your biggest role on this team will be to keep Jared on his toes. Make him work every single day in practice, for every shot and every rebound.”

  “Got it.” It wasn’t quite the role Dunk had been hoping for—he wanted to see significant playing time in the games. But being a bench-warmer was better than getting cut. And he knew that by pushing Jared in the workouts, he would definitely be helping the team progress.

  So when Coach lined them up for some five-on-five half-court action, Dunk eagerly set up in a defensive position behind Jared.

  The apparent starting five—Spencer at point guard, Willie and Miguel on the wings, Jared at center, and Fiorelli in a floating guard/forward role— would be on offense the whole time. Coach had Ryan Grimes covering Fiorelli, Lamont on Miguel, David Choi on Spencer, and Roberto Sanchez on Willie.

  “Notice anything significant?” Coach asked.

  “Yeah,” said Fiorelli. “Spencer’s got mustard or something on his chin.”

  Spencer wiped at his face and looked at a small yellow smear in his hand. “That’s been there since lunch?” he said in frustration. “Why didn’t anybody tell me?”

  “It looked good on you,” Fiorelli said. “I thought it was some kind of makeup.”

  “Thanks a lot, bro.”

  Coach bounced the ball once and everyone looked at him. “This is a little more important than Spencer’s grooming. The second line”—he swept his hand toward Lamont and David and the others—“are all taller than the starters. Dunk and Jared being the lone exception. What I’m saying is, that’s going to be a common situation for us this season. We’re fast but small. Most teams are going to out-height us.

  “We work the ball around; we look for good shots. We run the fast break when we have the opportunity, and we hustle every single second that we’re on defense. And despite the general ‘shortage,’ we have the best big man in the league in Jared. So we do pound the ball inside.”

  Coach handed the ball to Spencer. “Run the offense,” he said. “This is not a scrimmage, it’s a controlled situation to get the starters thinking like a team. Defenders, when you get control of the ball, pass it back to me and the offense will set up again.”

  Jared had been quiet all afternoon, but he became vocal as soon as the ball was in play. He shouted for the ball, backing into Dunk to get in position and waving for the pass. Dunk tried to plant his feet, and he kept both hands up, but Jared was big and strong and elusive.

  Jared had three baskets before Dunk finally stopped him, deflecting a shot toward the corner, where Ryan grabbed it for the defenders. Dunk nodded as his floormates yelled, “That’s it, Dunk!” and “In his face!”

  But Dunk was rubbing his collarbone, which had collided hard with Jared’s elbow. In fact, Dunk figured he already had three significant bruises. Jared was putting forth a very physical effort.

  Dunk dug in and continued to play hard defense. Jared made some shots, and Coach finally whistled him for an offensive foul when he sent Dunk flying on the seat of his pants. But Dunk managed a few stops and hauled down some rebounds. He was feeling good about his play when Coach brought Louie in to take his place.

  After practice, Jared stopped Dunk on the way out of the locker room. “Sorry if I was all elbows out there,” he said. “Nothing personal.”

  “I never thought it was. But the refs will be all over you if you pull that in a game.”

  “I know. It won’t happen. Just had to get it out of my system.”

  Dunk shrugged. “Well, don’t expect me to be a punching bag. I’ll give it right back.”

  “You better.”

  Dunk nodded toward the door. “You walking home?”

  “Of course.”

  Dunk threw his knapsack over his shoulder and pushed the door open. It was dark out, but the streetlights lit up the blacktop basketball court outside the gym. They walked across it and headed for the Boulevard.

  “Good to be back on the court,” Jared said. “I would have given anything to be there yesterday.”

  “What happened?”

  “Just some stuff that came up.”

  “Like what?”

  “Nothing good.”

  “No?”

  Jared just shook his head, and they kept walking.

  Dunk didn’t push it, but he could tell something had Jared shook up. It wasn’t like him to take cheap shots at an opponent, especially a teammate. He certainly didn’t need to; Jared was bigger, stronger, and more talented than any of the other players.

  The wind was in their faces as they turned onto the Boulevard, and it carried a very light drizzle.

  “You thirsty or anything?” Dunk asked.

  “Definitely. All that running.”

  They ducked into a small grocery. Dunk picked up a bottle of water and looked at it. He’d dropped several pounds since summer by cutting back on soda, but he wanted a lift after practice. So he grabbed a Coke and vowed that it would be the only one he drank this week.

  It was raining a little harder as they stepped back outside. But Jared dropped his gym bag on the sidewalk and leaned against a bench, taking a swig of his drink. He turned and stared up the Boulevard. “You in a hurry to get home?” he asked.

  “Pretty much,” Dunk replied. “I’m hungry. My parents expect me.”

  “Yeah. I thought maybe you’d want to stop by the YMCA or something. Shoot some free throws.”

  Dunk gave a surprised look. “Whew,” he said. “I’m worn out from practice. I think I’ll pass.”

 
; “Okay.” Jared picked up his bag and shrugged. “I’ll go there anyway.” He started walking back toward the Y. “See you tomorrow, I guess.”

  Dunk watched Jared walk away. Dunk was a gym-rat, too. He spent many hours at the Y, playing pickup games and perfecting his free throws. But enough was enough.

  He had the distinct impression that Jared simply didn’t want to go home.

  5

  Juggling Jared

  Just one week later, the season got under way. And though the Hornets opened up at home, they couldn’t have had a tougher opponent.

  Palisades visited the Hudson City gym, looking to atone for a narrow loss to the Hornets in last year’s league championship game. Palisades featured lanky point guard Leon “Neon” Johnson, the league’s best shooter.

  All of the Hornets were aware that Jared had been excused from school for the afternoon, but he was expected to be at the game. But as Dunk put on his uniform in the locker room, it was obvious that Jared hadn’t shown up yet.

  “Where is he?” Spencer said to no one in particular. Everyone knew who “he” was.

  “He said he’d be here,” Fiorelli said. “Jared never misses anything important. Not sports, anyway.”

  “Where was he at this afternoon?” Lamont asked. “The dentist or something?”

  “He wouldn’t say,” Fiorelli replied. “Probably that. Probably has to get braces and he didn’t want anyone busting on him about it.”

  “I got braces,” Lamont said. “So does Willie and Choi and Alex. Who cares? Nobody busts us.”

  Fiorelli shrugged. “Maybe it’s something else then.”

  “He’d better get here,” Miguel said. “Palisades is good. They’ll eat us up inside if we don’t have Jared.”

  Dunk swallowed hard. He looked at Louie, who looked just as worried. If Jared didn’t get here, either Dunk or Louie would take over at center.

  “Don’t take it as an insult, guys,” Miguel said. “But you know what I mean. Neither one of you has Jared’s experience.”

  Dunk checked the clock on the wall above the entrance to the shower room: 3:36. Game time was in less than half an hour. Still plenty of time, but what if Jared didn’t show? Would Coach start Dunk?