Free Blue Star Rapture by JAMES W. BENNETT Page A

what if I pass my ACT? If Mrs. Osby helps me, I might pass it.”
    â€œDon’t matter,” Ishmael told him. “Even if you pass the test, they’ll still make you go through the Bridge.”
    â€œBut that sucks.”
    â€œTell me. It’s like jail, man. School all day and night, you don’t even get time off for workin’ out. T.J. is not lyin’ to you.”
    â€œBut that sucks if you pass your ACT.” Tyron wore his disappointment plainly on his face. He looked in Obie’s direction for some reassurance. “You never said nothin’ about this.”
    Obie shook his head before saying, “We were talkin’ about the Hall, man. Don’t worry, there’s plenty of schools with no bridge program.”
    â€œFor sure,” said Ishmael with a laugh. He slapped Tyron on the back. “There’s plenty for sure.”
    It was a relief to T.J. when he saw that Tyron’s U of I agenda would ebb even quicker than it flowed. He was nearly at the point of indifference regarding the sweats and shoes and street agents.
    The problem now was winning and losing.
    By this point in the week, the preoccupation with winning as a team was escalating. Earlier, simply playing well as an individual and impressing scouts seemed enough to satisfy any participant. But no longer. By winning so many games, the Blue Stars were in the championship fight, and the predatory competitiveness that prevailed in players at this level was off the leash. Winning was everything.
    As far as T.J. was concerned, it was an unhappy development. He didn’t have the skills—or the inclination—to compete with these people, but with such an emphasis on winning, he would be expected to be a more productive player.
    After winning their first game of the morning, they were now in a unique position. Since they had only one loss, they could win the championship by beating their next opponent, a talented team comprised mostly of players from the Gary, Indiana, area. If they lost, they would still be in a position to win the championship the next day.
    Not too many minutes into the game, one of the guards, Evans, suffered an asthma attack. It wasn’t his first, but it was the worst. He was taken to the first aid building to recover. His absence meant more playing time for T.J.—much more.
    The game was close for a while, until Tyron lost his intensity and T.J. was sucking wind. He was trying to guard a gazelle named Curtis Lore, who broke him down in every direction. T.J. was getting the shakes trying to chase him, and his ankle began to hurt again. It wasn’t a disabling injury, not even an injury at all in the purest sense of the term, and certainly not the kind of thing to keep you out of the lineup. But the nagging pain was a distraction.
    Once, during a time-out, he begged Buddy Ingalls to let them play a zone.
    â€œNo way,” said Ingalls. “We’re not playin’ that pussy shit.”
    â€œBut it’s good strategy,” argued T.J.
    â€œIt’s good strategy for pussies. No pain, no gain, amigo. ”
    T.J. groaned inwardly. Hadn’t he used the same line on Tyron often enough?
    In the second half, Ishmael Greene pushed his intensity up a notch or two higher, which you wouldn’t have thought possible, but everybody could see it. He played like a man possessed. By trying to compensate for his team’s own disadvantaged condition, though, he got himself into foul trouble.
    T.J. was grabbing his shorts and fighting for breath at every opportunity. At least this was a game where they were shooting free throws, so there were occasional stops in the action. He kept looking in the direction of the first aid building, hoping to see Evans headed back in their direction and fully recovered from the asthma attack. But no such luck.
    Finally, with about six minutes remaining, T.J. tried desperately to stay with Curtis Lore in a fast-break situation. It was