that afternoon, but we don’t talk about basketball.
On the day of the preseason meeting, Mr. Allen calls to let us know that Russ will be out sick. This is the first day of school he has missed, and I wonder if it has anything to do with the meeting.
After school our team meets in the lunchroom and Coach quickly hands out permission forms and a practice schedule that begins the day after Thanksgiving. Just tucking the papers into my backpack gives me a rush, because this moment is the first official basketball experience of the year.
After the meeting, as my teammates hustle off to football practice, Coach says, “Finley, can we talk?”
I stay behind and, once we’re alone, Coach says, “What’s Russ been saying to you about basketball?”
This again? Why won’t Coach lay off it?
“We got our physicals,” I say.
“That’s good. But the boy refused to come to school today—the day of the basketball meeting. His grandparents told me he’s talking about outer space again, saying his parents are coming to get him in a spaceship.”
I watch the janitor empty the trash cans on the other side of the cafeteria.
“Did you tell him that he should play ball? Have you been encouraging him, Finley?”
“He doesn’t want to talk about basketball,” I say. “We don’t talk about much at all.”
Coach sighs and gets this disgusted look on his face. “Listen. Just make sure he’s at the first practice. Let’s just see how he reacts to being part of the team, running drills, getting back to normal for him. He needs the routine. Even if he never plays in a game. Just being part of something can help. You, of all people, should know that.”
I have to admit, I’m getting a little pissed at Coach. Why isn’t he hassling Terrell or Wes or any of the other starters, asking
them
to help Boy21? Why is this my mission alone? I just want to play basketball.
“I know you won’t let me down,” Coach says, and then lightly slaps my right cheek twice.
19
THANKSGIVING DAY has us wearing gloves, scarves, and hats.
Erin, Boy21, and I sip hot chocolate as we watch our football team lose their final game of the season on their home field.
People around here like football, but the atmosphere is underwhelming compared to the basketball games. It’s Thanksgiving, so it’s a little more lively than usual, but not much. Bellmont just isn’t a football town.
Our marching band’s halftime show’s pretty awesome, though. They do a Michael Jackson tribute that ends with an amazing rendition of “Thriller,” complete with zombie dance moves.
Boy21 sits with us in the smaller, mostly white section of the stadium, which makes him stick out a little, but no one says anything.
It’s not like our stadium is segregated intentionally, but Bellmont citizens generally sit with the people they look most like, and that’s the way it’s always been.
The three of us cheer when our team does something good, but we don’t say much else. The whole time I want to ask Boy21 if he’ll be trying out for the basketball team tomorrow, but I also don’t want to ask.
When Terrell throws a fourth-quarter interception, the Bellmont football team ends up finishing 2–6 for the season, so they don’t make the playoffs. None of my basketball teammates were injured, so I consider football season to be a complete success and I know that Coach agrees.
As we exit the stands, we run into Mrs. Patterson, Bellmont’s number one basketball fan and Terrell’s mother, who is wearing a leopard-print hat and a leather jacket that sort of looks like a bathrobe. She’s very stylish. When she sees me, she yells, “White Rabbit! Come on over here, boy.”
I walk over to Mrs. Patterson and she gives me a big hug and then kisses both my cheeks. To her friends—who are all wearing Bellmont football jerseys over their coats and are the moms of non–basketball players—Mrs. Patterson says, “Did you know this here Pat McManus’s boy? Time for the