Free Road Trip by Eric Walters Page A

in your division either,” Coach Barton said. “That’s a good sign.”
    â€œAre they that good?” my father asked.
    Both Coach Barton and Coach chuckled. “This tournament has a reputation for trying to get their local team as far as they can every year.”
    â€œHow does that work?” my father questioned.
    â€œThey usually put them in a weaker division,” Coach said.
    â€œAnd the officiating can be a little one-sided,” Coach Barton said. “But either way, it’s not going to affect
us
.”
    The way he said that made it seem like while his teamneedn’t worry, maybe we should be concerned.
    â€œSo, maybe, we’ll be seeing your team later on in the tournament,” Coach said. “Hopefully, the finals.”
    Coach Barton laughed. “Even
I
didn’t get that far my first time, but that’s the attitude! Now we all better get going.”
    We started off again for the elevators.
    â€œI don’t like that guy,” I quietly said to Kia.
    â€œI don’t like any of those guys,” she replied. “They just think they’re really something. And you know what bothers me even more?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI’m afraid they might be as good as they think they are.”
    I looked around the gym. It was one of three large gyms at the college. Two were simply created by a big curtain that was drawn across the middle to form the two separate gyms. The third gym, the one where we were scheduled to play, was separate. It was the biggest gym in all of Mumford, and we were told that this was where the semifinals and finals were held. All along one side was a large set of bleachers. There must have been room for thousands and thousands of fans. Thank goodness almost all the seats were empty. There couldn’t have been any more than threeor four hundred people in the stands… three or four hundred… that was pretty amazing all by itself for a game being played this early in the morning.
    â€œNick, are you coming or not?” my father asked. He was sitting at the end of the bench, filling out the game sheet.
    I looked at the court. Coach was just getting ready to start the warm-ups. Everybody else was already on the court, stretching and shooting, waiting for Coach to begin. Quickly I pulled off my warm-up jersey, grabbed my ball and headed out.
    As I dribbled out, I scuffed my feet against the floor. They squeaked loudly. I loved that sound. But even better than the sound was what the sound meant – the floor was good and I wouldn’t be sliding around. Basketball was hard enough without the floor being slippery. Sometimes when we played it was more like figure skating than basketball. But not here — this was a great gym.
    I put up a shot and it dropped straight away. Instinctively I looked up into the stands for my mother and father. Then, of course, I realized my dad had his head down, busily filling out the game sheet, and my mother was hundreds of miles away. She wasn’t up there watching. Actually, nobody that I knew was here cheering us on.
    Then I looked over and realized that we did know one person. Standing off to the side, just over from our bench, was that reporter. She was bathed in the bright light of the camera, which spilled past her and onto the side of the court where we were warming up.
    â€œOkay, everybody, let’s go!” Coach bellowed. “Two lines for lay-ups!”
    I rolled my ball toward the bench and joined the line that was rebounding. Kia settled in behind me.
    â€œYou see your friend?” I asked.
    â€œHard to miss. She tried to get me to leave the warm-ups for an interview. Coach practically bit her head off.”
    â€œAnd?” I asked.
    â€œShe was smart enough to leave. She bothers me.”
    â€œWhy, what did she do?” I asked.
    â€œIt’s this whole story. She doesn’t want to interview me because I’m a good basketball player, but