Free Airball by L.D. Harkrader

players are on their own team, which is an improvement over last year. But it’s not enough to win games.”
    Mr. Dobbs shook his head. “It’s not enough for Brett McGrew.” He pointed at the big orange sign. “Coach, that boy put Stuckey on the map. He broke every record in the history of Kansas basketball and led this town to the state championship three years running. He’s out there now, still doing us proud, breaking NBA records in Phoenix, Arizona.”
    Mr. Dobbs pulled off his John Deere hat and held it over his heart. I thought for a minute he was going to break into a chorus of “America the Beautiful.” But he just took a deep breath and ran his hand through his hair.
    Mrs. Zimmer wasn’t quite as emotional. “In February, we will be going to Lawrence to be on a national television broadcast. I’m told that Brett McGrew himself will announce our team record. I do not want our town’s hero telling the entire country that we haven’t won a seventh-grade game in three years.” She clicked her pen and dropped it into her purse. “We’ll allow you to play your opening game against Whipple. The alumni association already bought pop and hot dogs for the concession stand. Afterward, we’ll review your program.”
    â€œReview our program,” Coach snorted. “So if we don’t beat Whipple, we’re history.”
    â€œIf you embarrass us in front of Whipple,” said Mrs. Zimmer, “you’ll give us no other choice. I will not look foolish on national television.”
    â€œYou won’t be on national television, Mrs. Zimmer. The team will.”
    â€œYou know what I mean, Mr. Armstrong. If you beat Whipple, we’ll allow you to continue to play. But you will not go to Lawrence with a losing record.”
    She tucked her notebook under her arm and strode out of the gym. Mr. Dobbs settled his John Deere hat back on his head and followed. The door clanked shut.
    I stared after them. Canceled? Canceled? I’d signed up for basketball, risking such untold humiliation that I might actually have to move to another town once the season ended. And I’d allowed myself to be elected team captain, risking such untold physical injury from Coach that I might have to live at the hospital in my new town. And why was I doing this? For one thing, and one thing only: Brett McGrew. I was finally going to meet him. It might be the only opportunity I ever had.
    And Mrs. Zimmer was trying to cancel that opportunity? Because of some stupid sports column in a newspaper two hundred miles away?
    I was still holding the basketball, and I thudded it against the floor. “New strategy?” Thud. “New strategy?” Thud, thud. “How’s this for new strategy?”
    I leaned back on one foot, like a major-league pitcher in a windup, and hurled the ball at the basket. It hit the rim, bounced over the backboard, and slammed into Brett McGrew’s sign. Right between the two T s of Brett’s first name.
    Coach wasn’t paying attention. He was still staring at the door. When that ball ricocheted off the sign, I swear it picked up speed. It shot through the air like a line drive and smacked Coach upside the head.
    Coach stumbled.
    I groaned.
    The ball sailed back over the court in a perfect arc. Over the team. Toward the basket.
    Swish. Through the net.
    Coach righted himself. Rubbed the red blotch on his cheek as he watched the ball drop. “Huh. Three-pointer.” He shook his head. “Probably the only one we’ll make all year.”
    He closed his eyes and stood there for a long time, rubbing his eyelids with his thumb and forefinger.
    We stood there, too, afraid to move. The guys looked at me. For leadership, I guess. They were clearly looking in the wrong place. I was still waiting for Coach to crunch me like an empty pop can for walloping him with the basketball.
    Finally, Coach stopped digging at