Free Airball by L.D. Harkrader Page A

his eyeballs. He opened his eyes, rubbed his hand down his face, and gave us a good, long stare.
    â€œYou’re playing scared.”
    His voice was a thin rasp, so soft we had to lean forward to hear him. Which, somehow, was more frightening than when he growled so loud it bounced off the bleachers.
    â€œWhat are you all so afraid of?” He narrowed his eyes. “Of making mistakes? Of looking stupid? Because if that’s the case, you all look pretty stupid the way you’re tiptoeing around the court, scared to pass, scared to shoot, scared to move out of your positions. You’d look less stupid if—if—”
    He stopped. Gave us a funny look. Then he shook his head. Waved a hand toward the locker room.
    â€œGo. Shower. Dress. Do whatever it is seventh graders do at night. We’re done.”
    He tucked the clipboard under his arm and stalked across the court to the lobby door. We stared after him.
    And then a voice echoed through the gym. Mine, as it turned out. I have no idea why it chose that moment to assert itself, but there it was: “Coach?”
    He stopped, his hand on the door handle. He didn’t turn around. “Yeah.”
    â€œWell, practice isn’t over. We’ve got practically an hour left, and I really think we need as much court time as we can get. You don’t want us to just stop, do you?”
    â€œStop?” Coach shook his head. Still didn’t turn around. “Son, you never started.”
    He pulled the door open and disappeared into the lobby.

Fifteen
    The other guys headed for the showers. I headed toward the supply closet. Turns out cleanliness was a bigger part of this captain business than courage after all. I reached for the mop.
    Then stopped. Turned around.
    And started thinking.
    Here was the thing: Mrs. Zimmer wasn’t kidding. We’re talking about a woman with zero sense of humor here. When she said we had to beat Whipple or we were finished, she meant it.
    But here was the other thing: We couldn’t beat Whipple. I didn’t know what kind of team they had, but I definitely knew what kind we had.
    I hadn’t figured on that being a problem. I figured all I had to do was go to practice, try to stay out of the way, and, come February, meet Brett McGrew. That’s the deal I signed up for. If I’d known our klutzy bunch had to actually win games, I’d have given this project a whole lot more thought.
    I stood there a minute, squinting at the steam that had fogged out of the showers. The guys were still slopping around barefoot, banging locker doors, and slapping their towels onto the floor. I dragged my backpack out of my locker and lugged it to a bench in the far corner. I pulled out my notebook and a freshly sharpened pencil, settled back against the mildew-ridden concrete, and opened my notebook to a fresh page. I wrote Step Four of The Plan at the top.
    Because Mrs. Zimmer was right. We needed a strategy. There probably wasn’t enough strategy in the world to turn this team around. To transform us into actual basketball players. But so far all I’d managed to do was beat my coach senseless with a basketball. Anything I came up with next was bound to be better than that. I drummed my pencil against the page and focused on strategy.
    First off, we needed to play to our strengths and minimize our weaknesses. Of course, if we minimized all our weaknesses, we wouldn’t be playing at all. It would probably be best to concentrate on strengths.
    I scribbled down each player’s name, then I started listing any known basketball strengths under each one.
    First player: Manning Reece. Manning was one of our tallest guys. In fact, he was our only tall guy. He wasn’t quick. He couldn’t dribble. He got called for traveling almost every time he touched the ball, because he just couldn’t get the hang of pivoting. But if he was standing right under the basket and didn’t have anybody in