Free Game by Walter Dean Myers

wasn’t in it. The dude had left me when he talked smack about my game. I was glad when he paid the bill and gladder still to watch him walk away toward the office when we were back in school.

 
    I have never ever liked anybody who went to Warrick High for the Arts. They were all working too hard at being different. But Warrick was in our division, and they could always get somebody on the court who could play ball. They had one skinny white dude who could shoot the eyes out of the basket. Ruffy said it was the same guy every year.
    â€œThey keep him down in the basement. One year they’ll throw a few freckles on him, and the next year they’ll change the color of his hair or mess with his eyebrows, but it’s the same dude.”
    The way to stop dudes like that was to musclethem. Go to a man-to-man on offense, back them into the paint, and score underneath. Then just beat them to death on defense. Don’t let them play their game, or they would weird out the gym and leave you looking stupid.
    We had already lost to FDA, and Warrick was not supposed to be a powerhouse. A loss to them would put the whole regular season in retard gear.
    We got to Warrick and they had their freaky-looking cheerleaders—four white girls, two sisters, and an Asian girl—out front waiting for our bus. They all had red hair, dark makeup that was two seconds from goth, and about a yard of attitude.
    What they had different this year was this big cornbread brother at center.
    We warmed up and I tried to be cool, but I could feel myself getting worked up. House never wanted us to look at the team we were going to play, but all of us kept sneaking looks over at Warrick and the new guy everybody was talking about at center. He looked strong, black, and ready. Dude had the longest arms I had ever seen on a human being.
    â€œHe’s listed at six-eleven,” Colin said. “I think he’s seven feet easy.”
    Abdul said he played against him in Marcus Garvey Park. “He’s strong,” Abdul said. “Plus he’s funky smelling. I don’t think the guy ever washes.”
    â€œHe got any moves?” I asked.
    â€œNothing, but when he backed into me, his butt was in my chest,” Abdul said. “That’s a funny feeling, man. Some dude is bent over and backing his butt into your chest.”
    The one-minute buzzer went off, and House called us together. “This is a slow team,” he said. “They rely on rebounding and set plays. We’re going to have to box out on the boards big-time, and make our plays on offense. We can’t win a shootout with these guys unless we out-rebound them, and with this guy Tyrone Scott at center, I don’t think that’s going to happen. Ruffy, you have to do your best to keep him off the boards. Tomas and Sky need to help out when they can. Colin and Ricky need to stay on top of their guards. Anybody coming off the bench needs to remember we’re trying to play team ball. Okay, put your hands together.”
    I put my hand out, but the set was stinking up the place. I wasn’t starting.
    Ruffy came over to me and put his arm around me.
    â€œHey, you ain’t starting, I ain’t playing,” he said.
    â€œNo, don’t let him take our game,” I said. “You go on and start. Give me some time to think it through.”
    â€œWhatever you say, and whenever you say it, I got your back, Drew.” Me and Ruffy slapped hands, and he turned to go out to the center of the court.
    I felt like pure D crap. I didn’t think any of the regular team wanted to see me sitting. But I wasn’t sure.
    Fletch sat next to me on the bench. “How deep is your game?” he asked.
    â€œIt’s deep enough to—” I turned to answer him and he held his hand up. “Why you ask?”
    â€œJust something you need to be thinking about,” he said. “I’m glad to see you keeping your cool. If