Free Real Hoops by Fred Bowen

Chapter 1
    H ey, Logan! I’m open!” Ben Williams shouted, raising his hand to call for the basketball.
    Logan Moore was trapped. Two defenders were all over him, waving their arms wildly, trying to slap the ball from his hands. But Logan was tall and he held the ball high, out of their reach. When he heard Ben’s voice, he turned and flicked him a two-handed pass.
    Ben caught the ball and sent a jump shot spinning toward the hoop. The ball splashed through the chain net. A perfect swish!
    “That’s game,” Ben said, walking over to the park’s water fountain. “10–5.”
    “You want to play another?” Logan asked as he waited his turn for a drink. He stood with his head bent slightly forward, the way he always did around his shorter friends.
    Ben looked around the park. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Nah, let’s get out of here.”
    “Don’t you want to play?” Logan said. “Tryouts for the freshman team are in a couple of weeks.”
    “I know,” Ben said. “That’s why I don’t want to keep playing here. Nobody here can cover you … or me.”
    “So where do you want to go?”
    “How about the Westwood Recreation Center?” Ben suggested.
    “Westwood?”
    “Yeah. They’re supposed to have some really good games.”
    “A lot of older guys play over there,” Logan said.
    “That’s why we should go,” Ben said, running a hand through his sweaty hair. He was just a few inches shorter than Logan,but he looked every bit the athlete. “We aren’t going to get any better playing against a bunch of little kids. The L7 bus goes right near the Center. Come on.”
    “You got money?”
    “I’ve got enough for both of us.”
    Logan looked around at the other kids pushing up shots toward the basket. None of them were very good. “Okay. Let’s go.”
    Minutes later, the two friends dropped onto the back seats of the L7 bus. Almost immediately they started talking about the upcoming basketball tryouts at Roosevelt High School. Ben and Logan had played together for years and they were both hopeful about making the freshman team.
    “I figure we’ve got you at center,” Ben said, confidently spinning the basketball in his hands. “And me at shooting guard.”
    “Andrew Milstein, Jordan Ferraro, and Alan Dawson can all play forward,” Logan said.
    “Yeah, and Sam Molina is big enough to back you up.” Ben gazed out the bus window. The large green lawns of their neighborhoodhad given way to the tight, crowded streets of downtown. “We could use a point guard, though,” Ben said. “We need somebody who can handle the ball, push it upcourt, and pass.”
    “Levon Efford is okay at point guard,” Logan said, with a shrug.
    “That’s the problem,” Ben said. “He’s just
okay
.”
    “Eighth and Westwood,” the driver announced.
    “That’s us,” Ben said. The two boys scrambled off the bus and onto the sidewalk. They jogged toward the rec center, bounce-passing the basketball between them.
    “There it is,” Ben said. He pointed down the street to a large brick building surrounded by playing fields and a half-dozen outdoor basketball courts. The courts were filled with players and the sounds of balls hitting the pavement and clanging against loose metal rims.
    “Looks just like our playground,” Logan said, checking out the kids on the courts.
    “The really good games are supposed to be inside,” Ben said. He tucked the basketball under his arm and headed for the front doors.
    A man with gray hair and reading glasses tilted on the end of his nose looked up from behind a long desk. “You boys new to Westwood?” he asked.
    “Yeah,” Ben said.
    “Okay, then you’ll have to sign in.” The man nodded toward a nearby computer. “Just type your names.”
    “Do we have to pay?” Logan asked.
    The man shook his head. “No, we just like to keep track of how many people use the Center.” He looked at the ball under Ben’s arm. “If you’re looking for a good run, the