Cruise Control by Terry Trueman

we’ve got them right where we want ’em.” Everybody smiles. Then Coach says, “It’s miracle time.” He turns to me and says, “You ready, captain?”
    I’m not sure what he means, but I answer, “Always.”
    Coach says, “Okay, guys, here’s the plan—Paul isn’t going to miss any more shots. It’s miracle shoot-around time again, so set your screens, then get out of his way. Hankster, don’t even worry about offensive boards—there are no rebounds when every shot drops. You just step out and clog the lanes, help Paul get some shooting space, okay?”
    Huge drops of sweat fall from Hankster’s forehead when he nods. He looks over at me and I smile.
    We break the huddle; we’re down twenty-eight with just over fifteen minutes to play. As we start to walk away, Coach calls out once more, “Okay, guys, miracle time!” He says this to all of us, but he’s looking straight at me.
    My first three shots, all of them three-pointers, drop, hitting nothing but net. The kid guarding me is an inch taller than I am but not nearly as quick. Even though Kennedy misses their next three shots, and their lead drops to nineteen, my opponent still looks confident.
    The next time I have the ball, still in the backcourt, I start to talk to him. “You guys got this game in the bag, you know?” I dribble to my right, cross over, and move quickly to my left. “You might as well go pick up that trophy right now, you know?” I dribble behind my back and, just above the top of the key, I fake a move toward the basket, step back, and launch my jumper. As I release, I’m still talking. “I mean, come on, man, no team has ever blown a twenty-two-point halftime lead in a state final, and …”
    The ball swishes through and I say, “Oops, another three-pointer. What’s that, four in a row?”
    As we head up court, he mumbles softly, so the ref won’t hear him, “Up yours, ball hog!”
    I smile.
    We’re working ferociously on defense, but the refs are letting us play, not calling fouls. Even though they’re hitting a few baskets, you can feel Kennedy tightening up; you can see it in their hesitation to shoot, hear it in their heavy breathing; you can almost smell their fear.
    With eight minutes left in the game, their lead is down to sixteen points, seventy-six to sixty. I’ve lost track of how many points I have—I don’t even care. I’ve made all our second-half points except for three, a little five-foot bank shot from our forward Brian Hillsdale and one of two foul shots by John-Boy Reich.
    As I’m dribbling the ball up court, I can see the frustration on the face of the kid defending me. I don’t know his name, but he’s good—just not good enough to stop me.
    â€œYou gettin’ tired?” I ask him as I dribble the ball up court.
    He snarls at me.
    â€œI sure am scorin’ a lot, aren’t I … you ever heard of defense?”
    When I say this, he rushes up and tries to crowd me, but when he does, it opens an easy lane to the hoop and I break for it before he can get any inside help. I hit an easy layin.
    â€œWow,” I say as I start to move back past my defender. But suddenly, without warning, he spits straight into my face. It’s a big wad of spit too, hitting my cheek, eye, and nose. I look around to see if any of the refs saw this, but none of them are looking our way. My defender gets this smirking grin and says real softly, “I hear you got a retard for a brother. A real basket case.”
    I lift my hand to my face and wipe away the spit. I don’t say anything, but I feel my anger rising.
    He says, “Is your brother here so he can see how chicken you are?”
    When he says this, I realize that Mom and Cindy probably did see what just happened; they always tell me everything I do in a game, from every shot I hit to when I