ball up over my head, and as though we had communicated telepathically, Brandon leapt high in the air, grabbed the ball in one hand, and sailed in for the alley-oop slam dunk.
Basketball can be poetry in motion.
Everyone whooped and hollered and slapped my back. Brandon just pointed to me, gave a little nod, and started back on defense.
I can’t tell you how good that felt.
The cheerleaders were practicing in the corner. They had all seen the play. Rachel gave me a small smile, and my heart did a backflip.
Practice on the court was only an hour today. The second hour was weightlifting down the street at Schultz’s Health Club. The club was all sleek machines and chrome weights. Television screens adorned the cardio machines. There was a small clothing store and a juice bar. The music was loud and pulsating.
But our moods sobered up the moment we entered the gym. Schultz’s was owned by Boris Schultz, Buck’s father, and coming here made everyone think of him. Twenty-plus years ago, Mr. Schultz had been a big-time bodybuilder, a former Mr. New Jersey who reached the top ten for Mr. America. He was still huge with a chest big enough to play paddleball on. He sported a severe crew cut. He looked like the kind of angles and hard edges where if you bumped into him, you could break a bone.
Today, though, Mr. Schultz somehow looked smaller. I had seen that before in my mother and maybe in myself. Illness can do that to you, but so could sadness. He led us through our weightlifting stations, trying to sound upbeat and enthusiastic but today it felt flat. Chest press, bicep curls, squats. He yelled out all the usual encouraging clichés about maximizing effort and “come on, two more” and stuff like that.
But his heart wasn’t in it.
The last time we had been here, no one had wanted to partner up with me. Coach Stashower had finally stepped forward and gone through the circuit as my partner. Today I had plenty of volunteers and ended up with Danny Brown. We were about halfway through the circuit when I spotted something peculiar. Or should I say, someone.
Uncle Myron?
I could see him standing in Mr. Schultz’s office through the big glass window. Mr. Schultz left the weight area and greeted him. Buck’s older brother, town legend Randy Schultz, was also there. Someone had once explained to me the odds of becoming a professional athlete. In short, they are close to zero. Kasselton is a pretty big town. I read somewhere that in our New Jersey county, for every three thousand boys who start playing organized basketball in third grade, only one will eventually play college on some level—Division One, Two, or Three. So think about it. In our town alone, the league started with five hundred kids. That meant one kid every six years would play any college basketball on any level. The odds of going pro from there?
Forget it.
In the history of the sports-crazy town of Kasselton, there had only been one professional athlete out of the thousands of kids who’d participated, though injuries prevented him from playing more than a game or two.
You guessed it. Uncle Myron Bolitar.
Now, for the first time since Myron’s career came crashing down two decades ago, Kasselton had another potential professional athlete—a football tight end named Randy Schultz, Buck’s older brother. After breaking every receiving record at Kasselton High, Randy had gone on to stardom in the Big Ten, was named MVP of the Orange Bowl, and was currently waiting for the NFL draft. The experts had Randy pegged to go somewhere in the first two rounds.
Kasselton was poised to have its first professional football player.
But right now Randy Schultz, future professional tight end, looked grim and serious—and he was talking to my uncle. The conversation was animated, at least on Randy’s part. I looked over, trying to catch Myron’s eyes. Buck’s father spotted me. He frowned and pulled down the shade.
What was that all
Basketball can be poetry in motion.
Everyone whooped and hollered and slapped my back. Brandon just pointed to me, gave a little nod, and started back on defense.
I can’t tell you how good that felt.
The cheerleaders were practicing in the corner. They had all seen the play. Rachel gave me a small smile, and my heart did a backflip.
Practice on the court was only an hour today. The second hour was weightlifting down the street at Schultz’s Health Club. The club was all sleek machines and chrome weights. Television screens adorned the cardio machines. There was a small clothing store and a juice bar. The music was loud and pulsating.
But our moods sobered up the moment we entered the gym. Schultz’s was owned by Boris Schultz, Buck’s father, and coming here made everyone think of him. Twenty-plus years ago, Mr. Schultz had been a big-time bodybuilder, a former Mr. New Jersey who reached the top ten for Mr. America. He was still huge with a chest big enough to play paddleball on. He sported a severe crew cut. He looked like the kind of angles and hard edges where if you bumped into him, you could break a bone.
Today, though, Mr. Schultz somehow looked smaller. I had seen that before in my mother and maybe in myself. Illness can do that to you, but so could sadness. He led us through our weightlifting stations, trying to sound upbeat and enthusiastic but today it felt flat. Chest press, bicep curls, squats. He yelled out all the usual encouraging clichés about maximizing effort and “come on, two more” and stuff like that.
But his heart wasn’t in it.
The last time we had been here, no one had wanted to partner up with me. Coach Stashower had finally stepped forward and gone through the circuit as my partner. Today I had plenty of volunteers and ended up with Danny Brown. We were about halfway through the circuit when I spotted something peculiar. Or should I say, someone.
Uncle Myron?
I could see him standing in Mr. Schultz’s office through the big glass window. Mr. Schultz left the weight area and greeted him. Buck’s older brother, town legend Randy Schultz, was also there. Someone had once explained to me the odds of becoming a professional athlete. In short, they are close to zero. Kasselton is a pretty big town. I read somewhere that in our New Jersey county, for every three thousand boys who start playing organized basketball in third grade, only one will eventually play college on some level—Division One, Two, or Three. So think about it. In our town alone, the league started with five hundred kids. That meant one kid every six years would play any college basketball on any level. The odds of going pro from there?
Forget it.
In the history of the sports-crazy town of Kasselton, there had only been one professional athlete out of the thousands of kids who’d participated, though injuries prevented him from playing more than a game or two.
You guessed it. Uncle Myron Bolitar.
Now, for the first time since Myron’s career came crashing down two decades ago, Kasselton had another potential professional athlete—a football tight end named Randy Schultz, Buck’s older brother. After breaking every receiving record at Kasselton High, Randy had gone on to stardom in the Big Ten, was named MVP of the Orange Bowl, and was currently waiting for the NFL draft. The experts had Randy pegged to go somewhere in the first two rounds.
Kasselton was poised to have its first professional football player.
But right now Randy Schultz, future professional tight end, looked grim and serious—and he was talking to my uncle. The conversation was animated, at least on Randy’s part. I looked over, trying to catch Myron’s eyes. Buck’s father spotted me. He frowned and pulled down the shade.
What was that all
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