Long Shot by Mike Lupica

wasn’t.
    Both candidates would give their speeches, and then they’d each have the option to respond to the other candidate’s speech for an additional minute—what they knew from Social Studies was called a rebuttal.
    “I look at it this way, after the way Ned’s been acting toward you,” Sarah had said at lunch. “At least he’ll be putting the butt back in rebuttal.”
    That one even got a grin out of Joe. After Sarah said it, he made a motion like he was shooting an imaginary basketball, held the finish and said, “Sarah. From downtown.”
    Pedro had spent all last night working on his speech, delivering it over and over again in a quiet voice in his room, not wanting his parents to hear, not wanting to have them find out his secret this close to the election. He kept reading the speech until he felt he had it memorized, then repeated it a few times standing in front of the mirror in his bathroom, finally even managing to look at himself without giggling.
    When he felt he had it down cold, he called Sarah and recited it to her from memory, timing himself as he did, proud that he’d brought it in a few seconds under three minutes, which was going to be the time limit.
    When he’d finished with Sarah there had been total silence at the other end of the phone, as if the line had gone dead.
    “Well?” he said finally.
    Sarah said, “It’s perfect.”
    “You’re nice, but you’re wrong,” he said. “It’s not. But it’s all I’ve got. Or maybe all I am.”
    “No,” Sarah said, “you’re the one who’s wrong. It’s great, it really is.”
    “I was waiting for you to say that you couldn’t have done better yourself.”
    In her serious voice Sarah said, “I couldn’t have even come close.”
    Pedro hadn’t said a word to Ned, not one, since the end of the Wilton game. When they’d seen each other in class, or passed each other in the hall, all they would do is give each other the nod.
    Even today, Pedro didn’t say anything when they were up on the stage and had taken their places facing each other from individual podiums. They hadn’t even gone through the motion of shaking hands.
    Mr. Lucchino was with them on the stage, holding his own microphone. He produced an antique silver dollar from his pocket, holding it up to the crowd, and told Pedro he could make the call.
    He said heads into his microphone and Mr. Lucchino picked the coin off the floor and said heads it was. It meant Pedro could decide whether he wanted to go first or not.
    “I’ll go second,” he said.
    “Then I guess you’re up, Mr. Hancock,” Mr. Lucchino said. “You’ve got three minutes.”
    Pedro had been wondering where Ned’s speech was, thought maybe he was keeping it folded up in his pocket until the last possible moment. There was no paper in his hands, no paper on the podium in front of him, no nothing, making Pedro think that maybe Ned had memorized his own speech so well he didn’t even need a copy in case he lost his place.
    But as soon as he started, Pedro realized that Ned hadn’t prepared a speech. He was clearly making it up as he went along.
    “You guys all know me, right?” he said, not looking at Pedro, turning toward the audience instead. Pedro could see Jeff Harmon and Dave DeLuca in the front row. “And if you do, you probably know that I pretty much have been captain of every team I’ve ever played on.”
    He paused for a second, letting that sink in. “I’ve never had to run for captain, it’s just that the other guys on the team always thought I was the best guy for the job.”
    For some reason, Jeff and Dave applauded now, even though nobody else in the auditorium did. Ned smiled at them and made a time-out gesture with his hands, stopping them.
    “I actually feel a little funny being up here,” Ned said, “because I’ve never been very comfortable talking about myself. I’ve always preferred to let my actions speak louder than my words.”
    Tell me about it, Pedro thought.
    He