Sticks by Joan Bauer Page A

“Well, it looks like you’ve found your
ganas
.”
    I smile big and say I sure have.
    “Then you let it drive you,” he says. “And start playing other people, Mickey. Good to get a lot of game experience before the big day.”
    I nod.
    “But don’t play Buck,” he advises. “It’s not that you’re not good enough, just don’t give him the edge, you know?”
    “Yeah.” I want to give him a hug goodbye, but that wouldn’t be cool.
    “We’ll practice when I get back.”
    “Okay,” I say.
    Joseph Alvarez tips his hat and heads for the door. I run after him.
    “Drive careful,” I say.
    “I’ll do that, son.” He looks down smiling, gives me a good hug, and heads out the door into the night.
    *   *   *
    It’s seven days since Joseph left and I’m getting good. Everyone can see it.
    I think Buck’s nervous.
    Joseph sent me a postcard from Toronto, Canada, that said to not look at anybody else, just worry about which ball I’m going to shoot next. “Pool games are won one ball at a time,” he wrote. I taped it to the base of my Replogle globe and say, “Pool games are won one ball at a time,” every night before I go to bed.
    The tournament’s four weeks away and I think I’m pretty close to ready. It’s feeling more like spring now—you can almost go outside without a jacket. Arlen’s had to stay after school every day this week to get his enrichment needs assessed because he’s gifted.
    “They don’t want me to be bored,” he explained.
    “How come?”
    “They’re afraid of what I’ll do.”
    The days blend into each other. I’m charting Joseph’s trip by the postcards he’s sending.
    Ottawa.
    Winnipeg.
    Moose Jaw.
    Medicine Hat.
    Mom’s impressed that the postcards keep coming. I say I think that’s the sign of a really responsible person, don’t you, and she says maybe. Big Earl’s been playing me, and Poppy’s taken extra arthritis medicine and shot a few rounds of straight pool. Straight pool’s a hard game. You’ve got to callyour shots—that means saying which pocket the ball’s going to go in when you hit it. Poppy never got into nine ball. You play her in her hall, you play her game.
    Snake Mensker touches that rattler scar on his cheek and says I’m becoming downright deadly even though he still beats me pretty bad. I wipe Petie Pencastle over the table and blow off Danny Couriter and Nick Savlanas. I’m playing for serious position now and controlling my game. I even won one game off Perry to his five, which really says something. Perry’s helping me like he helps everybody else. Buck’s practicing death drills, gunning for me.
    “Don’t pay any attention to him,” says Perry.
    “I’m not.”
    I look over at Buck, who’s half laughing. “Where’s the cowboy,
Vernon
?”
    “Just ignore it,” says Perry.
    Buck walks over, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, planting his workboots right in front of me, and leans up close to my face.
    “I said, where’s that stupid cowman of yours,
Vernon
?”
    Perry says, “Get lost, Buck.”
    I look right at him. “Take back what you said!”
    “I don’t take nothing back!”
    “He’s a better coach than you’d know what to do with!”
    “Oh yeah?”
    “
Yeah
!”
    “Prove it,
Vernon
!”
    Buck storms over to table eight and stands there. “You show me how good he coached you, little boy!”
    Perry’s standing in front of me telling me not to listen. “Joseph said not to play him, Mickey. You got to save it for the tournament.”
    “Chicken?” Buck sneers at me.
    “Rack ’em!” I say.
    *   *   *
    There’s a story about my dad when he was twelve and a man in the hall challenged him to a game. Dad ran ninety-seven balls before missing and the man just sat there and kept asking, “What’s inside you that lets you do that, young fella?”
    Dad said he guessed it was that he wanted it so bad.
    Ganas
.
    I rack the balls on table fifteen. I want this bad.
    Buck wins the toss and gets to