Swagger by Carl Deuker Page A

tryouts. During lunch I sat next to that same guy from algebra class, and he told some long story about his brother who was in the army. I was glad to be able to listen and not to have to say anything. At my locker after lunch, I joked a little with Gokul and for an instant wished that I played tennis like him or even golf. Everything was clear for those guys. Either you beat the guy or he beats you. Whether I could or couldn’t beat Brindle one-on-one wasn’t important; how Knecht saw us was what mattered.
    I sat next to Levi in health. When the bell sounded ending class, we made our way to the locker room, where we changed before heading onto the court. Levi was relaxed—he had his position on the team cemented—but I was so nervous, my hands were shaking.
    Step one was to make the team. As we shot around, I checked out the competition. Twenty guys were trying out for twelve slots. Two guys were tall but had nothing else going for them. Two others were short and slow—what were they thinking? A couple of other guys had stone hands; three others looked out of shape.
    We’d been warming up for ten minutes under Hartwell’s eye when Coach Knecht appeared, seeming slower and more bent over than ever. His wiry gray hair was uncombed, and he had a gray-black two-day stubble on his face. He looked more like the cook in some old cowboy movie than a basketball coach.
    I slipped over to Levi. “Is he sick?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Levi said, worry in his eyes.
    Knecht motioned for us to form a semicircle around him. He seemed tiny standing before us, but his eyes were still bright. “Give it your best, and you won’t have any regrets,” he said in a shaky voice. He followed that with a few more things that I could barely hear before he nodded toward Hartwell and then slowly moved off to sit on a folding chair set up along the sideline at half-court.
    Hartwell had us pin numbers to our shirts, and we got at it. Once I break a sweat, I stop thinking and simply play, but all that afternoon I stayed tight. Who was calling the shots? Hartwell or Knecht? Sometimes I dribble between my legs or behind my back for no reason. Hartwell would understand moves like that, but Knecht would think I was showboating. Same thing with crossing over on a guy or pumping my fist after a good play—both came naturally to me. Hartwell wouldn’t care, but Knecht wouldn’t like either.
    When we finished the basic drills, Hartwell broke us up into mini-teams for three-on-three basketball. Knecht stayed glued to his chair, all the time taking notes on a yellow pad.
    I didn’t have Levi or Cash or any of the starters on my team. The guys I did have didn’t know my game, and I didn’t know theirs. Nothing went terribly wrong, but nothing went right, either. One play was typical of my day. We were on offense, playing right in front of Knecht. A defender was overplaying this Brandon Taylor kid who was on my team. I was sure Brandon would go backdoor on him. I delivered a bounce pass to the exact spot where Brandon should have been, only he hadn’t gone backdoor; he’d popped out for a pass. My perfect assist ended up out-of-bounds. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Knecht write something down on his notepad. What was it? That I’d made a stupid turnover, or that I’d made a great pass?
    For the last twenty minutes, we played five-on-five, using the two side courts. Hartwell moved Levi to my team. For the first part of the tryout, I’d been trying so hard to please Knecht that I’d played lousy. During that full-court scrimmage, I was determined to play my game.
    The first couple of times up and down the court, both sides were just feeling one another out. Then Levi made a block and hustled to the corner to retrieve the ball. He hit me with a solid outlet pass near half-court. I didn’t have numbers for a fast break, but I pushed the ball anyway, looking for