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CHAPTER ONE
Jim woke up seconds before the clock radio went
off. He looked at the red numbers. Five forty-five.
Abruptly a husky voice pierced the silence. "Baby,
baby, baby-" A shadowy arm rose from the other
bed and slammed down the top of the clock radio.
"Whatsa matter with you?" said Pete, Jim's brother.
"It's friggin' Saturday! Why did you set the alarm?"
"Sorry," said Jim, trying to remember if he had
set the radio or not.
Pete muttered something and tossed over and soon
was snoring again. Jim lay there with one arm
across his eyes to block the creeping daylight.
Pete's snoring sounded like the broken muffler
on Dad's old Volkswagen.
"Stop snoring!" Jim yelled. Pete didn't answer.
Jim stared at the wall of posters at the foot
of his bed. Only sports posters: football, soccer,
baseball, and, most of all, basketball. He looked
up at the ceiling. There in the gray light he
could barely make out the smooth, shaved head
and the long, outstretched arms. Impossibly long.
Jim often stretched out his own scrawny arms while
lying on his bed and tried to imagine being as
big as Michael Jordan.
Dad was tall, six-four. He said Jim had lots of
growing to do. But Mom! Mom was a shrimp. Jim
hated it when his grandmother Nana, Mom's mother,
said, "But, Jim, you're already as big as I am,
and you're only twelve!" Nana was even more of
a shrimp than Mom!
There was no use trying to go back to sleep. Today
was Saturday, but it was the most important day
of the year. Jim couldn't stop thinking about
the tryouts. He could see the shiny gym floor,
hear the squeak of his sneakers, feel the pebbled
surface of the ball hitting his palm as he dribbled
downcourt. The coaches were sitting on folding
metal chairs behind the basket. They were watching
him approach. He pulled the ball back, then spun
up like a corkscrew to lay the ball softly against
the backboard before it dropped quietly through
the net. Swish. A perfect layup. Today were the
tryouts for the travel basketball team. The old
days of town teams when everybody played, even
Gary Bushnell, the spazziest boy around, were
over. This was the next step, a team that played
the best teams from other towns. Jim had to make
this team. He had lived his whole life for this
day.
Jim got himself out of bed. It was cold. The window
over Pete's bed was broken, the wood rotted away.
A pane of glass was missing, and Mom had taped
a plastic bag from a package of English muffins
over the space. It made a soft flapping noise.
When Jim pushed open the swinging door to the
kitchen, he heard Jake yelping in his sleep. Jake,
a yellow Lab, had his bed under the kitchen table.
Jake was the warrior, the old fella, the great
one. He had led a long, adventurous life: coming
home with a porcupine quill in his nose, dragging
a deer leg up to the back door, being caught by
the animal control officer and sent to the shelter
ten miles away. Jim crouched down to rub Jake's
belly. "Hey, big fella!"
Jake raised his head and looked at Jim. In the
old days Jake would have jumped up, banging into
the table leg, wiggling his whole body with his
wagging tail.
"You're so lazy!" said Jim. "Look at you!"
It was light outside. Jim pulled on his thick,
white basketball shoes and laced them loosely.
He grabbed his windbreaker from the hook by the
door. Then he rolled up the bottoms of his pajama
pants.
"Come on, Jake," Jim said as he unlocked the door.
Jake stretched and yawned. "Let's go," said Jim,
clapping his hands. "Time for some hoops."
The sky was a flinty gray, and a woodpecker was
drumming away up in the maple tree. No cars were
driving by, no snowblowers, no planes over the
house, just the steady staccato of the busy woodpecker.
Jim picked up the blue and white ball that was
lying in Mom's snow-covered flower bed. It was
the ball he had won last summer at basketball
camp for being the MVP of hi team. He held it
in both hands and tossed it up a few times. It
was cold and heavy. He dribbled it into the driveway
over to the chalk marks still visible from yesterday's
game of Horse. He set his feet, brought the ball
up to shoulder height, and arced his wrists and
hands as he released the ball in the direction
of the basket. It hit the front of the rim and
bounced out toward the flower bed. Jim ran to
grab it, then took a quick jump shot and swished
it. "He jumps, he shoots, he scores!" Jim sang
out. Over and over, shooting from every side,
listening to the wind in the trees, which sounded
like cheering fans. He called to Jake, who was
rolling on his back in the wet grass, "Watch this,
old fella!" Jim played until his hands were numb
from the cold.
When he went back inside, Jim found Mom up making
coffee. "You're the early bird this morning,"
said Mom. "I thought you wanted to sleep late?"
"Not today," said Jim. "Today's the tryout. I've
gotta be ready."
"Jim, it's only seven o'clock! The tryout's not
for three more hours!"
"So?
"Take it easy, Jim," said Mom. "You don't want
to wear yourself out."
"Mom, you never played sports. You don't understand.
You have to get yourself psyched, pumped, ready
to explode!!" Jim didn't want to hurt Mom's feelings,
but let's face it, she was not an athlete. She
was an artist! She spent all day in her little
studio wearing one of Dad's old shirts, painting
pictures, listening to that old-time music. When
Jim and Dad were watching basketball on TV, Mom
would come in and say something stupid like "Look
at those uniforms...
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