Travel Team (13 page)

T
HE WEEK AFTER
T
HANKSGIVING
, R
ICHIE
W
ALKER STOPPED BY THE HOUSE
, saying that the Port Madison Pacers had dropped out of the Tri-Valley at the last second. It turned out only seven kids showed up for their original tryouts, and then three of them decided they wanted to play hockey instead. When they had a second tryout, only two more seventh graders showed up, at which point the Port Madison Basketball Association surrendered.

Richie Walker said he'd just gotten a call from the league telling him that, and also telling him the Warriors could take Port Madison's place as the Tri-Valley's eighth team.

“I had the check ready, the paperwork, the insurance forms,” he said, sounding pretty proud of himself. “I had already scheduled some games I hadn't told you about yet, against some other Tri-Valley teams. They said I could pick up the rest I needed from Port Madison, use as much of their league schedule as I wanted. And a few nonleague games before Christmas if I wanted them.”

“Do we play the Vikings?” Danny said.

“No,” his dad said. “We just needed twelve official league games. We can play the six teams besides them twice, and that's enough.” He looked at Danny and said, “I didn't see any point.”

“But we could see them in the play-offs, right? Doesn't everybody make the play-offs?”

“Eight teams, three rounds, like you're starting with the quarterfinals. Yeah, if it falls right, we could play 'em in the play-offs. Depending on what our record is. And theirs. They'll be pretty good even without Ty, I figure.”

“I can figure what our record's gonna be.”

Richie grabbed him by the arm, turning him slightly. The grip on his arm wasn't enough to hurt. Just enough to let Danny know his dad meant business.

He said, “I want you to stop feeling so sorry for yourself. I mean it. Grow up, for Chrissakes.”

“I wasn't—”

“—Yeah, you were. You're feeling sorry for yourself today, you've been feeling sorry for yourself at practice, you've been feeling sorry for yourself since you got cut from the Vikings. And I want you to snap out of it. Or.”

It was like he'd come to a stop sign.

“Or what?” Danny said, feeling some anger of his own now. “You're gonna quit? And leave?”

Richie looked down, and realized he still had Danny by the arm, let him go.

“I'm not quitting on you this time,” his dad said. “All I'm asking is that you don't quit on me.”

“I'm just being honest about the team,” Danny said. “Aren't you the one who always says you are what your record says you are in sports?”

“It's an old Bill Parcells line,” his dad said. “But we don't have a record yet.”

“Right.”

“You gotta trust me on something,” Richie said. “We're gonna get better as we go. Swear to God.”

“Oh, like you've got a master plan.”

“I gave up on plans a long time ago,” he said. The sad look came back then. “It's like your mom says. You want to make God laugh? Tell Him about your plans.”

They both had calmed down now. Sat there talking their common language, basketball, Richie telling him he was going to press more, and feature Colby more, and that he'd even told Matt's dad that he was willing to work with him alone a couple of times a week.

“I was on a team once they said made magic around here,” Richie Walker said. “It's time to make some again.”

In the two weeks after the Warriors-Vikings scrimmage, Danny had left one message on the Rosses' answering machine, using Will's cell during recess one day even though it was against the rules at St. Pat's; he wanted to do it during school because he knew Mr. Ross would be at the bank and Mrs. Ross would probably be doing her volunteer work at the hospital.

Ty hadn't called back.

A couple of nights later, Danny tried e-mail.

And instant-messaging, when he saw that Ty was online.

He got zip in response.

On Thursday after school, he and Will had gone into town just to goof around. When they had gone past Runyon's, Danny had seen his dad at the end of the bar, a glass of beer in front of him, staring up at what must have been a rerun of a college basketball game played the night before, since it was only five-thirty in the afternoon.

Ty was back at school, Danny knew that. But he hadn't seen him at the Candy Kitchen on weekends. Hadn't run into him at the Middletown-Morrisville football game the weekend after Thanksgiving, even though he was hoping he would.

The next Friday, while waiting for his mom, Danny had even used his old hiding place on the stage while the Vikings practiced, just to see if Ty might be hanging around with them, fooling around with his left hand maybe.

He never showed up.

The next day at Twin Forks, they lost 47–22 and didn't score a point in the fourth quarter.

On Sunday, they lost 50–20 at Morrisville.

They never had a chance in either game, no matter how much switching Richie did with the defenses, no matter how many different lineups he tried, even though he had them pressing all over the court until the end.

At one point against Morrisville, Danny said to his dad coming out of a huddle, “Uh, why are we still pressing?”

“Because it's the kind of team we have to be.”

“Even though we're not even close to being that team yet?”

“'Fraid so.”

“Does that make
any
sense?”

“To me it does.”

Then his dad gave him a push. Like: Just get out there and play. He played hard until the end, doing what he was always doing, which meant looking for Colby Danes every chance he got; the girl on the team being the only one he could pass it to and not be more scared than he was of spiders.

Danny and Will Stoddard were at the water fountain together when the Morrisville game was over. For once, Will talked in a voice only Danny could hear.

“Remember how your pop said we were going to be the team nobody wanted to play?” Will said.

Danny said, yeah, he remembered.

“Well, he was slightly off,” Will said. “We're going to be the team
everybody
wants to play.”

T
HEIR NEXT PRACTICE WASN
'
T UNTIL
T
UESDAY NIGHT AT NINE
.

Richie Walker, who was never late when basketball was involved, didn't show up until ten minutes after nine. Danny had gotten them into layup lines by then, using his own official NBA ball, his Spalding, last year's Christmas present—by mail—from his dad.

When they saw his dad come walking through the double doors, dragging his bag of balls, Will said, “Hey, Coach, we figured you finally deserted.”

Richie said, “How about we have a new policy tonight? More playing and less talking.”

Will, stung, said, “Hey, Coach, I was just saying…”

“Know something, Will? You're
always
just saying.”

Danny, careful not to let his dad see him staring at him, watched him go to half-court and sit in the folding chair Ms. Perry, from the girls' team, had left there.

Danny had seen him mad before, usually because of something that happened between him and Danny's mom. Danny'd get sent to his room and then the yelling would start. When he was younger, before he wanted to know exactly what was making them that mad, before he would eavesdrop at the top of the stairs, before he even had music to play or headphones to wear, he would just get on his bed and put pillows over his head until it stopped.

Until it was over.

It was part of it all. Being their son. Being the son of their divorce. The part he didn't like to dwell on very much.

Adults got mad sometimes, that was the deal. They yelled sometimes. And kids figured out pretty early that there wasn't one blinking thing they could do about it.

There was really no point in trying, the way there was no point in trying to figure it. The way there was no point in Danny trying to figure what had pissed off his dad before he got to the gym tonight.

A few minutes after Richie arrived, he yelled from the chair that they weren't going to start scrimmaging until they could make five straight layups with their off hands. It meant left hand for everybody on the team except Oliver Towne, who
was
left-handed. When they couldn't manage that after a couple of trips through the line he said, fine, they could run some suicides, maybe that would improve their layup shooting.

Suicides: Get on the baseline. Run and touch the floor at the free throw line extended. Back to the baseline. Then run and touch the half-court line. Come back. Then to the
other
free throw line. And back. Finally the whole length of the court and back.

Every kid who'd ever played basketball would rather sing in the chorus or go to the dentist than run suicides.

Matt and Oliver Towne finished last.

Richie made them run another one.

While they did, Will made the mistake of saying something to Bren and Bren made the even bigger mistake of laughing.

Richie made them run another suicide, since they thought suicides were so funny.

When they were finished, Richie got out of the chair, slowly and carefully, as always. Tin Man in
The Wizard of Oz.

“You know why this team looked like a joke this weekend?” he said. “Because you guys treat it like a joke, that's why.”

The Warriors were stretched out in a line in front of him. Will and Bren still had their hands on their knees from running. Richie said, “Will and Bren, look at me when I'm talking to you!” Like he'd snapped them both with a towel.

They jerked their heads up.

“The worst crime in sports isn't losing,” Richie said. “It's not competing. In my whole life I've never been associated with a team that didn't want to compete and I'm sure not going to start now. Now go out and let me see a real team.”

Danny wanted to say, Make sure you tell us if you see it first.

There was only a half hour left for them to scrimmage, because they had to be out of the gym by ten.

Richie spent most of it yelling. Yelled, Danny thought, like every bad kid's coach he'd ever heard, in travel or rec leagues or at summer camp. Apparently yelled so much he had to keep going to the water fountain.

One time when he did, Will whispered to Danny, “Did he, like, forget we're twelve?”

Right before they finished, just a few minutes left, Matt Fitzgerald cut one way when Colby thought he was going to cut the other, and she threw a pass out of bounds.

“Come
on,
Colby!” Richie said. It was the first time he'd ever even come close to saying something in a mean voice to her. “Get your head out of…get your head in the game.”

Colby took it better than he would have. Maybe better than any of the boys in the gym would have. She didn't look down, she didn't look away, she didn't try to make excuses. All she said was, “Sorry, Coach.”

“No you're not,” he said.

Everybody else on the court had stopped now, and was looking at Richie.

So was Ali Walker, standing with her arms crossed, just inside the double doors to the gym.

Richie saw her, too.

“That's it for tonight,” he said. “Shoot around until your parents come.”

Danny looked at his mom, still staring holes through his dad. She stayed where she was, nodding to the other parents who seemed to have showed up all at once for pickup, while Danny kept shooting free throws at one of the side baskets.

Richie made a big show of collecting the balls, as he tried to keep his distance from her. Finally, though, it was just the Walker family in the gym.

Richie said, “I didn't know you were picking him up tonight.”

“I was on my way home from book club.”

“Well, then, see you Thursday,” he said to Danny, and slung the ball bag over his shoulder and started moving slowly, shuffling the way he did when he was tired, toward the door.

She still hadn't moved. “Rich?” she said. “I'd like a word with you. Danny? Go wait in the car. And I mean,
in the car
.”

He walked out to the parking lot, carrying his ball, knowing his mom was watching him through the doors. When he got to the car, he turned around, waved, saw her close the door.

He waited two minutes and then snuck back. He carefully closed the front door, walked through the foyer, got on his toes, peeked through one of the windows in the double doors.

They were standing close to each other in front of the stage.

Danny cracked open one of the doors just slightly, praying that it wouldn't make some creaking noise that would be like a smoke alarm going off.

Now he could tell how pissed off his mom was.

Because she
wasn't
yelling.

Danny knew from experience it was the absolute worst kind of yelling there was.

Because she was speaking in such a low voice, he could only pick up bits and pieces of what she was saying.

“…don't lie to me, Richard. Sally saw you last night.”

His dad had his head down.

“…can't be invisible, not in this town,” she said.

His dad taking it all, the way they'd taken all his yelling in practice.

“…not the children's fault that you're still hungover the next night.”

He said something back now, but must have mumbled it, because Danny couldn't hear a single word he was saying.

Her voice came up a little. “Yes, you
can,
” she said. “We went over this already. You have to.”

Danny could see him shaking his head, the head still down, acting as if he were the kid who'd done something wrong now, he were the one trying to act sorry.

Finally his mom said, “Quit drinking. Now. Or leave. No goodbyes, no travel team. No Danny. Just leave. It'll be better that way than letting your son be the last one to find out what a drunk you are.”

She left him standing there, the ball bag still over his shoulder, and walked straight down the middle of the court.

While her streak of light streaked for the car.

Thinking as he ran about the magic they were supposed to make this season.

Wondering just when the magic was supposed to happen, exactly.