Basketball (or Something Like It) Read Online Free

nodded his head at Jeremy and smiled.
    It’s okay, son,
he mouthed.
    Jeremy lowered his eyes, hoping it looked like he hadn’t seen that.
    I am so definitely
not
your son.
Hank
    T he clinics were so stupid. So stupid. It was all drills and suicides; running back and forth; foul line and back, half-court and back, next foul line then full court and back. Hank had come right from soccer, which hadn’t been changed after all but had been moved up an hour and a half.
    And all that meant for Hank was he had to change out of his cleats and into his basketball stuff in the car. He didn’t really have time to eat. His mother had a protein bar for him, but it was disgusting. Raspberry mocha fudge. He took two bites.
    The clinic was over. Now it was seven fifteen and he hadn’t eaten.
    “How was the clinic?” his mother asked him when she picked him up. “How did you do?”
    He hated that question. What was he supposed to say?
    I did great, Mom. I’m the best one in the whole grade. Just like you and Dad always say: I’m a winner. I’ve got the eye of the tiger. I’m a natural. The tryout will be a breeze.
    What was he supposed to say when she asked him that?
    Hank was a very good basketball player. It hadn’t been his best day, but it was far from his worst. But how had he been judged this day? The truth was he didn’t know. Hank was tired. He played okay. He made some of his shots. Missed more. He had looked around at his competition.
    There was a new boy he didn’t recognize, but everyone else was pretty much the same. All the kids from last year’s fifth grade travel team were there, and a bunch of wannabes. Hank didn’t think anything would be different. Except for that new kid.
    That kid was good. He was quiet and kept to himself, but he could handle the ball really well, like some of those city kids they had played last year. He always kept his head up and he could dribble through his legs, but not just for show. It was like it was natural to him.
    Oh, wait, and Nathan Thomas was there, and he hadn’t been there last year. He was okay, but not asgood as you’d think. That was kind of funny, Hank thought. Everyone always asked Nathan to play just because he was black. That was some kind of reverse discrimination, wasn’t it?
    Hank hadn’t been listening to his mother, but he knew she had been talking the whole car ride home. Even if he didn’t answer his mother, she kept talking. She wanted information so badly she would never let on that she was mad at him. Or that he was rude for not answering.
    “So Hank, was Tyler there?”
    “Who?” Hank asked.
    “Tyler Bischoff.”
    Hank had to think a minute. Was Tyler there? Yeah, probably. All he could think of was that new kid. What was his name? Hank hadn’t even seen him at school before. He started calculating. He had heard they were only taking twelve kids on the team this year. It was sixth grade, and things were going to start to get serious. So if this new kid makes it, who will they cut? Hank’s mother was still talking, but somewhere in the last mile or so, her tone of voice had changed. It was squeakier, faster.
    “You know, Hank. I take you to school every morning. Take you to soccer. I pick you up from soccer.”
    What is she talking about?
    Hank looked out the window. It was dark, and he still had tons of homework. His legs hurt. He was tired.
    He was really hungry.
    “… Take you to basketball. Run back because you forget your Gatorade. Come back and get you.”
    His mouth was so dry it burned. That’s right—his mother had run into the middle of the clinic and waved her arms around to show him where she was placing his Gatorade. She must have seen that he left it in the car, under his soccer stuff and his knapsack. But someone had opened it by mistake (even though his name was all over the side and the lid in black permanent marker) and taken some.
    He wasn’t about to drink it after that.
    “You’d think you’d just say thank you. Just