Kings of the Court Read online

  “Vijay, come to the scorers’ table, please,” he said into the mic. “Vijay, scorers’ table now, please.”

  Vijay swung around and ran over, a question in his eyes. “What’s up, Sameer? Hey, did you see Coach Boss’s face? Completely purple—”

  “No time, Vijay.” Sameer stood up. “Can you score for the last couple of minutes? Gracie, can you take over calling the rest of the game?”

  “Sure,” she said, slipping into Sameer’s chair. Vijay scuttled behind the scorers’ table. His sword and shield clattered to the ground.

  “Uh, I’m not too sure…” Vijay said, looking down at the score sheet, vaguely waving the pen above it.

  “Look, just don’t write anything or touch anything until I tell you to, okay?” Gracie said to Vijay, her hand over the mic.

  “Gotcha!” Vijay snatched off his wobbly helmet, scraped his chair closer to Gracie and winked at Sameer.

  Sameer picked up the clipboard that Coach Boss had thrown into the corner and walked over to the Gladiators, who were standing uncertainly in a circle. The guys on the bench were hunched over, quiet and nervous. Rabbit nervous. The starters weren’t so quiet.

  “Sameer! Man, what’s happening…”

  “He’s going to be so mad, Sameer, soooo mad…”

  “Did you see Boss’s face, Sameer? We’re gonna run suicides for the next week…”

  “Goes and gets himself kicked out! Nice! Great! Like we need another technical. We’re already down by two points.”

  The crowd had started to pound on the bleachers to jinx the Bobcat player’s shot from the free-throw line. Sameer shook his head at this unsportsmanlike behavior. The Bobcat made the shot anyway.

  “Oh, man,” Rochon said. “Three. We’re down by three now.”

  The whistle blew. The team tensed up.

  “Forget it. We have two minutes,” said Sameer calmly. “Two minutes is a lifetime in basketball. Calm down, run the plays, solid D, and let’s actually have some fun out there. Oh, and while you’re having fun, get the ball to Rochon. Rochon, green light—you’re shooting every single time you touch the ball, right?” Rochon nodded.

  “Hands in,” Sameer said. “Team on three?”

  “One, two, three, TEAM!” They ran back out, and Sameer wiped away the trickle of sweat snaking down the side of his face. Oh please, oh please, he thought, perching on the edge of the bench.

  “Sameer,” said one of the twins, either Hassan or Mohammed, reaching a long arm over the other twin to nudge Sameer’s leg. He pointed down the bench, to where the principal was taking a seat at the end. Mrs. Lee waved as they both looked over at her.

  “Just being the token adult, Coach,” she called, and Sameer grinned.

  “We’re back!” announced Gracie. “What a gong show this game has been! But it all comes down to these crucial last couple of minutes.”

  The Bobcats inbounded and charged, their quick guard slipping in for a layup. From across the key, Nate lunged desperately, his long arm blocking the shot.

  “DE-NIED!” Gracie cried into the mic. “Monster block from big Nate!”

  Nikho scrambled for the ball and flipped it to Kyle, under the basket. Kyle put it up and got fouled.

  “Best guy to have on the foul line,” Sameer babbled nervously to nobody in particular. He pushed up his glasses. “A 72 percent free-throw shooter. Reliable. Calm guy.” He dug his nails into his palms.

  Kyle sank the first shot, but the second rolled around the rim and flipped out. Nate got the rebound, looked around wildly, saw Tom, who swung it around fast to Rochon, hovering just outside the three-point line.

  The crowd bellowed a countdown of the dwindling seconds of the game.

  “FIVE! FOUR! THREE!”

  He has to shoot, he has to shoot…

  “Shoot!” Sameer croaked feebly from the bench.

  Rochon shrugged off his man and got open.

  “TWO! ONE!” the crowd chanted.

  He shot.

  “Shot’s up! A buzzer beater!” announced Gracie. “Aaand…”

  Sameer, on his feet like the rest of the bench, the rest of the gym, watched the ball arc toward the basket as if it were in slow motion. It clanged on the rim as the end-of-game buzzer sounded. Short.

  “Nope, no basket. That’s gotta hurt,” said Gracie sadly to a suddenly quiet gym.

  Rochon bent over, his head in his hands.

  Sameer rushed onto the court and slipped an arm around Rochon’s shoulders, trying to think of something to say. Rochon knew it was a team loss, not just one missed shot. Loads of clichés ran through Sameer’s mind—the game was a heart-breaker, a nail-biter, a knock-out punch, a back-breaker, it went down to the wire—but nothing Rochon would want to hear.

  There was nothing to say.

  The Gladiators were in last place. Again. Still.

  But we’re not losers, thought Sameer, looking around at his friends’ long faces. We may have lost this game, but we’re not losers.

  “Everybody in!” he called. He slapped each player’s hand as the team walked back to the bench.

  They looked up at Sameer.

  “Yeah, it sucks,” he admitted. “But that game’s over. Done. We gave them a great fight, and we move on.”

  Mrs. Lee came over. “Tough loss, boys. Good effort. Now, everybody grab some chairs and help clear this gym.”

  The team silently stacked chairs as the crowd drained out of the gym.

  THREE

  Dig Deep

  Later that evening, Sameer sat slumped on the basement couch, watching an NBA game. His father came down during the third quarter.

  “Good game?” he asked, pointing at the television.

  “Nah. Bit of a blowout.”

  “Huh.” They watched in silence. “So the blue are the—”

  “Knicks. Celtics are in white. Knicks are up by seventeen,” Sameer added, because his father was sure to ask even though the score was right there in the bottom left corner.

  His father cleared his throat.

  “Your nani would’ve appreciated you watching her beloved Celtics. Even if they’re getting hammered.”

  “Yeah,” Sameer agreed, his eyes stinging with tears. He had just been thinking about how much he missed his grandmother. He would never watch a Celtics game without thinking about her. She had been a fellow fan, his basketball buddy who never missed a game. She had been, if anything, the more rabid fan, the one yelling up the stairs that the game had started, telling him that his homework could wait, genuinely appreciating the stats he relayed, making each game an event.

  Her strong opinions had lasted right up until she died.

  “What a BUM!” she would shout in disgust when her raspy voice was still strong. “Are they BRIBING these refs now?” She would scream, “DUNK! That’s what I’m talking about! Look at the airtime that guy gets!” They would seriously debate the merits of a trade, a player’s stats or a team’s chances for the playoffs. And often she would press Mute and say, “Okay, Sami, your turn. Make it good!” and he would commentate the game while she cackle-laughed in appreciation.

  Even in her last days, a few months ago, she would shuffle slowly out of her suite in their basement to the TV room and watch the games with him, her tiny, failing body muffled up in her Celtics fleece blanket. Then, when walking became too much for her, Sameer’s mom bought a TV for his grandmother’s room, anchoring it to the wall so Nani could watch from her bed. Sameer would lie beside her, watching the game while she dozed on and off. And even then, even that last night, she’d surprised him. He’d thought his grandmother was asleep, but she hadn’t been.

  “Foul,” she’d whispered, feebly raising a hand to point at the game. “Sami, that was a foul if I’ve ever seen one.”

  “I’ll always watch the Celtics, Dad,” Sameer said now. “For Nani.” The tears threatened again, and he blinked them away. “Somebody’s got to scream at them.”

  His father laughed, slapping Sameer’s knee.
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  “Spurs are still your team though. She wouldn’t want you to cheer for a team that wasn’t yours.”

  That was true. Sameer remembered her saying, “Stick with your team. Thick and thin. Be a true fan.” Fiercely loyal to her Celtics to the end.

  Sameer and his father watched in silence.

  “Bad day at school?” his father ventured, glancing over at Sameer.

  “Just…basketball. Gladiators lost again.”

  “Did you commentate the game?”

  “Yeah, with Gracie Kim. That part of it was great. Game sucked though. Lost by two.”

  “Ah, well.”

  “We’re in last place. Dead last.”

  “It happens,” his father said philosophically. “It’s just junior-high ball, right?” He had his eyes on the game and missed Sameer’s sad smile.

  His grandmother would have understood how much it meant. They would have dissected the whole game. She would have questioned him, argued with him, listened to him analyze how each player performed, how Coach Boss behaved, how the team could improve. She would have said things like, “So hotshot Rochon isn’t quite as clutch as he thinks,” or “I like the sound of that Kyle. Good fundamentals,” or “But how was Nikho’s passing? That’s the measure of a point guard.” No detail was too small for someone who loved the game.

  “Anyway,” his father mused, “it’s not like it’s you getting blown out game after game. Feel like you had a bit of a lucky escape?”

  Sameer was silent. He’d never questioned Coach Boss’s decisions about who made (and didn’t make) the team. The right guys had made it. Sameer knew he was short and slow and not very skilled, but he’d hoped and prayed that playing intelligently and working hard might make up for his drawbacks. But it still hurt. It hurt that the thing he loved to do was not the thing he happened to be very good at. No, given the chance, even losing game after game, he would wear the Gladiators jersey in a heartbeat.

  His grandmother had sat down on the couch beside Sameer after she’d found out he hadn’t made the team. They’d watched the Raptors play Cleveland in complete silence.

  As the seconds drained away in the fourth quarter, she’d said, “Sameer, in basketball, as in life, there are many ways to contribute. And you have a lot to contribute. Find your place. And when you’ve found it, dig in, and dig deep.”

  Sameer’s mom came down the stairs now and settled in a chair. His parents had been making an effort to come down and watch some of the games with him since Nani died. Sameer appreciated this, but it wasn’t the same.

  “Ah, another basketball game. Wow, these things are on every night!” His mother darted a glance at Sameer, then at his father.

  They watched in silence for a minute before his mom asked, “So who’s the blue team again?”

  FOUR

  Die-Hard Fans

  “Freezing in here,” Vijay complained for the fourth time, looking miserably around the rickety team bus. All the Gladiators were there, silent, shivering, huddled into their seats.

  “If you would wear a proper coat…” murmured Sameer, not looking up from his stats book.

  “Like yours?” Vijay looked dismissively at Sameer’s black downfill. “No thanks. You look like a marshmallow. A burnt marshmallow.”

  “Oh, you’re right, Vijay, much better to be shivering in that stupid thin leather coat. Very cool.”

  “Mmm-hmm. At least I’m not marshmallow man.” Vijay slapped his thighs. “Man, what’s with this bus? It’s warmer outside! You’d think it would at least block the wind.” Vijay held up a thin hand to the window. “Wind,” he said darkly, “comin’ right in here. What a piece of junk.”

  “It’s about a hundred years old,” said Sameer. “Falling apart. Doesn’t help that Coach Boss drives it like a maniac off-roader.”

  Anil turned around from the seat in front of them. “He climbed right up a curb last time we played McGee. Rattled right up onto the sidewalk practically to the front door. We looked like a bunch of idiots.”

  Sameer shook his head.

  “Hey, at least it’s a ride to the south side, I guess,” said Vijay, huddling in closer to Sameer.

  The bus was quiet. Nobody was looking forward to playing Alexander McGee, the team that always, year after year, held first place in their league’s standings. Many of them were actively dreading it. It was always a loss; it was only a question of how dismal a loss it would be.

  “Finally. Here he comes,” said Vijay.

  Coach Boss lumbered over to the bus, wearing his old high-school football jacket that didn’t come anywhere near to closing in the front anymore.

  Why does he always look angry? Sameer wondered, looking up from his stats. What could possibly make a person mad all the time? Not just when things get frustrating, but always? I mean, he’s got some weight issues, and yeah, some hair issues, but really? Does that have to make him insanely angry all the time?

  The bus groaned and lurched to the side as Coach Boss thumped up the steps and sank into the driver’s seat.

  “Everybody here?” he barked, looking in the rearview mirror. His small eyes sharpened. “Hey, you two! Sameer, Vijay! Out!”

  “Just thought we could catch a ride to the game. Sir,” said Vijay, smiling his gummy, ingratiating smile.

  “Nope. New policy. Team bus only. Out!”

  Sameer strongly suspected that the new policy might have something to do with his helping out in the last game. Coach Boss had watched the last two minutes with narrowed eyes from the small window in the gym door.

  “But we’ve always—”

  “Out!”

  “Look. Coach Boss,” Sameer said in a calm voice, “it’ll take us three buses to get even remotely near to McGee. We’d miss half the game.”

  “Plus it’s, like, minus fifty out there,” pleaded Vijay. “Like, cold cold.”

  “There’s just two of them, Coach, there’s room,” said Kenneth from the back of the bus.

  “Yeah,” murmured a few of the other guys.

  “There’s no room!”

  “But what about this seat we’re actually sitting on?” Vijay said, following Sameer’s lead of goodnatured reasonableness. “That’s room.”

  “Out!” Coach Boss started the bus and revved the engine hard. “Out! NOW!” he bellowed.

  It was hopeless. “C’mon, Vijay,” muttered Sameer.

  “Many coaches would treat their team’s die-hard fans with a little respect,” Sameer said as they walked up the aisle to the bus doors.

  “Sorry, guys,” Nate said quietly as they passed.

  “Forget it, Nate,” Sameer whispered. “Hey, use those freakishly long arms on defense today, okay?”

  Nate smiled and nodded.

  Coach Boss slammed the door shut behind them, and the bus peeled out of the school parking lot, creaking and rattling around the corner.

  “Jerk,” said Vijay, shivering and shoving his hands in his pockets. “Oh well, we tried, hey?”

  “What do you mean?” Sameer said blankly.

  “We tried to go to the game,” Vijay said. “What more can we do? It’s not like we’re going to ride the bus for an hour and a half to get to the game on the south side…” He saw Sameer’s face. “Oh, come on, Sameer. You’re joking. Seriously? It’s so cold.” He blew into his fists.

  Sameer was studying a bus schedule he’d pulled out of his backpack.

  “Vijay, any fan can go to a game when it’s in their own gym. Just stroll on down the hallway when they have nothing better to do. Anybody can do that. But die-hard fans show up even when it involves hardship.”

  “Oh, man,” Vijay whimpered, stamping his feet.

  “Hardship and sacrifice. You coming or staying?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Because you don’t have to come.” Sameer started walking.

  “I hate you,” Vijay said as he trailed after Sameer.

  “So if we catch the 53 it should get us to Westgate shopping center, then from there�
��well, we’ll figure it out.”

  They waited at the bus stop in silence. Vijay hunched against the wind, his back to Sameer.

  A van pulled out of the school parking lot and slowed as it passed them. Gracie leaned out the window.

  “Hey, Sameer! Vijay! You guys need a ride?”

  “Absolu—” started Vijay excitedly, but Sameer cut him off.

  “Nah, it’s okay, Gracie, thanks. We’re going to the game at McGee. All the way on the south side.”

  “That’s where we’re going! To McGee. Other gym is the girls’ game. Got a bunch of the girls’ team here because nobody’ll ride on the team bus anymore. But we got two vans, so there’s room. The guys’ll need some fans. It’ll be a slaughter.”

  “Please, please, please.” Vijay turned to Sameer.

  “Great, thanks, Gracie. Thanks, Mrs. Kim,” Sameer said as he followed Vijay into the warm van.

  “Thanks, ladies,” said Vijay, smiling. “I was freezing! Like, freezing freezing.” He let Sameer have the window and squeezed in between him and another girl. “But, you know, you do it because you’re a Gladiator, right? A die-hard fan.”

  “You’re a big hero, Vijay,” said Simone from the back of the van, rolling her eyes.

  Vijay ignored her. He smiled at Gracie in the front seat, leaned forward and held out his hands to the warm air pumping from the heat vent.

  “Yep, hardship and sacrifice, my friend,” Vijay said softly, grinning at Sameer. “Hardship and sacrifice…”

  FIVE

  Huddle Up

  “Mrs. Jackson, could you send Sameer down to the office, please? Mrs. Lee wants to speak to him.” The school secretary’s voice crackled over the class intercom.

  The announcement energized the slumped students in the eighth-grade Language Arts class, whose interest in a short story had been flagging for a while. They sat up.

  “Oohhhhhhhhh!” They all made the loud, mandatory sound for when a classmate got called to see the principal.

  “What did you do now, Sameer?”