Kings of the Court Read online

  “Now, my fine young Gladiators, having studied your performance at yesterday’s game, I find some very promising things.”

  “Promising?” said Anil. “Are you kidding? We lost. Bad. Again.”

  “Yes, that’s true.” Mr. Williams waved a hand dismissively. “But there were definitely positive developments. For example…”

  This is a nice change, thought Sameer as Mr. Williams paced back and forth, enumerating the things the team had done well. Several of the guys were looking stunned. I’ll bet Coach Boss never started the practice after a loss with any kind of positive feedback. I’m guessing every post-game practice was hard running. Pure torture.

  “Nice not to run suicides, hey?” he whispered to Rochon, who shrugged.

  “And having said all that,” concluded Mr. Williams, with an awkward clap, “I am reminded that words are not deeds. We still have work to do! There was a certain amount of, well, sluggishness on defense,” he said almost apologetically. “A flat-footedness, where the opposing team simply swept around, unhindered.” He made a sweeping motion with his arm.

  He’s right, thought Sameer, surprised. Gracie said the same thing. She said it with way less goofy words, but still…

  “So I thought we might try a creative exercise to get our brains and our feet working together.” Mr. Williams became brisk. “Sameer, where are those rackets?”

  “Ah, they must’ve just got pushed back here behind the bench. And somehow this hoodie fell on top of them.” Sameer stepped over the bench and gathered up the badminton rackets. He hesitated.

  “Well, what are we waiting for?” Mr. Williams cried, gesturing toward Sameer. “Grab one, everyone. Seize the rackets!”

  “We’re playing badminton?” asked Kenneth.

  “No, Kenneth. We are”—Mr. Williams grabbed a racket, bent his knees and held it out like a sword—“fencing! For lack of any swords, these rackets will have to do.” He quick-stepped toward Kenneth, who held up his racket protectively. Kenneth was way taller, but Mr. Williams was quick. “Good, good! Footwork! That’s the stuff of fencing! Moving…of…the…feet.” Mr. Williams dodged and darted at Kenneth, brandishing his racket. “Anticipation! Reflex!” Kenneth staggered back, flailing his racket to deflect the onslaught.

  “It is…not…about—Got you there!—the sword…or the racket in this instance,” panted Mr. Williams. “It is—yes, Kenneth, touché!—all… in…the feet!” He stopped and turned to the rest of the team. “Go on, you lot! Have a go!”

  Sameer glanced quickly at the rest of the team. Anil and Rochon dangled their rackets, looking angry. Hassan and Mohammed, their faces serious, held theirs up to each other, looking like a mirror image. Kenneth and Kyle faced off, Vijay jumped in enthusiastically to thrash at Tom, and Nikho flailed away nimbly at Nate, who lurched backward awkwardly, fending off his far shorter friend.

  “I’b glad these aren’t real swords.”

  “C’mon, that would be way more fun! Could you even imagine how much fun…that…would… be?” Nikho punctuated his words with thrusts and slashes.

  “Excellent! Move those feet! Keep up with your opponent!” Mr. Williams coached from the sidelines. “Small, controlled movements!”

  Sameer noticed uneasily that a few of the players from the girls’ team were watching from the door, talking and laughing. We should have shut that door, thought Sameer. And locked it.

  Mr. Williams finally came over to Rochon and Anil, who were standing still, watching the others with disgust. “Rochon, Anil? Not going to try? It’s a pity. As Shakespeare said, Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt.”

  “Okay, that’s it.” Anil threw down his racket, causing a clatter that startled the others into stillness. “This is so STUPID!” he yelled.

  Mr. Williams made an involuntary gesture to cover his ears but stopped himself.

  “Anil’s right,” said Rochon, throwing his racket down too. “All this,” he gestured in disgust, “the fencing, the quoting—all of it’s stupid. It has nothing, nothing to do with basketball.”

  “C’bon, guys,” said Nate uncertainly. “It’s dot that bad—”

  “Yeah, Nate, it is,” Anil said. “You guys are pathetic. You can’t even see how bad it is.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Sameer, rushing in to intervene. “You don’t want to do this drill. You want to sit this one out. You made your point.”

  “No, I don’t think I have, Sameer,” said Anil. “This isn’t a drill. This is more useless garbage wasting the time of this loser team, and this guy,” he gestured at Mr. Williams, “is already getting us laughed at. Face it, guys. This team is one big humiliation.” He looked over at the girls by the door and called, “Having a good laugh, ladies? Funny, right?” They scattered.

  “Anil—” Mr. Williams said.

  “Forget it.” Anil turned away. “Just forget it. I’m done with this team. I quit.”

  “Me too,” said Rochon. “Good luck, guys. You’ll need it.”

  Anil and Rochon grabbed their bags and slammed out the gym door.

  FOURTEEN

  Back on Track?

  The sound of the gym door slamming faded into a dead silence.

  This is bad, this is so bad, thought Sameer, closing his eyes.

  Some of the boys eyed each other uncertainly. Some stared at the floor.

  Sameer cleared his throat and said matter-of-factly, “I’ll talk to them. It’s nothing. They’re blowing off a little steam, that’s all. Niners, right?” He looked around, wondering if he was being convincing. “Maybe I should go after them. Should I go after them?”

  “Nah. You’re wasting your time, Sameer,” said Kyle.

  “Maybe if I just explain—”

  “Sameer, you know those two have been threatening to quit since…for a while.”

  Since Coach Will took over. Nobody said it, but everybody thought it.

  “There goes our offense,” muttered Tom. “Those two score almost all our points.”

  Sameer pushed up his glasses. “They’ll be back. They love basketball. They’ll be back,” he repeated with a confidence he didn’t feel. He shoved his hands in his pockets, nodded and looked around at the guys. Everyone was shaking their heads.

  “Face it, man, they’re gone. Like, gone gone,” Vijay said, swinging his badminton racket.

  “I rather think Vijay is right,” said Coach Will quietly, lifting a pale face to look over at Sameer. He looked almost ill.

  He’s not a bad guy, thought Sameer. He’s odd, but he’s not a bad guy. He’s nice. He’s trying. He’s taken on this team last minute, thrown himself into something he knows nothing about, but he’s trying to be positive and creative. How would any of us do parachuted into directing one of Shakespeare’s plays?

  Sameer racked his brain for something to say. He fell back on a few comforting sports clichés.

  “Well, then, Coach Will, looks like we’ll have to make some adjustments to the lineup, maintain our composure, get back on track and get our heads back into basketball.” He looked around. “Right, guys?”

  There was a pause, then Vijay said, “Right!” in a hearty, overly loud voice. He shot a nervous glance at Coach Will, who smiled sadly.

  “Brave Sameer. Loyal Vijay. What would we do without you?” He turned to look at the rest of the team. “Well, Anil and Rochon spoke very plainly.” He took a deep breath and pushed back his hair. He spread his hands wide. “I can only say that I’m terribly sorry if I’ve caused you to be laughed at or ridiculed by your peers. Sometimes one gets carried away and forgets what it’s like to be thirteen or fourteen.” His voice fell to a murmur on the last sentence, as if he was talking to himself.

  He stood looking at the floor, then sighed. “What’s done can’t be undone,” he said. “Oops, sorry—Shakespeare again. I really must work on that. Habit.” He jammed his fist against his mouth, biting his thumbnail.

  “It’s okay,” said Nikho. “Doesn’t
kill us to get a little culture.”

  There was a little ripple of laughter, a slight loosening of tension.

  “Yeah,” said Nate. He pointed at Nikho with the racket he still held. “Deekho’s right.”

  Mr. Williams rubbed a hand over his forehead, his face strained. “I suppose I should try to see if Anil and Rochon…I should probably…” He looked young and lost as his voice trailed off. “Sameer, would you possibly…?” He waved his arm vaguely at the gym, meaning “take over all this.”

  Sameer said, “Sure. Of course.”

  When Mr. Williams had gone, Vijay said, “Maybe we should just cancel this practice, hey, Sameer?”

  “Well, what do you guys think?” asked Sameer. For once, he wasn’t sure what to do.

  “Yeah, let’s cancel,” said Tom, tossing down his racket.

  “What? Why?” said Kyle. “’Cause Rochon and Anil quit? Forget them. They think this team’s all about them.”

  “Okay, okay, we practice,” said Tom, raising his hands in surrender. “But seriously, while Coach Will is gone, don’t you guys think Anil and Rochon had a point? Don’t you think Coach Will is a bit…weird?”

  “Yeah, he’s weird. Of course he’s weird.” Nikho rolled his eyes. “Tell us something we don’t know, Tom.”

  “But Coach Boss was bean,” said Nate. They stared at him blankly.

  “Mean,” stage-whispered Vijay in translation.

  “Good point, Nate,” said Sameer. “Nobody was threatening to quit the team when Coach Boss was around.”

  “That’s because he’d have killed whoever quit. Or made their lives miserable. Look what happened to Alex.”

  The team fell silent, remembering how early in the season an injured teammate had brought his parents in to explain to Coach Boss that he was leaving under doctor’s orders. Coach Boss had pretended to be supportive and understanding but later harassed Alex mercilessly in class and in the halls for being a “quitter,” a “coward” and a “momma’s boy.” Alex had eventually changed schools.

  “We’ve only got seven players without Anil and Rochon,” pointed out Hassan (or Mohammed).

  “So what?” said Mohammed (or Hassan), glaring at his brother. “You only need five.”

  “You need subs. Anyway, they were our only real shooters. The scorers,” argued Hassan (or Mohammed).

  “Yeah, ball hogs usually get the points,” said Mohammed (or Hassan).

  “Having only two subs will be tough,” Sameer felt obliged to point out. “It means a lot of game time, a lot of running, not much rest. And we can’t add guys to the team midseason.”

  “So? We got us, right?” said Nikho. “Anil and Rochon think the team’s just going to collapse without them.”

  “No way.”

  “Nope.”

  “Yeah, we’re not folding the team just because of them, are we?” said Kyle.

  “No, we are not,” said Kenneth emphatically in his deep voice.

  “I was just gedding into dis fencing thing,” said Nate, whiffing his racket in the air. “Only let’s switch pardners. Deekho’s killing me.”

  “Move your huge feet, man,” laughed Nikho. “If you can lift them.”

  Sameer straightened his shoulders. “Coach Will was actually right, hey? Footwork. It helps you stay with your man. How about another five minutes doing the fencing thing, and then I’ve got a new defense drill. Okay?” He clapped his hands loudly. “Let’s do this!”

  FIFTEEN

  That’s Gotta Hurt

  The rest of the team had gone.

  “Well? What do you think?” Sameer asked Vijay.

  “I think I’m starving,” said Vijay.

  Sameer dug in his backpack for a granola bar and tossed it to Vijay. “No, I mean about the whole Anil/Rochon thing.”

  “It is what it is,” Vijay said, chewing and shrugging philosophically.

  “I thought Coach Will would come back to the practice. Don’t you think it’s odd that he didn’t come back?”

  “Whatever. He’s probably just, like, worn out from all the drama. Me, I don’t mind drama. Makes things interesting. Shakes things up a bit.”

  Sameer was barely listening to Vijay. He felt uneasy. “Anyway, I’m going to stay for the girls’ practice. I was talking to Coach Morrison today, and she’s going to be running a few new defense drills that I think we should try.”

  “I’ll stay too,” Vijay said quickly. “After all, I am the team manager. You might need some specialist managing…manager…ing.”

  “Riiight. You’re all about the team, Vijay. I thought you were starving.”

  “I’m okay. You got any more food in there?” He grabbed Sameer’s backpack.

  “Hey.” Sameer snatched it back. “How many millions of times have I told you that my stuff is private? Look, I’ve got a samosa in my locker. It’s a day old, but you can have it.”

  “Okay, I’ll go get it.” Vijay stood up.

  “Uh, you might need me for that,” Sameer said.

  “Nah, I know your combination. Seven, fifteen, twenty-five, right?”

  “Vijay! How do you—no, for your information that is not right.”

  “Okay, look, we’ll both go to your locker, and I’ll pretend not to know your combination. Feel better? But let’s go quick. The girls will be here any minute.”

  They jogged through the empty halls to Sameer’s locker, where Sameer shielded his lock with his body as he entered seven, fifteen, twenty-five. As soon as the locker opened, Vijay shouldered Sameer aside, reached down and rummaged on the bottom shelf.

  “You usually chuck food down here, which, by the way, isn’t very sanitary. Ka-ching! Got it. Thanks, buddy. See you back in the gym.”

  Sameer slammed his locker shut, turned to follow Vijay, then hesitated. He thought maybe he should go down to the drama room to see if Mr. Williams was there and tell him how the practice went. He waved to Gary, the custodian who was pushing a broom down at the end of the science hall.

  The drama room was a dingy, almost-forgotten room at the far end of what was called “the arts hallway.” There was an art room across the hall from the drama room, but there hadn’t been a drama program for years, so the drama space had been used mostly as a huge storage locker, a dumping ground for books, files or equipment that didn’t fit anywhere else in the school.

  The door to the drama room was ajar, and the interior was dim. But there was a light on somewhere behind the wall of stacked boxes. Sameer pushed open the door slightly and walked a little ways into the room. He opened his mouth to call Mr. Williams’s name and then froze as he heard Mr. Williams’s voice. It sounded like he was right beside Sameer.

  “I can’t. No. Mother. Mom. I have play rehearsal at seven.” He was talking on the phone, on the other side of the boxes. “No, it’s nothing to do with Steve being there.” Sameer started to back out of the room, groping behind him to find the door in the gloom. Mr. Williams’s voice got louder. “No, Steve’s a prince of a fellow—when he’s not drinking. Sorry…Mom, I’m twenty-five years old. I’m not calling a man I scarcely know Dad. Yes, I’m under your roof at the moment, but not for long…I do have a job…not exactly in theater, no…yes, with children. That’s what teaching involves…that’s my business…Look, I’m sorry…”

  Sameer scuttled back into the hall, feeling oddly guilty for hearing as much as he had. He stood there uncertainly for a few seconds, staring at the drama-room door. The murmur of Mr. Williams’s voice stopped. The phone call was over.

  Should I try again? wondered Sameer. Mr. Williams sure seemed like he could use some cheering up.

  “Mr. Williams?” Sameer said, knocking on the door. He knocked louder. No answer.

  “Mr. Williams?” Sameer opened the door and walked to the end of the wall of boxes. “Mr. Williams!” This is ridiculous. I know he’s here.

  Sameer peered around the wall of boxes. Mr. Williams was slumped in a fold-up chair at a tiny desk, his head leaning on one hand. He had headph
ones on, and he was staring out the dark windows.

  Sameer waved an arm to attract his attention, and Mr. Williams jumped up, flushing and fumbling awkwardly with his headphones.

  “Sorry, Sameer, I was lost in Beethoven. Have you been there long?” he asked quickly.

  “No, I just got here,” Sameer lied. “Just now. Saw the light on.”

  “Ah. Well. Come in, come in.” Mr. Williams moved some boxes, grabbed another chair and unfolded it with a snap. It slithered on some papers on the floor before Mr. Williams found a bare spot. “Sorry, this room is a bit of a mess.” He looked around. “A lot of a mess.” He sighed. “Do you know, Sameer, that the stage you can’t see because of those recycling bins and that shop equipment is actually raised up a couple of steps? It’s an actual stage! And there’s actually a rod up there”—he pointed into the dim ceiling—“for a curtain? There is a small theater buried under here somewhere. It would take an army to find it though. But I’m babbling. What can I do for you?”

  “I just thought you might be happy to know that everything went fine at practice. The guys wanted to keep slashing away with the fencing drill for a while, and then we worked on defense. Blocking out, switching, following checks, even a press.”

  “Ah.” Mr. Williams sank back down into his chair. “Good, good,” he said vaguely. “I did try to talk to Anil and Rochon, but they were unwilling to listen. They were”—he gave Sameer a twisted smile—“rather rude. But then, they’re young.”

  “They’re fifteen. No excuse for being rude,” said Sameer. “Jerks.”

  “No, no,” Mr. Williams protested, “it’s an emotional age.”

  They sat in silence for a minute.

  “Do you find that sometimes things don’t turn out the way you imagine they will?” mused Mr. Williams. His voice was sad as he looked off into the distance. “I’m speaking generally, of course, Sameer. You’re so young—what could you know of failure or loss?”

  Plenty, thought Sameer. A quick memory of his grandmother laughing surfaced in Sameer’s mind, and he pushed it away.

  “Well,” Sameer said, hoping his voice didn’t sound strange, “I tried out for the basketball team, but I got cut.”