Eastern Adams’s JV team sucks even worse than I could have imagined. We lead by twenty-four after two quarters—and we’re only sitting at thirty-one—and I’ve scored fourteen myself. Yet I can still feel myself tightening up while we take lazy jump shots during the last few minutes of halftime. Pretty much every game has gone like this, and my brain knows it.
True to Trip’s words, the gym was basically empty while we ran through our warm-ups before our JV game started at six. Just parents and varsity guys camped out behind the benches. Grampa chatting with Coach Langley by the door. The stands didn’t look a whole lot different at the end of the second quarter, either. I love it. It feels like playing at the Y, only with much cooler jerseys.
Then fans start showing up for the varsity game, and things start to fall to shit.
The buzzer sounds for the end of halftime, and we hustle back to our bench for a quick huddle around Coach Wise.
“Same five we started with. Keep playing hard. No letups, gentlemen. Bring it in, on three.”
Despite my brain creeping in, I start the third quarter right where I left off: a quick layup when Trip steals an inbound pass, followed by a quick bucket from the elbow coming off a brutal DeAndre Miller screen.
Barely two minutes into the third quarter and Eastern Adams has to call a time-out, with our lead extended to twenty-eight, Adams still stuck in single digits. It’s a bloodbath. A really, really fun bloodbath.
When we take the floor again after the time-out, I see students starting to accumulate outside the gym doors in the lobby. Standing in the doorway about to come in is Lily Branson with a group of friends, their faces painted black and light blue. Arm in arm with Lily stands Tabby, her red hair pulled back from her painted face in a long braid. She and Lily both wear Franklin varsity jackets, though Tabby’s is about ten sizes too big. I don’t need to be able to read the name embroidered on the chest to know whose it is.
I barely notice Adams’s JV point guard bringing the ball up the court, until Trip yells for us to D it up.
Within seconds of their point guard crossing the half-court line, Trip’s forced him into making a sloppy pass that I easily intercept, and I take off the other way for what should be an easy layup. And what will be my first ever twenty-point game.
But Lily, Tabby, and crew are watching from the lobby door behind our basket, and as I’m running, my brain is screaming, “FUCKDON’TMISSDON’TMISSPLEASEDON’TMISS!” My central nervous system has gone so haywire I can’t feel my legs as I cross the three-point line, and—even though I’ve taken thirty-eight bajillion layups in my life and have the muscle memory to do this with my eyes closed—my body feels like it’s never done this before as my feet leave the floor, and I botch the layup.
“Fucking shit!”
It’s supposed to come out under my breath, but it comes out much louder, and—at least in my head—I can hear Lily and company laugh. And Mom gasp.
The ball drops right back to me for the rebound, and, because I’m now in complete panic mode, I go up for the gentlest, easiest, slow-motion two-foot jumper, like I’m trying to place a baby bird back in its nest. I don’t notice that my defender, who I’ve owned all night, has of course caught up to me by this point. And, in what will probably end up as the highlight of his unpromising high school basketball career, he swats my lame follow-up into the wall behind the basket.
“Fuck!” I yell—definitely not under my breath this time—as the whistle blows for out of bounds.
The ref stands right next to me on the baseline holding the ball. “Son, this is your only warning to clean up the language. Got it?”
I can’t meet his gaze. Just keep my head down and nod.
They’re standing inside the doorway, all of ten feet away. They have to be watching now. I know it. And in the ten seconds they’ve watched of this game, they’ve only seen me miss a wide-open layup, have my second easy attempt swatted into the wall next to them, and be scolded by the ref for dropping two temper-tantrum f-bombs.
It shouldn’t matter. I know it shouldn’t matter. We’re on our way to the biggest blowout of the season so far. We’ve played with relentless intensity as a team. And I’ve scored eighteen points—my highest ever—in a little more than half a game. It shouldn’t matter.
But it matters.
I can’t stand the fact that all they’ve seen is the last ten seconds, that no matter how awesome I’ve played tonight, I still look—to them—like a blundering jackass who shouldn’t be out here. It makes me crazy.
On the inbounds play, I come off a double screen for a wide-open three on the right side. Again, no matter how natural and fluid everything felt in the first half, my brain is now hyperaware of everyone watching, of Tabby and Lily still a few feet away to my right, of the parents in the stands, of the varsity team lounging on the bleachers behind our bench. So instead of catch-pivot-jump-release, my brain’s flipped off the autopilot and it becomes catch-pivot-pleaseGod-jump-pleasedon’tfuckingmiss-release-oratleastgetfuckingcloseplease!
As soon as the ball leaves my fingers, I know it’s short—way, way short—and I can see them tracking my air-ball three in my periphery. I’ve had nightmares like this, but this is actually happening right now, and I can’t do anything to stop it, to make myself wake up at the worst part, to go back and redo the last thirty seconds.
So what do I do?
Sprint back on defense and try to regain my composure? Take a deep breath and try to see the big picture, that it’s a blowout JV basketball game, and no one really cares that much or will ever remember?
Yeah, no.
I swear vehemently at myself, loud enough for everyone to hear, and punch myself hard in the leg. Jog back to half court, fighting back tears and trying to pretend I didn’t just charley-horse myself like a motherfucker. Or that I can’t hear Branson yelling encouragements from the stands.
When an Eastern Adams guy bricks a jumper on the other end and DeAndre Miller hauls in the rebound, our coach calls for time. He’s seen enough. Even after my pathetic display, we’re still up 35–9. It’s time to get our bench guys on the court.
I flop down at the end of the bench with the rest of the starters—trying hard not to limp—put my head in my hands, and close my eyes. Coach Wise and the remaining guys tell us all great game.
To the outside observer, I probably just look exhausted after a hard run. I keep telling myself that as I slowly try to pull my shit back together.
Eighteen points. Season high.
Easy win.
Over and over.
When I open my eyes again, Tabby and Lily are sitting in the second row of the student section directly across from us, their friends filling in around them. They all laugh and chat, checking their phones, not watching the rest of the JV game. I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or worse, if it even registered how badly I sucked right in front of them. Would it have mattered if I’d made that layup? What, would they all start getting here early for some hot JV action?
Fuck.
At the end of the third quarter, the varsity team gets up from the bleachers behind us to head into the locker room. They cross the court, past the student section, which has to be the coolest feeling in the world.
And I can’t stop myself from watching Tabby’s face as Branson makes his way across. Their eyes are locked, and Tabby’s beaming, this wide smile spread across her face. Her teeth glow in contrast with her face paint. I can’t hear what, if anything, Branson says to her, but she smiles somehow wider and looks down at the varsity jacket she’s wearing. She stands and holds her arms out for a moment so he can see the sleeves hanging a good six inches over the ends of her fingers. She laughs, never taking her eyes off his, and sits back down, Lily throwing an arm around her and laughing, too.
It’s like they’re the only ones in their world. And I just get to stand and watch.
Eastern Adams doesn’t fare much better against our second-stringers, and when the buzzer sounds at the end of the fourth quarter, we end up winning 58–22. The final score disappears from the scoreboard before we’re through shaking the other team’s hands, the numbers all reset for the varsity game.
The varsity team is lined up next to the student-section bleachers, just outside the doors to the home locker room, waiting to jog out into their pregame layup drills.
I could probably use some of those, actually.
The varsity team is huddled together, arms locked over each other’s shoulders in a tight circle. They bounce lightly on their feet, shifting their weight back and forth in unison. As we cross the court and head for the locker room, I can hear Elijah Leppo in the center of the circle, leading the chants to get his team fired up for what will likely be another blowout.
Those in the student section crane their necks to see over the side of the bleachers, bouncing right along with the varsity team. This is the only time you’ll ever hear Elijah Leppo fired up about anything. I so want to be in that huddle, ready to burst out onto the court for pregame warm-ups in front of a packed house, our pep band blasting out fight songs.
When I glance up at the student section one last time, Tabby’s looking directly at me. Not bouncing, not craning over the side like all her new friends. Just watching me. I drop my eyes to the floor, another wave of embarrassment washing over me, but I feel equally stupid avoiding Tabby’s eyes. I mean, it’s Tabby.
When I look back up, Tabby’s still watching me. She gives a tiny wave with her sleeve-covered hand, a small smile, and mouths, Good game.
Even though—based on the two minutes Tabby actually saw me on the court—that’s a complete lie, this is the best I’ve felt all night. Maybe the best I’ve felt since Thanksgiving.
Maybe I haven’t totally lost Tabby after all.
“God, I wish we could be out there,” Trip says as we watch Elijah Leppo pick up the ball at half court to hold it for the final ten seconds. The student section is on its feet, yelling and stomping the bleachers across from us.
“How many times have we run with those guys at the Y?” Trip says, shaking his head, watching the Eastern Adams starters hunched over in exhaustion. The varsity game ended up much closer than expected. They got sloppy in the second half, playing lazy after leading by fifteen at the half, which means some serious suicides for all of us on Monday. The Eastern Adams guys—guys Trip and I have been holding our own against for two years—went on a crazy run.
We barely pulled away at the end, thanks mostly to Elijah.
“I can’t believe it was that close,” Trip continues. “No way we would have let that happen.”
“I know. Next year.”
His competitive juices are flowing again. He looks like he could go out and play another full game. And really, I probably could, too.
It’s hard to watch the varsity team struggle against guys you’ve been beating for years. But at the same time, I can’t help but flash back to the thirty seconds I played in front of a handful of students and my parents. To recap: wide-open layup missed, f-bomb, shot swatted, second f-bomb, referee’s warning, air-balled three, uncountable stream of profanities likely including more f-bombs, self-inflicted charley horse—all against guys who looked like it was their first time playing.
I hope I get a grip on this before I do get a chance to play varsity.
As the varsity team walks off the court toward the locker room for what I’m sure will be an interesting postgame speech from Coach Langley, I decide I don’t need to see this silent exchange taking place between Tabby and Branson. Branson played particularly shitty in the second half, and I imagine Tabby is sending him I-love-you-no-matter-what rays with her eyes, Branson unable to withhold smiling back at her as he walks off the court. Fuck, since I already have this awesome movie playing in my head, I can skip the real thing. Instead, I grab my bag and head to the lobby with Trip.
A few minutes later, after a wave from Grampa on his way out to the parking lot—he was kind enough to leave without mentioning my swearing—Trip and I stand off to the side of the lobby, devouring lukewarm pizza we scavenged from the concession stand as they were cleaning up.
“Good game, guys,” Tabby says from behind us.
We both turn, mouths full of pizza, and Tabby’s standing there with Lily Branson. Trip freezes for a moment, taking in the fact that Lily Branson is kind of talking to us, before we both attempt to swallow and say thanks at the same time.
When Trip recovers, he says, “Yeah, my man here had a big game. What’d you end up with, Matt? Eighteen?”
“Really?” Tabby and Lily say at the same time, both looking at me now, eyes wide.
I instantly feel stupid again. I imagine they are surprised by this news.
“We didn’t get to see you guys much,” Lily says. “You came out right after we got there. But you guys were way up.”
Trip laughs then, realizing, and I immediately drown him in the training room ice tub in my mind. “So you only caught Matt’s air ball,” he says, then turns to me. “That sucks.”
Lily looks back to me again, with what looks like actual concern. “Did I see you punch yourself?”
“Uh…I…yeah…uh…” Which is all I manage before I turn my head away from Trip’s laughing and stuff the rest of my crust in my mouth.
After a few more awkward minutes of this, the varsity guys finally start to trickle out into the lobby, hair still dripping from the locker room.
“How we doing, ladies?” Branson asks, throwing an arm over a shoulder of each. Lily and Tabby both smile up and lean into him. They shower him with good-games, for which he thanks them humbly and brushes off the compliments.
“Hey, you guys played a great game tonight,” Branson says to me and Trip, deflecting the attention. He knows they played poorly tonight, win or not. “What’d you end up with, Matt?”
“Eighteen, I think.”
“That’s badass, man. I don’t think I ever got close to that when I played JV.”
Tabby melts into Branson. So humble. So complimentary. So perfect.
“We’re heading to Valentino’s,” Branson says. “You coming along, or do you have to get home?” He’s talking to Tabby now, and just like that, it’s like they’re the only two people in the lobby. I assume we includes Lighty and Leppo, and probably a bunch of Lily’s friends—maybe half the student section, for all I know—but it definitely does not include me.
“I’d love to go,” Tabby says, smiling up at him from under his arm. “I’ll text my dad. He won’t mind.”
“What do you two studs have planned for this evening?” he says, looking at Trip and me.
For once, Trip will not revel in my embarrassment, because it is directly linked to his own: Matt and I are gonna play some video games and have a sleepover at my house! It’s gonna be super cool!!! My mom’s gonna make root beer floats, too!
Before we can think of something cool to say instead, Lighty calls from the lobby entrance, standing with Leppo, their gym bags slung over their shoulders, ready to go. They all turn to leave, one last nod from Branson, a quick wave from Lily and Tabby.
None of them look back.
“So seriously, dude. How does that happen?”
I down the last glob from the bottom of the glass of my second root beer float and shake my head. We’re sprawled out at opposite ends of the giant sectional in Trip’s basement, pizza boxes on the coffee table in front of us, Xbox controllers on our laps. Trip continues. “How do you go lights-out, eighteen points in three quarters, then botch a layup, get your shit swatted, and air-ball a three? It’s like your body was suddenly taken over by the spirit of some squirrelly-ass twelve-year-old.”
“Well, seeing as most people mistake you for a squirrelly-ass twelve-year-old, I suppose that’s a valid question.”
“Touché. And go fuck yourself.”
“Hi, Mrs. Fogle,” I say, waving. Trip jerks around, sees no one, and exhales. His mom would literally wash his mouth out with soap—I’ve seen her do it.
I laugh and start flipping through the characters on the TV screen, preparing for battle. Trip picks up a spent pizza crust from the box and backhands me with it on my arm.
“Oww! Son of a bitch!” I rub my arm where his pizza crust has already left a pink welt.
“Sorry. Spasm.”
This is what we do after most games—well, minus the pizza-crust pistol-whipping: eat pizza and drink root beer floats in Trip’s basement. We rehash every single moment of our game, first usually with Trip’s mom and dad, then again after they head back upstairs.
“And right as the girls came in, too,” Trip says, resuming what I hoped was a dead conversation as we select new players for our next round of battle, Trip some scantily clad demon-girl wielding twin swords, me some hulking mutant with a bull’s head and a battle-ax.
“Thank you, Trip. I remember.”
“If you’re trying to impress the ladies,” Trip continues, “I will tell you, squirrelly twelve-year-old is not terribly effective.”
“As evidenced by your reputation with the ladies?”
“That is correct. And, Matthew,” Trip says amid a fury of taps on his controller, “I just made you my bitch.”
On the screen, his demon-girl flips into the air over another empty swing from my dude’s battle-ax and lands on his shoulders. In one quick motion, she scissor-cuts my poor bastard’s head off, reaches down into his gaping neck-stump, pulls out his still-beating heart, and eats it.
Sums things up nicely.