Box Out (3 page)

Liam tightens the drawstring on his shorts as he walks down the hall to the small gym behind Gund, Nielsen, and Pelke. He breathes in the new shirt smell of his practice jersey.

“He never fit in.” Nielsen pulls his shirt down over his belly.

“He didn't try to,” Gund says. “He had an attitude. He wouldn't go to HAF. He wouldn't run the offense. He wanted to do his own thing.”

“Admit it.” Pelke rolls a ball in his hands. “You were tired of him stealing the ball from you in practice. You're glad he's gone.”

“You're the one he dunked on.” Gund gives him a shove.

“He always kept to himself.” Nielsen adjusts his jock. “Like he thought he was superior.”

“What do you expect from someone who hangs around the art room all the time?” Gund says. “Maybe he's gay.”

“Gay and a gunner.” Pelke bounces the ball off his head soccer style.

“Yeah, he shot the ball every time he got it,” Nielsen says.

“The gay gunner,” Pelke announces, and the three of them laugh.

Liam follows quietly behind. He should say something. He should stand up for Darius. But these guys are seniors.

“You ready for killers, Big Man?” Pelke tosses the ball to Nielsen.

“Why?”

“Coach is going to be tough after the loss.”

Liam's stomach tightens. It wouldn't have been a loss if he'd made his free throws.

“Gather round.” Coach Kloss stands at center court. “We've got a lot of work today.”

Liam jogs over with the guys. Coach doesn't sound that mad.

“It's simple,” Coach says. “We lost last night because we
missed eight free throws in the second half.” He holds up eight fingers.

“Bergie, Nielsen, and Drake each missed two. Pelke missed one. So did you, Gund. Eight misses. All we needed was two to win.” He adjusts the whistle around his neck. “They're called free throws because they're free points. We've got to have them.”

Liam tightens the lace on his left shoe. At least he's not the only one Coach is blaming.

“We were nine of twelve in the first half and five of thirteen in the second. That tells me one thing. What do you think it is?”

“We didn't concentrate enough,” Gund says.

“No. Why would we concentrate in the first half and not in the second?”

We choked,
Liam thinks, but he's not going to say it. Nobody else says anything either.

“We missed free throws because we were tired. You were bending over with your hands on your knees. That's a sure sign of fatigue. Our conditioning needs to be better, and I take responsibility for that.”

Liam stretches his arms behind his back to open up his shoulders. He wasn't too tired last night. He sat on the bench for most of the second half.

“We're supposed to be the best-conditioned team in the conference.” Coach raises his index finger. “Number one. Nobody should outwork or outhustle Horizon.”

Liam looks down at the floor. This sounds serious.

“Everybody line up for killers.” Coach walks to the side.

Everyone hurries to the baseline.

“Go,” Coach hollers.

Liam puts his head down and runs with the team. Free throw line, back. Half-court, back. Other free throw line, back. End line and back. Over and over. Running this way feels like punishment.

“Hustle,” Coach calls.

It is punishment. Punishment they wouldn't have to suffer if he'd made his free throws.

“Pick up the pace. You're dogging it. I'm going to add extra killers for all of you if one person slacks off.”

Liam runs harder and makes sure to touch each line.

“All the way,” Coach hollers.

Nielsen, who's the biggest guy, is panting and trailing behind.

“Push yourself.” Coach twirls his whistle.

How long will he run them? Maybe until someone drops. Liam isn't going to let it be him. He tries to let his mind go blank to avoid the pain as he runs and runs and runs. When Coach finally blows the whistle, Liam's legs shake like a fawn struggling to stand. He gasps for breath, and his heart beats so fast, it feels like a bomb about to explode.

Nielsen dry heaves at the water fountain, and Liam turns away so Nielsen doesn't see him watching.

“Staley, you're starting shooting guard now.” Coach stands under the basket.

Staley, the sandy-haired junior, steps forward.

“First five, we'll run the offense here. Second five, down to that basket.” Coach points to the far hoop. “Sharp passes. Solid screens. Show some spirit.”

Liam jogs down with the second five and reviews his responsibilities. He lines up and rushes to set a screen on an imaginary opponent.

“That's the way, Bergie.” Coach claps.

Liam concentrates on the patterns. It's the same offense he ran on JV, but somehow it feels faster now. As they run it over and over, he makes sure to cut quickly and precisely.

Coach Kloss blows his whistle. “Everybody down here. Two-on-two rebounding drill. Crosston had eleven more rebounds last night. We need to do a better job of boxing out.”

He motions Drake forward. “If I'm on defense guarding Drake, I need to stay close to him. As soon as the shot goes up, I box out by pushing back with my butt and hips to keep him away from the hoop.” Coach squats down and pushes Drake past the free throw line. “That way I can grab the rebound.”

Coach looks around at the guys. “You can't rebound if you don't box out. Some of you are not showing enough energy.” He looks around the group. “First four, out here. Box out.”

Nielsen slams back and catches Liam off balance. Liam struggles to hold his ground, but Nielsen stays with him and
drives him out. Liam can't be so passive against somebody so bulky. He has to use his quickness.

“Switch,” Coach calls.

Liam pushes against Nielsen and keeps his body on him as they battle for inside position. Coach shoots from the free throw line and the ball bounces up. Liam holds off Nielsen and grabs the ball.

“That's it, Bergie. Box out and protect your space. Nielsen, you're playing too soft. You need to want it more.” Coach hits his fist against his palm. “Switch.”

Nielsen takes the inside position and this time Liam pivots quickly to the baseline. He slides past, rushes to the hoop, and reaches up to snag the ball as it comes off the other side.

“Too slow, Nielsen,” Coach says. “Show some hustle.”

Guys switch partners and Liam goes up against Drake and then Pelke. He pushes and shoves and bounces around like a pinball, going hard after every shot.

“Way to fight, Bergie,” Coach calls. “We brought you up to rebound. We've got plenty of guys who want to shoot on this team. What we need are some rebounders.”

Nielsen pushes Liam in the back and stretches for a long rebound. He pulls the ball in and swings his elbows, cracking Liam in the jaw.

Liam bends over and checks to make sure his teeth are still in place.

“You okay, Bergie?” Staley asks.

“Yeah.” Liam looks at Nielsen, who's lining up for the next rebound. Was that an accident? Or was it payback for showing up a senior?

After everybody is exhausted, Coach blows his whistle and motions for the team to gather under the basket. “We're eight and six now. We need a win at Plainview.” He twirls his whistle. “Each of you has a role on this team. If you concentrate on your role, we'll succeed.” He catches the whistle. “Team basketball. We need to run our offense. Nothing fancy. Nothing clever. Don't try to do too much.”

Liam pulls at his sweaty T-shirt. That's what Coach told Darius last game. He hasn't said anything about him. Just like Drake, he's acting as if Darius were never part of the team.

“What's for dinner?” Liam shrugs off his coat and grabs a hanger.

“Chicken enchiladas, black beans, rice, and salad.” Dad turns down
All Things Considered
on the kitchen radio. Dizzy, their black cat, meows around in a circle, and Liam bends down to pet her quickly.

“I'm starving.” He washes his hands with a squirt of Dawn at the sink.

“Here.” Dad slides him an avocado. “Cut this for the salad. Your mom should be here any minute.” He passes a cutting board over. “How was practice?”

“Coach was upset about the missed free throws. Everybody's, not just mine.” Liam stands at the counter next to Dad. Dad's still taller, but not by much.

“What else did he say?”

“That we need to be the best-conditioned team in the conference.” Liam picks a pecan from the salad and pops it in his mouth.

“That sounds like a lot of fun.” Dad clicks on the oven light. “These are ready.”

Liam slices the avocado and dumps it over the lettuce.

“What smells so good?” Mom rushes in, sets down her leather case, and sheds her long coat. She brushes her black hair back and her bracelets clink.

“Enchiladas.” Liam turns his cheek for Mom's kiss. Her breath smells like garlic. “Did you eat at Martelli's again for lunch?”

“Yes, why?”

“Nothing.”

“Hi, honey.” She and Dad lock lips like they've been apart for a week. Then she opens the drawer next to the dishwasher. Dizzy recognizes the sound and races to the rug by the back door, where Mom kneels down with the blue-handled brush.

“That's a baby,” Mom coos as she brushes her with long strokes. Dizzy rolls around on her back in ecstasy. “How was school, Liam?”

“Okay. Coach said the whole team was responsible for the loss.”

“That's true.”

“But he didn't mention Darius at all. That was weird.”

“What?”

“He acted like Darius was never on the team.” Liam pours dressing on the salad.

“Wasn't Darius the best player?” Mom looks up from brushing Dizzy.

“Yeah, but Coach and some of the seniors didn't like his game.” Liam grabs two salad spoons from the jar and sticks them in the bowl. “Coach emphasizes team basketball, and Darius plays too much one-on-one. At last night's game, Coach criticized him for playing street ball and not using his head.”

“Does he say things like that to any of the white players?” Mom stands up and washes her hands.

“No.”

“That school has a problem it's not facing up to. Some of those teachers act like they have a homogeneous group of white kids when they don't anymore. They need to join the twenty-first century.”

“Slow down, Kate,” Dad says. “Horizon's changing.”

“At the speed of a glacier.” She rips off a paper towel.

“New people are moving in and attitudes are shifting.”

“Yeah, but people here are so hesitant to challenge the way things have always been done.”

“Dinner's served.” Dad carries the steaming pan of enchiladas to the table. “Let's pray.”

Liam reaches out to his parents: Mom with her cold hand and jangly bracelets and Dad with his big hand that's warm from the enchiladas.

“
Mmmm,
smells delicious.” Mom watches Dad scoop up an enchilada for her. “What else is new at school, Liam?”

“Nothing.” He does fine in school—As and Bs—but Mom's always on him to do better.

“Have you been studying vocabulary for the PSAT?” She reaches for her napkin.

“Yeah.” He passes his plate to Dad.

“What chapter are you up to?”

“I've got tons of time. I don't take it until next year.”

“Don't procrastinate.” Mom smooths the napkin in her lap. “The PSAT determines National Merit scholarships and it's good preparation for the SAT. Those scores determine
your college choices, so you need to give yourself the best opportunity.”

Liam chews his enchilada. She's so extreme. She obsesses so much about the PSAT, you'd think
she
was taking it.

“Let that last game go.” Seth pours hot sauce on his taco the next day at lunch. “Forget about it.”

Liam pushes lettuce around on his plate and tries to shut out the din echoing off the cafeteria walls.

“Quiet down,” Mr. Einerson, the lunchroom monitor, hollers.

“We beat Plainview by thirty on JV.” Seth sniffs his sugar cookie and takes a bite.

“But this is varsity.”

“They're terrible on varsity, too,” Seth says. “Plainview's always good in wrestling and terrible at hoops.”

“I hope that's true tonight.”

“Count on it. They're so bad, they'll make anyone look good.”

Liam crunches his taco. “Thanks…I think.”

At the next table, three cute girls with straight hair and lots of eye shadow whisper.

Liam looks over and they giggle. “Friends of yours?” He turns to Seth.

“They're ninth-grade cheerleaders,” Seth says. “They're into you, not me. You're the big varsity player.”

In the first half of the game, Liam sits on the bench, tapping his heel. The whistle blows and Nielsen picks up another cheap foul.

“Move your feet. Don't reach with your arms. How many times do I have to tell you?” Coach pleads. “Bergie, go in for Nielsen.”

Liam peels off his warm-ups and rushes to the scorer's table.

“Box out and grab some rebounds,” Coach says.

Liam sets a screen and Staley hits a wide-open shot.

“Nice work.” Staley slaps his hand.

Plainview turns it over on a traveling call, their third in three trips down the floor. Seth is right. They're terrible. It's easy to see why they haven't won a conference game this
year. Gund shoots from the top of the key with his lips puckered and the ball bounces off the rim. Liam grabs it and goes back up for two.

“Good board,” Gund calls.

On defense, Liam boxes out his guy to keep him away from the hoop. He watches the shot and anticipates where the miss will bounce off. On offense, he fights for openings and pushes past his guy to grab the ball. So much of rebounding is desire, about wanting the ball more than anybody else.

Drake fumbles a pass in the post and Liam dives for the loose ball. Hands reach to take it away from him. “Time-out. Time-out,” he calls.

The ref blows his whistle. “Time-out, Red.”

“That's the way to fight for the ball.” Coach pats Liam on the back. “That's the type of hustle we need.”

Liam sits with the starters as Coach diagrams the out-of-bounds play on his whiteboard. “Time for one shot. Drake, set a back screen for Staley. Staley, break to the corner. Bergie, hit Staley with the pass when he comes off the screen.”

Staley turns to Liam. “After you pass it, go straight
to the hoop. You can beat your guy for inside position if I miss.”

“Okay.” Liam nods. He feels more a part of the team than he did last game.

“Red ball.” The ref points to the spot. Liam takes the ball and waits for his teammates to set up in their four corner positions. He slaps the ball to start the play and Nielsen sets the screen. Staley flies to the corner. Liam delivers the pass and then rushes to the hoop for the rebound. Staley buries it.

“That's the way,” Coach shouts. “Team basketball.”

As the first-half buzzer sounds, Drake approaches Liam. “Good hustle.”

“Thanks.” Liam wipes sweat off his face with his jersey.

“We missed you this morning.”

“What?” Liam panics. Was there an early practice?

“HAF,” Drake says as they walk to the locker room. “I told you about it.”

“Sorry. I forgot.”

“Don't forget. Every Thursday morning at my house. I expect you to be there.”

In his room, Liam picks up the framed picture of Mackenzie from his desk. Her dark hair hangs down to her shoulders and her mouth is half open in a sexy smile. He looks into her brown eyes and imagines kissing her good night.

A raw-red floor burn stings his left knee. He must have picked it up diving for the ball. He didn't feel it during the action, but now it hurts. It's a small price to pay for such a good game.

He burrows under his duvet as the wind whips against the window. “Hail Mary, full of grace,” he recites the words Mom taught him as a kid. He's said them so many times that their rhythm is comforting. He's grateful to Coach for giving him so many minutes. He's grateful that he played well. He's grateful that they won by twenty-two and nobody got hurt.

He thinks about his day and how he treated people and what he could have done better. He didn't get into any major arguments with anyone. Mom was sleeping by the time he got back, so he didn't argue with her about cleaning up his room, preparing for his future, or wiping up cat vomit.

He rolls over onto his back. He could have gotten up early this morning and gone to see Grandma. She might have liked that. There's lots more stuff like that he could do to be a better person.

He prays a final Hail Mary and gives thanks for his first varsity win, even though Plainview stinks.