Box Out (8 page)

In the locker room before the game at Delavan, Liam yawns as he pulls his red jersey over his winter-white body. Usually the adrenaline's pumping, but after driving around last night and getting up early for HAF, he's dragging.

Coach catches his eye and waves him over. Liam's heartbeat quickens. Is somebody sick? Is he going to start?

“You ready to rebound?” Coach rubs his palms.

“Yes.”

“Good.” Coach puts his hands on Liam's shoulders. “Bergie, I checked out our prayers with a couple of people. They said it's fine.” His breath smells of mouthwash. “Nothing to worry about. You can focus on the game.”

Who did Coach ask? Probably people he knew would agree with him.

Coach looks him in the eye. “Bergie, I'd like you to lead the prayer tonight.”

Liam takes a step back. “Okay.” Is this a test? What
should he say? He can't pull a Pelke and ask God for a win. God probably has one or two more important things to deal with than Horizon basketball.

“Everyone gather round.” Coach motions to Liam. “Bergie is going to lead the prayer.”

Liam folds his hands. “God, we ask for Your protection. We ask that…You guide us.” He looks over at Coach, who nods to encourage him. His prayer is too general. It needs to be more specific, more about Jesus.

“Lord, help us to play well. Help us to do Your work…as we take the court…Help us…help us to compete in the image of Christ.”

“Thanks, Bergie.” Coach smiles. “Let's all say the Lord's Prayer.”

“Our Father, who art in heaven.” Liam looks down at his
HWJC
band and prays along. He caved in. Just like Pelke, he said what Coach wanted. He's a fake, too.

At the start of the second half, Nielsen picks up a quick foul guarding the Delavan center.

“Don't reach for the ball,” Coach pleads. “How many times do I have to tell you? Get good position and keep your arms up.” He looks down the bench. “Bergie, go in for Nielsen.”

Liam wipes his hands on the soles of his shoes as he stands next to fifty-four. He's massive, with dark sideburns and a mustache. On the shot, Liam keeps a body on him, but fifty-four pushes back like a football player. He bangs around like Seth, and Liam struggles to grab the rebound.

“Here, Bergie.” Staley comes back for the ball.

On offense, Liam sets a screen and Pelke cuts off it. Fifty-four jumps out on the switch, and Liam has a smaller guy on him. He goes to the hoop, but doesn't raise his hand to call for the ball. Pelke slides to the corner and knocks down a jumper.

At the next whistle, Nielsen comes back in and Liam takes a seat. Horizon plays tight man-to-man defense, and Delavan launches up shots in frustration. Drake and Nielsen grab long rebounds and Staley and Gund cherry-pick downcourt for easy hoops. Pelke hits two more jumpers. He's locked in and having a great game.

Horizon pulls ahead by fifteen, and Liam waits for Coach to put him back in. Four other subs go in first. Finally, with three minutes left, he goes in. Garbage time. The game's already decided.

Driving home from school Friday, Liam sees a familiar form in a light blue, puffy coat. It's Darius, carrying a basketball.

Liam turns right at the next corner and drives back around the block. Despite what Darius says, it must be hard for him not to be on the team, to be out looking for a game on his own.

“Where are you going?” Liam leans over.

“The B-CAB.”

“Where?”

“The Borton College Athletic Building,” Darius says.

“Hop in. I go right by there.” Liam opens the door.

Darius climbs in and Liam expects him to say thanks, but he holds the basketball on his lap and looks straight ahead. Liam waits for two cars to pass before he pulls out. “The team's not the same without you.”

“I know.”

They drive awhile in silence and Liam remembers how hard it was to fit in when he moved here. He can't imagine what it's like for Darius. “How are you liking Horizon?”

“I hate it,” Darius says quietly. “Dad likes his job and Mom's happy to be out of Chicago, but I hate it.”

Liam notices Darius's earring catching the light. Moving in high school is probably even worse than moving in middle school.

“It's a bad town to be black in,” Darius says.

Liam thinks of Darius surrounded by a sea of white faces at school. “Guess what?”

“What?” Darius looks over.

“It's a bad town to be white in.”

Darius breaks into a smile and he laughs deeply. “I'll remember that.”

Liam pulls up to the heavily salted sidewalk in front of the Athletic Building. “Who are you playing with?”

“Nobody.” Darius gets out. “I need to work on my threes.”

“See you at school,” Liam calls as Darius shuts the door. He shifts into drive. Mom was right about one thing: The
team did treat Darius badly. And what did
he
do? He didn't stand up for Darius when those guys said he was selfish. He didn't stand up for him when Pelke called him the gay gunner. Nobody stood up for him.

zzzzztttttmmmmpppp Dizzy taps on keys as she crosses Liam's keyboard. “Get down.” He pushes her aside.

Mom says the prayers are wrong and Dad says Coach shouldn't be leading them. But Coach Kloss says it's fine, nothing to worry about. Liam clicks on a link. After feeling like a fake yesterday, he needs his own information.

The American Civil Liberties Union site has some stuff on separation of church and state and a link for contact information. He clicks and a phone number for the state office comes up. Maybe it would be easier to talk to someone. He could call without giving his name. He digs around in his backpack for his phone.

“Thank you for calling the ACLU. For legal assistance, press one.”

He punches the number.

“If you wish to request legal assistance, you must do so in writing. Our review committee will review your request to determine whether we can offer you legal assistance. Please send us a summary of your situation. If you have supporting documents that you would like us to review, please make copies and send them to us. Do not send original documents or your original copies of documents.”

Liam hangs up. That's way too complicated. He goes back to the search page and picks another link: Americans United for Separation of Church and State. It's worth a try. He scrolls down and at the bottom is a number. Probably another voice mail.

“Hello, Americans United for Separation of Church and State,” a woman answers. “This is Megan.”

“Oh. I didn't expect a…person. A…real, live person.”

“Yes, I'm alive. Can I help you?”

“I have a question. About prayer in school.”

“Yes.”

“Can a high school coach lead prayers in the locker room before basketball games?”

“Is it a public school?”

“Yes.” Dizzy pads over and plops in his lap.

“No, the law is clear on that. A coach can't lead such prayers.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” she says. “I can pull up a case for you. Hang on a second.”

This is what he needs, somebody who knows what she's talking about. He doesn't have to rely on Coach's word.

“Here it is,” Megan says. “
Doe versus Duncanville Independent School District.
The court found unconstitutional a basketball coach's practice of leading and participating in prayers with the junior high and high school teams before games, in the locker room, and after games.”

That's exactly the situation at Horizon. Liam bookmarks the Americans United page.

Megan keeps reading. “Among the reasons that team prayer accompanying sporting events at public institutions has been held to be unconstitutional is the fact that attendance at games is not voluntary for members of the team. In
Doe versus Duncanville,
the Fifth Circuit ruled that coach-led prayer would pressure some students to participate in a religious act that they objected to.”

“Wow.” Liam stands up from his desk.

“Your coach leading prayers is a violation of the Establishment Clause of the First Amendment,” Megan says. “Public school coaches cannot promote religion to their teams. Would you like us to send a letter to your school?”

“No! No! I'm only getting information. I'm doing research.”

“That's fine,” Megan says. “Feel free to call if you have other questions or if there is anything I can do to help.”

“Thanks.” Liam closes his phone. Sounds like Mom is right. Which means Coach is wrong.

Liam pulls two slices of white bread from the package and places them in the toaster. Mom's got an opening tonight and Dad's helping her set up, so he has to get his own dinner.

He opens the peanut butter jar. Megan didn't have any
doubts about it. Liam found the information easily enough. Coach could, too. Maybe he doesn't want to. Maybe he knows and is lying. Liam grabs the spoon in the pan to stir the eggs.

“Yowwwwwwww.” His right index finger and thumb burn. He rushes to the sink and turns on cold water. He opens the freezer and grabs an ice pack, but remembers something about not shocking the skin. He hurries back to the sink and runs warm water to stop the burning, while he hops around like he's on hot coals.

He smells something burning. He races over and pops up the toast and blasts the fan on high. The last thing he needs is the smoke detector going off. He turns off the burner and examines the spoon. The black plastic handle has melted. That's what burned him. That spoon's for salad, not cooking. What an idiot. He dumps the eggs, toast, and spoon in the trash and takes it out to the garbage to hide the evidence.

He examines the bright red spots of the burn. A small spot on his thumb and a mark about the size of a dime on
his finger. He washes them thoroughly and wraps two Band-Aids tightly to keep the area clean. It's his right hand—his shooting hand.

He dips a finger in the peanut butter. He's still hungry.

That night at the JV game, Liam sits alone on the bleachers behind the bench. Seth spins to the hoop for the opening basket. Strong move. They were practicing that together a month ago. Liam shakes popcorn into his mouth as he watches the team play their matchup zone. The guys look good.

“Seth, rotate to the middle,” Coach G calls out.

Liam presses lightly on the Band-Aid. The burn really hurts. Using that spoon was major-league stupid.

Seth bumps a guy with his hip and blocks the shot.

“Monster defense,” Liam calls, and Seth looks over and grins.

If Liam were still on JV, he'd play most of the game, rather than sit on the varsity bench. He wouldn't have to worry about team prayers, or getting enough minutes, or talking to Coach Kloss. But it's too late now. He can't go back.

“Great game against Delavan. You couldn't miss.” Liam adds a box of Adidas to Pelke's pile at the store on Saturday.

“I haven't washed my hand since,” Pelke says.

“I guess I won't shake it, then.” Liam holds up a single Reebok.

“Maybe you should.” Pelke tosses him the missing shoe. “You could use some of my touch. Works with hoops. Works with girls. I'm happy to share.”

“Thanks.” Liam boxes up the shoes and slides them into their slot. “Hey, you remember when I asked you about HAF?”

“Yeah.”

“I found out Coach isn't supposed to be leading prayers in the locker room.”

“What?” Pelke squints.

“I talked to someone about it.”

Pelke beckons Liam over. “Listen, Bergstrom. You're a sophomore. There's a lot you don't understand. I'll give you a piece of advice. If you want to play on this team, you need to leave that stuff alone.”

“What if Coach is wrong?” Liam turns his head away from the scent of Pelke's cologne.

“That's not the issue.” Pelke pokes Liam in the chest. “Go along. Get along. Got it?”

Liam steps back. “What if I don't want to be fake about it?”

Pelke snorts. “It's not fake. It's how you get by. People do that every day.”

“Not everyone does.”

“What's the matter with you sophomores? You're acting like Buckner. He thought he was smarter than everyone else, too. Look where that got him.”

The entrance bell rings and a short guy wearing glasses and a frown walks in.

“Hi, can I help you?” Pelke switches to his salesman voice.

Liam presses his two Band-Aids together. He should have
known better than to bring it up. Pelke doesn't care about anything other than his starting position.

The bell rings again and Iris Cleary goes straight to the women's section and examines a New Balance high-top.

“Hey, Iris, can I help you?”

“Do you have this in a ten?” She holds up the black shoe.

“Let me check.” Liam looks at the code number. He sorts quickly through the boxes in back and finds the right one.

Iris sits on the bench and takes off her coat. She's wearing blue jeans and a gray T-shirt that says
CLEAN THE GLASS
with a cartoon of a girl soaring for a rebound.

“I like your shirt.” Liam offers her the box.

“Thanks.” She unties her Nikes.

“My job is to rebound.” Liam isn't sure what to do with his hands so he holds them behind his back.

“Mine, too.” Iris slips on the new shoes. “But Jack's on me to do more on offense, to be more assertive.”

“Coach Kloss never says that to me.” Liam laughs. He watches her arms as she laces up the shoes. She looks strong.

“How do you like the shoes?”

“I wonder if they're too big.”

“Let me see.” Liam uses his left hand to touch her toes through the leather. “That feels good.” He checks the other foot. “That feels good, too.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, we don't have a nine and a half. You'd have to go all the way down to nine and that would be too small.”

“I like how they look.” She pivots back and forth.

“How do they feel?” Liam breathes in her fresh smell of soap and shampoo.

“Good, but I need to break them in.” She notices his Band-Aids. “What did you do?”

“I was playing with fire.”

“Be careful next time.”

“How tall are you?” Liam stands next to her and realizes it sounds kind of personal.

“Five-twelve.”

“Six feet? You're six feet tall?”

“Five-twelve.” Iris smiles and her blue eyes sparkle.

After work, Liam stops by the nursing home to see Grandma.

“Arlen?”

“No, it's me. Liam.”

“Carl?”

“No, Liam,” he says loudly.

“Oh, Liam.” Grandma's lying on top of the bed in her clothes.

“Can I get you anything, Grandma?” Maybe he interrupted her nap.

“No.”

“How about some fresh water?”

“Loverly,” she says slowly.

He dumps out the old water. He's always liked the way Grandma says “loverly.” He runs cold water and fills the glass.

“Here you go.” He puts it on her tray and sits down in the recliner he and Dad brought over to make the room feel homier.

“
Hur mår du?
”

“What?”

“
Jag kan bara svenska.
”

“Grandma, I don't speak Swedish. You know that. You have to use English.” She looks at him as if she hears his voice but doesn't understand what he's saying. Sometimes she goes back to Swedish, the language she first spoke as a girl in Horizon. Her eyes shut and her head sinks forward.

Will she sleep for a few seconds or a couple of hours? He wonders if he should stay or go, and he deeply misses the way Grandma used to be.

Saturday night, Liam bounces the ball on the court of the old gym at the Y. The wood here has darkened to a rich color from all the coats of varnish. The lights aren't as bright as the new gym's, and there's no track above for joggers to run around in circles. This gym reminds him of the one in Seattle where he first played in a league when he was seven. What was that team called? Panthers, Penguins, something with P. They wore black shirts. Pirates, that's it. Liam raced up and down the floor that first game, and that's pretty much all
they did since nobody knew anything about offense or defense.

Liam made a basket in the second game. The rebound came off the left side of the hoop. He grabbed it and shot. The ball hit the board and banked in. A basket. Mom and Dad cheered, and he wanted to do it again and again and again.

He shoots a bank shot from ten feet. The bandages on his thumb and finger don't bother his shot much. The ball bounces off the board, rattles the front of the rim, and drops through. For his next shot, he aims lower on the board. The ball hits the glass exactly where he wants and falls into the net. Going to the court by himself is his escape. It's always been a refuge from problems with his parents, problems with girls, problems with school. He can go into a trance here. Shoot, rebound, shoot, rebound, shoot.

Liam stakes out the spots for Around the World. He used to play this with Dad in the driveway of the old house. Dad would pick the names of countries and call them out as they went around the court. He banks a shot off the board in Samoa. Dad always used the board for that shot, too.
Dad went net from Thailand, and Liam nails that one. He misses his first free throw from Oman, but takes his “chance” and hits the second. He eyes the hoop from Kenya at the top of the arc. This is the farthest shot and beyond his normal range, but he's practiced it hundreds of times because it's the key to Around the World.

He exhales, jumps, and launches the shot. The ball floats toward the hoop and drops in. Yes. That burst of satisfaction shoots through him. He knocks down shots in Ghana, Italy, and Belize, and then retraces his route to get home.

By the time Liam was fourteen, he could beat Dad one-on-one, but Dad always held his own in H-O-R-S-E and Around the World. “Concentrate on each shot,” Dad used to say. “Don't replay your last shot or get ahead of yourself to the next one. Concentrate on what's happening now.” Liam hears shoes squeaking behind him and notices Leah Braverman and Iris Cleary at another hoop.

“Establish position on the block with the defender sealed behind you.” Leah demonstrates. “Raise your arm and demand the ball.”

Liam swishes his shot from Kenya. Did they see that? Leah is here on a Saturday night, a senior working with a sophomore. Drake or Pelke would never do that with him.

He lines up his free throw from Oman.
Relax. Concentrate on what's happening now.
He shoots and is afraid it's short, but the ball catches the rim, bounces up, and drops in.

Nothing but net from Thailand. Two more shots and he's finished. Then he'll go down and say hello. He shoots and misses from Samoa. Too hard.
Don't think about talking to Leah and Iris. Concentrate on what's happening now.
He bounces the ball before shooting. If he misses here, he has to start all over. He exhales, aims for the backboard, hits it cleanly, and the shot drops through the net.

He banks in his layup at home for the win, grabs the ball, and walks to the other end. Why's he nervous about saying hello?

“Turn fast,” Leah says. “If the turn is too deliberate, it gives the defender time to block the shot. Remember how Shea does it? Strong, decisive moves.”

Iris catches the pass, turns quickly, and shoots.

“Nice move,” Liam says from the top of the key. “How are the shoes?”

“Great.” Iris lifts one up and flexes her ankle. “They fit fine with two pairs of socks.”

“What are you practicing?”

“Entry passes and low-post moves.” Leah retrieves the bouncing ball.

“But you win by twenty points every game, don't you?”

“That's regular season. Four weeks to the playoffs. That's a whole different ball game. Jack asked each of us to pick one aspect of our game to improve. I picked decision making. Iris picked demanding the ball.”

Liam scratches his head. Demanding the ball sounds kind of selfish. That doesn't sound like Iris.

“But I shouldn't be speaking for Iris.” Leah spins the ball on her finger. “That's poor decision making.”

“How did you pick demanding the ball?” Liam turns to Iris, who's wearing long black shorts and a tight sleeveless T-shirt. She looks good.

“We have so many shooters, and like I told you,
sometimes I focus so much on rebounding that I forget about my shot. Jack wants me to shoot more, and to do that, I have to ask for the ball.”

“Not ask,” Leah interrupts. “You have to demand it.”

Liam cradles his ball in his arms. She's tentative on offense. He and Iris struggle with some of the same things.

“We've got to get back to work.” Leah walks to the wing.

“Have a good practice.” He'd like to watch more of Iris's moves, but to stand here by himself would look strange.

“Thanks, Liam.” Iris waves as Leah whips a bounce pass into the post. Iris turns and shoots.

“That's the way,” Leah says. “Demand the ball and go strong.”