Guys Read: The Sports Pages (18 page)

“Look!” O-Mark exclaims, pointing back at the station. “Here they come!”

Out of the darkness, a larger figure, a smaller one, and a bouncing white blob are running full tilt for the bus.

“They made it!” Max cheers.

No sooner have the words passed his lips than the doors close, the gears grind, and the bus is moving off down the street.

“Wait!” Shimmy howls. “Our friends are back there!”

“Got a schedule, kid,” the driver tosses over his shoulder. “If I'm late, it's a mark against me.”

No amount of begging or pleading makes any difference.

The group passes the trip in silence. The sole exception is Shimmy, who updates his teammates on the increasingly agitated text messages from Lucas back at the station, waiting for the next T-19 bus. The others have their eyes out the window, watching for Sterling Avenue. West Hook is a lot older than their part of town, the ancient, fading signs difficult to read.

Suddenly, Jeff is on his feet, pointing and shouting. “Look—it's the restaurant! From the Facebook picture!”

Max squints at the orange lettering. Epic Jerk. He pulls the cord, and the five Hammers get off. There's an awkward moment as they stand on the corner, watching the bus drive away. The triumph of reaching their destination fades quickly. Finding the restaurant and finding the trophy are two different matters. All they know for certain is that Epic Jerk is visible from wherever the trophy was when the photograph was taken.

“So,” rumbles O-Mark in his deep voice, “what happens now?”

Max looks thoughtful. “For the restaurant to show up in the background, the trophy would have to be”—he swings around to face the park across the street—“there.”

It's a smallish square taking up six city blocks, with pathways and benches organized around a central fountain.

“Remember the picture,” Dalton advises. “There was a roof, or some kind of cover, with a support pole in back.”

“We'll scour the place,” Max decides. “Every inch. If our trophy's here, we'll find it.”

In a third-floor apartment on Sterling Avenue, a very large twelve-year-old boy gazes out his window at the park below. He picks up a cell phone and speed-dials a number.

“Yeah?” comes a sharp, piercing voice.

“They're here,” says the boy.

“Really? Are you sure?”

He squints down through the glass, watching the Hollow Log Hammers exploring the square. “Get the gang together. It's time.”

“What do you mean, it isn't there?” Lucas rasps into the handset, racing along Sterling Avenue, dragging Ariella by the hand.

“Mr. Fluffernutter can't go any farther,” the little girl complains.

“We searched the whole park,” comes Shimmy's voice over the phone. “We even went through the bushes. They must've moved the trophy after they took the picture. Where are you, man? We've been here, like, forever!”

“We missed our bus,” Lucas replies savagely, “because Mr. Fluffernutter had to go to the bathroom—”

“He's only human,” Ariella sulks.

“—so we ran like crazy, but the bus we got on turned out to be a T-
18
not a T-19—wait! I think I see you guys!” Squeezing the girl's wrist, which makes her cry out, Lucas turns on the jets. They sprint past Epic Jerk and into the park to their companions.

Overcome with relief, Max enfolds his sister in a bear hug. She pulls back and boots him savagely in the shin.

“
Ow!
What was that for?”

“You're supposed to take care of me!” she rages. “If I get lost, where does that leave Mr. Fluffernutter?”

“He was lost
with
you!” Max tries to defend himself.

Shimmy approaches Lucas. “What are we going to do, man? There's no trophy here. I'm starting to think we came all this way for nothing!”

Lucas looks desperately around the square. There are not a lot of potential hiding places. It's a small park, with a kids' playground, a basketball court, a dog run, and a handful of paved paths and benches arranged around a huge fountain in the middle. At the center of the fountain, atop a granite pedestal, is a wrought iron sculpture of two young children huddled under an umbrella. The “rain” is provided by a ring of jets around the circumference.

“Wait a minute … Guys—” Lucas points. The pieces are starting to fit together. In the Facebook photograph, the roof is actually the umbrella; the pole is its handle. The blurry spots are caused by the cascading water. And, far in the background, the clue that brought them here—Epic Jerk.

They all look, and catch a glint of gold.

There, balanced on the spot where the figures' hands come together, sits the Interboro Cup.

“Our trophy!” exclaims Shimmy, leading the stampede to the fountain.

“Yeah, but how are we going to get it?” Jeff wonders. A lot of water stands between them and the cup. “We'll drown!”

Lucas doesn't care. He kicks off his shoes and socks, rolls up his pants, and steps over the edge, disappearing almost to the knees in the cold, clammy pool. The chill makes him laugh with sheer delight. “Come on, guys. What's a little water compared with the blood and sweat that went into winning this thing?”

Footwear flies, and all six Hammers are in the fountain in less than thirty seconds.

“Boys are crazy,” says Ariella from the sideline. “Oh, I don't mean
you
, Mr. Fluffernutter. You're not a boy; you're an elderly rabbit gentleman.”

Rescuing the trophy turns out to be a major operation. Max and Lucas form the base of the pyramid, with Shimmy on their shoulders. He, in turn, boosts Dalton to the top of the pedestal. There are a few scary moments since the polished stone is wet and slippery. But soon the whooping Hollow Log Hammers are splashing their way out of the fountain in a flurry of dripping high fives, surrounding Max, their triumphant captain, who holds their trophy aloft in the brilliant sky. It's a good thing the spring weather is warm or their next stop would be the hospital, to treat six cases of hypothermia. They are drenched yet jubilant. The Interboro Cup is once again with its owners, and all's right with the world.

“Let's get back to the bus stop,” Shimmy exhorts his teammates. “The sooner we blow this Popsicle stand and get home, the better.”

“Not so fast” comes a deep voice.

For the first time, the Hammers look around. Seven boys have appeared almost out of nowhere and now stand facing them. They don't seem threatening. But they don't look friendly, either.

Lucas puts two and two together. “You're the guys who stole our trophy!”

A sandy-haired boy who's almost a single extended freckle nods solemnly. “Or maybe you're the guys who stole
our
trophy,” he says in a high-pitched, piercing tone.

Shimmy bristles. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“We're the Revere Raiders—” Freckle begins.

Light dawns on Lucas. Revere Middle School is a city powerhouse in basketball. In the tournament, it was a major relief when the Raiders were eliminated in the semifinal by Sunnyside, the Hammers' opponent in the championship game. “So how's it your trophy?” he asks. “You guys got knocked out.”

A huge kid, at least a head taller than Lucas, pipes up, “We got shafted.”

Freckle explains. “Meet Igor, best sixth grader in the city. We would have crushed Sunnyside with him.”

“So why didn't you?” O-Mark growls.

“Academically ineligible,” mourns Igor in a voice even deeper than O-Mark's rumble. “Got an incomplete in Social Studies.”

“That's your problem,” Shimmy accuses. “Staying eligible's part of the game.”

“Had mono last semester,” the big boy admits sadly. “My teacher wouldn't cut me any slack.”

Lucas's anger evaporates in an instant. Winning the tournament was the greatest feeling ever. To be robbed of a shot at that by a tough break had to hurt.

Even Shimmy finds some sympathy for the Raiders. “Man, that's rough.”

There's general agreement among the Hammers. “But why blame us?” Max asks. “We didn't flunk Igor; his teacher did.”

“We're not blaming you,” Freckle explains. “You won; we accept that. But we weren't in that tournament—not the
real
us.”

“What are you trying to say?” Lucas demands.

Freckle shrugs. “Well—we're here, and you're here, and the trophy's here….”

It isn't a fair fight, and the boys from Hollow Log know it. First of all, neither team has its full complement of players. Second, the Hammers are soaked to the skin and exhausted from the adventures of the day. And third—

“Why should we have to play a bunch of trophy-stealers to win the trophy we already won?” Shimmy complains.

“The trophy's not important—” Lucas begins.

“That's not what you said when you made us wade through Niagara Falls to get it,” Jeff puts in sourly.

“The Raiders have a point,” insists Lucas.

“They're not exactly Boy Scouts, you know,” Max observes. “They crossed the whole city, walked into Hollow Log, and walked out with the Interboro Cup.”

Lucas holds up his hands. “Listen—what does that trophy mean if we only won because that Igor kid couldn't play? Is that the kind of champions you want to be: a team that only made good because of somebody else's rotten luck?”

“I can't jump in wet jeans,” Dalton complains.

Shimmy smiles in spite of himself. “You can't jump, period. It never stopped you before.”

Jeff asks the question that's on everyone's mind. “What if we
lose
?”

“We won't,” Lucas says confidently. “We're the Hollow Log Hammers. We rocked the tournament, and we'll rock West Hook too.”

The court is concrete instead of hardwood. The nets are made of chain not mesh, so a swish sounds more like a clank. There are no referees and only three substitutes between the two teams. The audience consists of a six-year-old girl and a stuffed rabbit. The Interboro Cup stands by the out-of-bounds line, as if watching the contest that will decide its fate.

It's on.

The Raiders run off the first three baskets, but Hollow Log recovers quickly, closing the gap to two points. The teams are evenly matched, with Igor's bulk controlling the middle but Dalton's outside jumpers keeping the Hammers close. Shimmy uses his quickness to slice through Revere's zone defense, and soon the Hammers have a narrow lead. Lucas can't shoot over Igor but finally manages to submarine past the big boy and lay the ball in off the backboard. Another Raider sinks back-to-back ten footers, and the teams are tied at 16.

Freckle is impressed. “Maybe you chumps really
are
champs!”

“Sunnyside was lucky to get past you guys,” Lucas admits, panting.

“Mr. Fluffernutter's bored” is the audience's opinion.

By this time, the Hammers have forgotten their bus woes and wet clothes. They haven't faced this kind of competition since the championship game. Revere pulls ahead, but Hollow Log roars back, scoring on five straight possessions. A heated argument over an alleged foul evaporates when O-Mark knocks down the longest jump shot any of them has ever seen. Not to be outdone, big Igor rips the ball out of Jeff's hands and comes amazingly close to dunking it—another vertical inch or two is all he would have needed. By now they've been playing for a solid hour, the score knotted at 36 … or is it 38?

A light rain begins, waking Ariella, who's fallen asleep on a bench using her stuffed toy as a pillow. The Raiders and Hammers are just getting started. A second hour falls away like nothing. Hollow Log leads, 74–72 … or maybe 72–70. But a disputed basket from about half an hour ago means it's possible the two teams are actually tied again. It's hard to keep track of the score, Lucas reflects, when the action is so intense; when you're running your hardest, and jumping your highest, and every gasping breath comes out of your lungs in a ball of fire; when you're having this much fun.

They are well into their third hour when both teams' cell phones begin ringing. Soon their game is being set to music amid a chorus of electronic tones. The boys ignore it as long as they can, but it's starting to get dark …

Suddenly, Shimmy points. “The bus!”

No one wants to leave. But if you miss a bus on a Saturday night, who knows when the next one will be along?

The Hammers grab Ariella and Mr. Fluffernutter and fly—but not before Lucas and Freckle exchange numbers on their phones. This game isn't over yet! And besides, nobody remembers the score….

Whatever. They'll settle it next week on Hollow Log's home turf.

Lucas can hardly wait.

Shimmy slaps him a high five as they take their seats. “That was awesome! Man, we're some beasts to keep up with those guys!”

There is general agreement, except from Ariella. “Mr. Fluffernutter's
telling
!” she promises her brother.

Max is flushed with a mix of exhaustion and happiness. “Go ahead. I don't care. Today was worth getting in trouble!”

The bus pulls away. The Hammers peer out the window, watching their new friends and rivals heading for home.

In the shadowy darkness of the park, a lone object stands at the edge of the court, utterly forgotten. Its shape is four Winged Victory figures holding up a golden basketball.