Hook Shot Hero (2 page)

T
hud!
Tim went down so hard his teeth rattled. Sam helped him to his feet and asked him if he was okay. Tim waved the question away. His tailbone felt bruised, but he was more embarrassed than hurt.

“Daniels, take a seat!” Tito called. “It’s time for subs anyway.”

Tim left the court but noticed that Jody didn’t replace any of his players. He filled a cup with water from a big jug and sat down gingerly. The bench was empty except for a new member of the Eagles Nest cabin. Tim felt the boy’s eyes on him. He drank half his water and poured the rest over his head to cool off before acknowledging him.

The boy said his name was Jordan. “I was in the Cubs Cave last year, so you probably don’t remember me,” he added, referring to a cabin for younger campers. “But I remember you.”

“Me?” Tim asked as he wiped water out of his eyes. “Why?”

“You were the one who air-balled the lastminute foul shot that would have sent the game against Camp Chickasaw into overtime,” Jordan said matter-of-factly. “Instead, you guys blew it and Wickasaukee lost an inter-camp match for the first time in ten years.”

Tim stared at him. As hard as he’d worked on his jump shot in the past year, he’d worked even harder to drive that memory from his brain. And now here he was, being reminded of it by an eyewitness—and on the first day of camp, too!

His insides burned with shame. He wanted to tell Jordan to shut up. But what would be the point of getting upset about something that had happened a year ago? So he swallowed hard and muttered, “Yeah, well, we’ve all botched plays on the court, haven’t we?”

“I know I have!” Jordan agreed with a mirthless laugh. “Last summer, I bricked a layup with so much force that it rebounded fifteen feet off the glass!”

Tim smiled at the boy’s honesty. He raised his empty cup. “Here’s to saving bricks for building walls!”

“Hear, hear!” Jordan said.

They turned their attention back to the game—and just in time, too, because the ball came rolling right at their feet. Tim trapped it and tossed it back to Dick. Dick handed it to Elijah, who inbounded it to Mike. Dick started to follow the action, but before he took off, he called out to Tim.

“Find me after dinner tonight,” he said. “I want to talk to you about something.”

“Uh, sure,” Tim replied. Then the play moved on, and Dick with it.

Jordan shot him a look of admiration. “Wow, you’re pretty tight with Dick Dunbar, huh?”

Tim shrugged nonchalantly, although now his insides were glowing with pride. That glow faded a moment later, however, as he began to wonder what Dick wanted to talk to him about. It faded completely when he realized it could only be about one thing: his lousy jump shot!

Dick had spent a lot of time helping him with his jumper last summer. How must he have felt when Tim’s first attempt was so soundly rejected?

I’ll just have to prove to him that I’m a better shot, that’s all,
Tim thought. He hoped he’d get the chance—and if he did, that he’d have the guts to take it.

The pickup game between the shirts and the skins ended half an hour later with a narrow victory by Tito’s team. Tim got back into the game and made a few points. None were off of jump shots, however. Whenever the opportunity came, he choked or simply passed the ball.

Mike quickly picked up on his reluctance to shoot from outside. Now whenever Tim had the ball beyond the key, Mike left him alone instead of covering him closely. He couldn’t have made it any plainer that he didn’t consider Tim a shooting threat.

After the game, everyone headed back to the Eagles Nest, showered, and then walked to the dining hall together for dinner. Tim saw Billy at a table with a group of boys he didn’t know. Other waterfront campers, he figured. Billy beckoned for Tim to join them, but Tim indicated that he’d stick with the basketball players. Billy shrugged and then leaned in to listen to something one of his tablemates was saying.

Guess I don’t have to worry about him making friends this year,
Tim thought as he loaded his plate with chicken and potatoes. He ate quickly and quietly, and when he was done, he cleared his dishes and set out to meet Dick.

He found him sitting at the table back at the cabin.

“Ah, right on time,” Dick said. He pushed back an empty chair with his foot. “Have a seat.”

Tim did. “So, um, about my jump shot—” he began.

Dick held up a hand. “Yeah, it wasn’t falling for you today, was it?” he said. “Although you have to take them for them to fall, I guess. Why didn’t you shoot more? Mike was giving you plenty of space.”

Tim sighed heavily. “When Mike blocked me so easily … I dunno, I guess I just lost confidence in myself or something. It was different when I was at home,” he hurried to add. “I made a lot of outside shots during games.”

“Then what’s the trouble here?” Dick wanted to know.

Tim put his head on the table and groaned. “Gruber, that’s the trouble. I let him get to me all the time! I’m an idiot!”

Dick chuckled. “Hey, don’t beat yourself up about it! You’ve honed your mechanics in the past year. Now you just have to trust your shot and put it to use—no matter who’s defending you. Once you can do that, you’ll be unstoppable.”

Then he paused and tapped a finger on the table. “Of course, there is another shot that might make you even more unstoppable. Not everyone can do it, but I have a hunch you could learn.”

Tim looked up hopefully. “What is it? Can you teach me now?”

But Dick shook his head. “Not tonight,” he said. “There’s something else I want to talk to you about.” He picked up a sheet of paper. “I have a big problem, and I hope you can help me.”

T
im blinked. Dick Dunbar, college star, potential number-one draft pick, and probable future NBA great, needed
his
help? Had the world turned upside down when he wasn’t looking?

His expression must have revealed his amazement because Dick laughed to himself. “I’m in charge of a new mentoring program this summer,” he explained. “Maybe you read about it in the camp brochures?”

Tim thought for a moment. “Is that the thing where younger campers learn stuff from older campers?”

Dick nodded. “Two mentors from the Eagles Nest had signed up. One of them was Derek Chang.”

“Derek? I don’t think I’ve seen him yet.”

“And you won’t,” Dick said, “because he broke his leg yesterday and had to drop out of camp altogether. That leaves three seven year olds without a mentor unless …” He raised his eyebrows, waiting for Tim to connect the dots.

“Me?” Tim squeaked. “You want
me
to be a mentor to a bunch of seven-year-olds?” He shook his head. “I don’t know, Dick. The only experience I have with little kids is my bratty sister, Tara. I’ve never babysat anyone before.”

“It’s not babysitting,” Dick objected. “You teach the kids basic basketball skills, then lead them through a demonstration on Parent Pickup Day.”

“So I’d be a coach?”

Dick waggled his head from side to side. “Sort of, but there’s more to it. A mentor takes his mentees under his wing, really gets to know them, on and off the court. Teaching is a big part of it, though.”

Tim shifted in his seat. “Say they don’t learn anything from me? What then?”

Dick considered the question. “Have you ever been on a team with someone who didn’t like to play basketball?”

Tim immediately thought of Billy. “Yeah. Every time he was on the court, he wanted to be somewhere else.”

“Try to keep that in mind when you’re working with the kids,” Dick suggested. “Show them how much fun playing basketball can be. If they enjoy what they’re doing, they’ll want to continue doing it, and then I guarantee they’ll learn something—even if it’s just how to dribble without hitting their own feet! And don’t worry, you’ll still have plenty of time to work on your own skills, because the commitment is just an hour or two a day.” He smiled. “And here’s the best part: You have my permission to skip arts and crafts to do the program.”

Tim had to laugh at that. Of all the camp activities, spending time in the arts and crafts center was his least favorite—as Dick apparently knew!

“Okay,” he said at last. “I’ll do it. But Dick—why me?”

Dick’s smile broadened. “Truthfully?” he said, standing up. “I hadn’t thought of asking you until this afternoon. Then I saw how you went out of your way to welcome Jordan, Sam, and Elijah. If you treat Red, Peter, and Keanu the same way, you’ll do great.”

He handed Tim some paperwork about the program, including suggestions for simple drills and ways to deal with young children. He told Tim to read through it and then headed for his room.

“Come to the outdoor courts tomorrow after breakfast,” he called just before he closed his door. “You and the other mentor will meet your kids then. And thanks again, Tim. You’re really doing me a big favor.”

Tim waved and then set off for his own room. He was halfway there when he heard footsteps and laughter outside the front door of the cabin. Tim thought about waiting for the boys, but then he heard Mike Gruber’s voice.

“Did you see his expression when I jammed him?” Mike boasted. “He was so terrified he didn’t shoot again all game!”

Tim felt his face turn red. He hurried the rest of the way to his room, closing his door with a soft click. He settled down on his bunk to read through the papers Dick had given him. It had been a long day, though; the next thing he knew, it was morning, and Billy was calling his name.

“Hey, Tim, you plan to sleep in your clothes every night?” Billy asked from the other bunk.

Tim yawned. “Nah, it’s a onetime thing.” He told him about the mentoring program as he got dressed.

“Huh, sounds pretty cool,” Billy said. “So who’s the other mentor from the Nest?”

“I forgot to ask,” Tim confessed. “Gotta be someone decent, though, right?”

“I don’t know about that,” Billy replied. “After all, you’re doing it!” He ducked out the door before the pillow Tim threw hit him in the face.

As Tim finished dressing, he went through the list of Eagles Nest campers, trying to guess who might be the other mentor. Donnie would be great with little kids, he bet. Cue Ball’s jokes would keep everyone laughing. Or maybe Bobby Last?

But of all the possibilities, the person he saw standing with Dick at the courts after breakfast that morning was the last one he would have picked!

G
ruber! Are you kidding me?
Tim thought with dismay. Every fiber in his body screamed for him to run in the opposite direction. But he didn’t. Dick was counting on him, and he wasn’t about to let him down, Mike Gruber or no Mike Gruber.

Mike didn’t look all that pleased to see him, either. “Too bad Derek broke his leg,” he said. Maybe Mike really felt sorry for Derek, but Tim guessed there was a second, unspoken part to the comment: “Too bad Derek broke his leg—because now I’m stuck with you!”

Dick cleared his throat. “You guys have two options for how to work with your kids. One, you can stick together and teach them in one big group. Or two, you can each take three and work with them separately.”

“Separately,” Tim and Mike answered immediately and in unison.

“Well, so long as you’re sure,” Dick said dryly. “Now help me lower the hoops a few feet.”

“Lower the hoops? Why?” Mike asked.

“These guys are a lot smaller than you,” Dick reminded him. “They won’t be able to reach the rim if we don’t drop it down.” He moved to the farthest hoop.

Mike shot Tim a sideways glance and smirked. “Maybe you’ll be able to hit a few now yourself, huh, shrimp?” he taunted as he headed to another basket.

Tim was fishing for a retort to fling back when Dick called, “Heads up! Here they come.”

Six little boys walked toward them with a counselor. Introductions were made all around, and then the counselor left with a promise to return in an hour. Mike immediately took his three mentees to the far court. Dick departed soon after, leaving Tim alone with his three kids—and wishing he hadn’t fallen asleep before reading the papers Dick had given him. Maybe there was something in them that would have given him a clue on how to begin!

“Uh, okay,” Tim said. “So which one of you guys is Red?”

The smallest of the boys lifted his cap, exposing a thatch of bright orange hair.

“Oh, right,” Tim said. He was a redhead, too, but his hair color was more copper than carrot. “And who’s Peter?”

A chubby boy with glasses raised his hand.

“That means you’re Keanu, right?” Tim said to the third boy, who, to his consternation, began flapping his arms.

“I can fly,” Keanu cried, “because I have superpowers! Zoom!”

Tim was trying to figure out what to say to that when a loud voice from the other end of the court interrupted his thoughts.

“When I’m talking,” Mike was saying, “I expect you to listen! Not bounce balls! Not poke each other! You got it? Good! Now
sit down.
”

The boys sat down, and Mike began describing a drill they were going to do. Tim eavesdropped for a moment. Mike sounded well prepared for the mentoring duties. And no wonder—he’d signed up for the program weeks ago, while Tim had been drafted for it just the night before.

He racked his brain, trying to come up with something—anything—to get the boys moving. He arrived at the simplest idea.

“Okay,” he boomed, “three laps around the court! And no slacking!”

The three little boys looked at one another and then set off at a trot. But by the end of the second lap, they were all gasping so hard that Tim was afraid they’d pass out. So he told them to stop.

“It’s so hot!” Red whined as he collapsed onto the grass. “I’m going to burst into flames!”

“I’m hungry,” added Peter. “Isn’t it time for lunch yet?”

Keanu was the only one who kept running. But as far as Tim could tell, he was back to pretending to be a superhero.

Tim glanced toward the other end of the court. Mike’s kids were busy passing the ball back and forth, but Mike wasn’t watching them. He was watching Tim—and laughing.

Tim’s face reddened. Then he turned to his boys. “Enough,” he said harshly. “You’ve got one lap left.
Move it.
” He stabbed a finger at them and then at the court.

Red shrank back. Peter’s bottom lip trembled slightly. Keanu stopped in midzoom, his expression crestfallen. Then, one by one, they started jogging.

That’s better,
Tim thought, hands on hips.
Got to show them who’s boss around here.

Yet as he followed their progress around the court, Dick’s suggestion to show them that basketball was fun came back to him.

Okay, so they’re not having fun now,
he thought.
That doesn’t mean I can’t make it fun!
He scratched his head, trying to figure out exactly how he could make drills enjoyable for seven-year-old boys.

It was a question he didn’t find an answer to, at least not in the next hour. Those sixty minutes proved to be the longest in Tim’s life. Dribbling, passing, shooting—the boys did everything he told them to do. But they performed each task with so little enthusiasm that Tim felt like he was punishing them. He didn’t know who was more relieved when their counselor reappeared, him or them.

“Good job, guys,” he said. He wasn’t really expecting a reply—but it still hurt when he didn’t get one.