Technical Foul

Table of Contents

 

 

Jared spotted Fiorelli in the corner and fired it
out to him. Jared stepped into the key, calling
for the ball back. He felt a sharp blow to his
shoulder, and turned and jabbed his elbow hard
into his opponent’s chest.

And there came the whistle, sharp and long.
“That’s a
T
!” the referee shouted, pointing at
Jared. “Thirty-three, red, with the elbow.”

Jared felt a chill and all the air seemed to go
out of him. He’d lost his temper at a critical
point, and now Memorial, leading by two, would
shoot a free throw and then get the ball.

“Not again,” Jared said to himself. He couldn’t cost his team another game.

Winning Season Series
Double Fake
Fast Company
The Roar of the Crowd

 

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First published in the United States of America by Viking,
a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2004
Published by Puffin Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2005

 

Copyright © Rich Wallace, 2004

All rights reserved

 

THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE VIKING EDITION AS FOLLOWS:
Wallace, Rich.
Technical foul / by Rich Wallace
p. cm.—(Winning Season ; #2)
Summary: Jared, a high-scoring member of the Hudson City Middle School basketball
team, gets angry when the point guard accuses him of being responsible for their
string of losses, but finally realizes they can win only if he becomes a team player.

ISBN : 978-1-101-54972-8

 

For Cameron

T
he ball came to Jared near the basket, with a defender guarding him tightly. Jared made a quick half turn to his right, then pivoted left and dribbled, driving to the hoop. His shot hit softly off the backboard and into the basket.

“About time,” said Spencer Lewis, the point guard.

Jared ignored the comment. Less than a minute remained, and Hudson City trailed by two points. “Tough defense now!” Jared shouted as they retreated. “We need a stop!”

Hudson City had led for most of the game, but the team’s shooting had gone cold in the fourth quarter. Specifically, it was Jared who’d turned to ice. He’d missed four straight shots before that last basket, and Spencer had griped after every one. In the meantime, Memorial had rallied, taking its first lead of the game.

Memorial called for a time-out with about thirty seconds left to play. Jared wiped his face on his red jersey as he and the other Hudson City players jogged to the bench.

Coach Davis cleared his throat and looked at Spencer, who nodded. “We have to get the ball back,” Coach said. “Foul if you need to, but let’s get a steal if we can. Take the best shot available.”

Jared looked up at the bleachers in the small Hudson City Middle School gym. About fifty students were watching the late-afternoon game.

Memorial passed the ball in, and the point guard dribbled to the top of the key. They could run out the clock and win the game without taking a shot. Hudson City had to get the ball.

“Pressure!” Jared shouted.

Spencer and Fiorelli hounded the Memorial guard and forced him to stop dribbling. The guard held the ball away from the defenders and frantically looked for someone to pass to. He sent a quick bounce pass into the paint, but Jared stepped in front of his man and intercepted it.

Time was running out. Jared dribbled quickly up the court and straight toward the basket. Spencer was on his right, calling for the ball, but Jared was going all the way with this one.

Jared drove into the lane with a pair of Memorial players at his sides. He could hear the spectators counting down the seconds: “Six-five-four . . .”

“Trailing!” That was Jason Fiorelli, wide open at the free-throw line.

Jared stopped his dribble and launched a fade-away jump shot from six feet, leaning slightly toward the end line to avoid a defender’s outstretched hand.

The ball bonked off the rim and fell to the floor. A Memorial player grabbed it and held it tight as the buzzer sounded, ending the game.

Hudson City had lost, 54–52.

Jared looked around and caught Fiorelli staring at him from the foul line. “Dude, I was completely open,” Fiorelli said.

“Ball hog!” That was Spencer.

The opposing players shook hands and walked off the court. Jared took a last glance at the scoreboard. Another loss. They’d had such high hopes at the start of the season, but now they were 0–3.

I’m not getting much support out there
, Jared thought. He’d been the high scorer in all three games, but the result had been three tough losses.

The team was quiet in the locker room, showering and dressing and then sitting in front of their lockers to wait for the coach. Jared took out his comb and ran it through his wavy brown hair.

Coach Davis wasn’t happy when he finally came in.

Mr. Davis was just one year out of college, and he was much quieter than last year’s coach. He was the shyest coach Jared had ever had. And the most nervous. His armpits were wet with sweat.

“For some reason we can’t seem to hold on to a lead,” Coach said, stammering a little. “We’ve had a second-half lead in every game we’ve played, and every time we’ve blown it. Anybody have an answer for that?”

The players just looked around. Jared caught Spencer’s eyes and they glared at each other. The two were supposed to be the leaders of this team. Both had been starters last year as fifth graders. Now, as the veterans of the team, they had big expectations. The two captains: Spencer, short and black; Jared, tall and white.

“Well,” said the coach when no one spoke up. “We’ll be running in practice tomorrow, I can tell you that. If we’re running out of gas in the fourth quarter, there’s a definite way to overcome that. It’s called effort.”

They left the gymnasium and stepped out into the cool, early evening air. Jared began walking across the blacktop play area toward the street, but he stopped when he heard footsteps behind him. He was surprised to see Spencer, who lived in the opposite direction.

“What’s up, Spence?” Jared said, looking down into his shorter teammate’s large brown eyes.

“You blew it, Jared.”

Jared shook his head. “Hey. I had twenty-two points, pal.”

“You took twenty-eight shots!” Spencer said. “That’s more than the rest of the team combined. Do the math. The rest of us scored thirty.”

Jared bit down on his lip. He and Spencer weren’t close, but they’d never been hostile, either. Spencer looked tough with his close-cropped dark hair and muscular arms. Was this guy looking for a fight?

Jared thought for a few seconds, then said, “I’m the go-to guy, Spence. The man in the clutch.”

“You won’t be much longer if you keep forcing shots,” Spencer said. “Just watch how often the pass
won’t
come your way if you never pass it back.”

They stared across at each other again. “Coach’ll bench you if you don’t feed me the ball,” Jared said.

“Coach isn’t exactly a basketball genius,” Spencer answered. “We’re in shape. We’re just not a team. On that last play you had two wide-open options—me and Fiorelli. You forced a lame-butt shot because that’s all you know how to do. If you make a simple pass, we tie that game. Instead you have to try to be a hero.”

Jared swallowed hard and blinked. He knew he should have made the shot. Spencer and Fiorelli would have probably missed it, too.

“Twenty points a game,” Jared said, tapping himself on the chest.

“Yeah? And your shooting percentage is practically single digits,” Spencer said. “Just think about it, all right? You’re a good player, but you’re not helping the team. At least not as much as you think you are.”

Spencer walked away. Jared watched him go.

What did Spencer know, anyway? Spencer’d had his share of turnovers and missed shots today. He’d made plenty of bad passes and got burned on defense a few times. He was just as much to blame for the loss, Jared decided.

Besides
, he thought,
without my twenty-two points, we wouldn’t even have been close
.

J
ared couldn’t sit still at dinner, thinking about the last shot that he’d missed. “I’ve made shots like that a million times,” he told his dad. “I never miss it in the driveway.”

“There aren’t any defenders in the driveway, Jag,” Mr. Owen said with a laugh. “It’s a long season, Jared. You guys will start winning.”

“We’d better,” Jared said. “We won’t even make the playoffs if we don’t get hot soon.”

Jared’s mom was working the evening shift at the hospital, so he and his dad were eating tuna-fish sandwiches and pasta at the kitchen table.

“I’ll try to get to one of your games in the next week or so,” Dad said. “I think I can cut out of work early next Thursday.”

“Sounds good,” Jared said. He set down his fork and pushed away his empty plate.

“You want more pasta?” Dad asked. “There’s plenty.”

“No thanks,” Jared said. “I think I’ll go out and shoot.”

“It’s getting pretty cold out there.”

“I don’t care.”

“You ought to digest your dinner for a little while,” Dad said. “Otherwise it’ll come back up.”

Jared shrugged. “I’m just going to shoot, not run. My touch was way off today. I don’t know why. I just couldn’t make a shot when it mattered.”

Jared went up to his room to get his basketball. He pulled on a New Jersey Devils sweatshirt and glanced at the photos on his dresser—team pictures from junior football and Little League, and one from his guitar recital the previous spring. He also had a couple of bowling trophies, and medals from a local track meet where he’d won the long jump and the 200-meter dash. He’d had success in every sport he’d tried.