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Authors: Eric Walters

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BOOK: Triple Threat
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“I'll give you that much.”

“I even remember when he became my favorite player. It was a game about a year ago. He didn't start the game. He came in off the bench in the second quarter, but he still got four steals, fourteen boards and twelve points.”

“A double-double. Those are good stats.”

“But more than the stats was the way he played. His first steal he knocked the ball away and then went sliding across the floor, knocking people down, to get the loose ball. He was up and down that court, spinning, jumping, grabbing boards, defending his man. And the whole time he's smiling, looking like he's just having fun.”

“He does smile a lot,” Kia agreed. “And I've got to admit that I like the way he plays too. He plays like he's bigger than he is.”

I chuckled. “Isn't it strange that somebody who stands six feet nine inches tall isn't considered that big?”

“That's the NBA. I wonder what it was like growing up being that tall. I bet people would always be staring at you and making stupid comments and stuff.”

“Maybe. You could ask him,” I suggested. “We're almost there.”

There were no more than a dozen people in front of us. I watched as JYD signed another slip of paper. He was smiling and joking with the little girl and her mother. He didn't seem to be in any rush and actually looked like he was enjoying himself—the way he seemed to do when he was playing ball.

Kia and I had collected autographs from different players. The best time was after a game. When we went down to see the Raptors play at the Air Canada Center, there was a place where you could go after the game and ask for autographs. Most of the players were pretty good and would sign things. They'd joke around, pose for pictures, and one even gave Kia his headband—she practically had to wring it out, it was so soaked with sweat.

A couple—not many, but a couple—had been jerks, just ignoring us. One even muttered under his breath and then said something about how we were just going to sell it, so he wasn't going to give us his autograph.

I knew that if I ever made it that far, there was no way in the world I'd ever brush somebody off—especially a kid. I'd treat them well. The way JYD was treating people today.

As we got closer, I could make out little bits of conversation. JYD suddenly burst into laughter, a big, booming, friendly laugh that was quickly joined by the people he was talking to. He reached out and signed the little boy's shirt. He then shook hands with both the boy and his mother and said goodbye.

“This is an awfully long wait,” Kia said.

“Keep your voice down,” I said to Kia. “He might hear you.”

“So what? It's not like I'm saying anything bad.”

“It's just that if we can hear him, he can hear us,” I explained.

“And?”

“Just keep your voice down … please.”

We continued to inch forward until we were next
in line. He was joking with the people in front of us, a smile on his face. He finished signing their papers, said goodbye, and they moved on. We were next.

“Kia, it's good to see you!” he exclaimed. “I'm glad you stayed around.”

“I wanted to get an autograph for my friend. This is Nick.”

“Pleased to meet you, Nick. How're you doing?”

He reached out and shook my hand. It basically disappeared inside his huge mitt. His hands were enormous, but his handshake was gentle.

“I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Williams, sir.”

“You don't have to call me Mr. Williams or sir. JYD will do just fine.”

“Okay, sure, Mr. JYD.”

He laughed. “Just plain JYD, but obviously your parents raised you to be polite.”

I felt a bit strange. I knew what his voice sounded like because I'd heard him in line and in interviews, but now he was talking to me.

“Are you two brother and sister?” JYD asked.

“No, best friends,” Kia said.

“You two ever get hassled about being best friends?”

“Sometimes,” I admitted.

“They say stupid things, like asking us if we're boy-friend and girlfriend or saying we talk like an old married couple.”

“Don't let 'em give you any grief. You keep hanging out with your best bud.”

“Could I ask you a question?” Kia asked.

“Shoot.”

“When you were growing up, did people ever give you a hard time about being so tall?” Kia asked.

“I wasn't that tall,” JYD said.

“Come on, seriously,” Kia said.

“Seriously. When I graduated from high school I was only about six feet tall. I did my growing when I was in college. I grew nine inches.”

“Wow!” I gasped.

Kia looked at me. “Still hope for you to become a center.”

JYD chuckled. “So you two play some ball.”

“We play a lot of basketball,” Kia replied.

“Looks like you're pretty good.”

“Not good. Great!” Kia replied.

This time JYD burst into laughter, and I couldn't help laughing along—his laughter was infectious.

“Nothing like being confident,” he said.

“No, we really do play pretty well,” I said. “We've been playing on the same rep team for years.”

“And last summer our three-on-three team won the city Hoop It Up contest,” Kia added.

“Excellent! Then you must play some great ball. You know, playing ball is one of the two best things you can do. You know what the other is, right?”

“Reading,” I said.

He smiled. “Good to know the message got through. Do you read much?”

“Every day for twenty minutes,” I said, not explaining that it wasn't my idea.

“What are you reading right now?” JYD asked.

“I'm reading a novel by Matt Christopher.”

“He's a good writer,” JYD said. “When you're reading one of his books, it feels like you're practically watching the game he's describing.”

“Yeah, exactly,” I said.

“Now, I've already signed the ball Kia has. Do you want me to sign that shiny new basketball?” he asked.

He took my ball. It seemed so little in his hand. It looked like he could palm it with one finger and his thumb.

“That's a fine-looking basketball,” he said.

“My father bought it so I could get it signed. He
would have bought Kia one as well if you hadn't given her the ball.”

“Sounds like you got yourself a good father.”

“He's the best.”

JYD's smile grew. “That's so nice you feel that way. Family's so important.”

He put the tip of his pen to the ball. In big bold letters he wrote: “Nick, keep reading and keep playing! JYD.”

“So you told that to your father lately?” JYD asked.

“Told him what?”

“That you think he's the best.”

“Um … not really … I guess.”

“Never put off saying or doing the right thing. Tell him today, okay?”

I nodded. “I'll tell him.”

“It's a shame, though, that he bought you a bad ball,” JYD said.

“What do you mean? It looks like a good ball.”

“What good is a basketball that can't bounce?”

He handed me back the ball. It was soft because it hadn't been filled up.

“I just have to pump it up and it will be fine,” I said.

“I see. So to make the ball work you have to have something inside of it.”

“Um … yeah … air.”

“That's right, it has to be inflated. For your mind to work, you have to have something inside of it too. That's what reading does. It inflates your mind.” He paused. “I want you to take good care of this,” he said, touching a finger against the side of my head. “And this,” he said, tapping the ball. “Keep them both inflated.”

“I'll make sure.”

“Hopefully better than he did with the last signed ball,” Kia said.

I shot her a dirty look.

“You had a problem with another signed ball?” JYD asked.

I pulled the ball in close to my chest, to show that I'd protect it, but also because I was afraid he might take it away from me.

“It got run over by a bus,” I said quietly.

“A bus? What was a bus doing on a basketball court?”

“The bus was on a road,” I answered.

“So what was your ball doing on a road?” JYD asked.

“That's where it ended up when this jerk kicked it over the fence of the court and—” Kia answered.

“But I'll treat this one a lot better,” I said, cutting her off. I felt stupid and embarrassed about the whole thing and really didn't want to talk about it. “Besides, there's lots of other people in line still … JYD doesn't have time to hear this story.”

“I have as much time as you have story,” JYD said. He turned to face the next people in line. “I'll get to everybody. I hope you don't mind if I hear the rest of this story, do you?”

“Not at all,” the man said. “Besides I want to know why some jerk would kick a kid's ball over a fence, too.”

JYD turned back to us. “So what happened?”

“We were going to the rec center,” Kia said.

“Really we were just going for a swim,” I said. “But there's a basketball court there.”

“A really nice court,” Kia added. “So Nick brought along his basketball in his backpack.”

“I always like to have a ball with me,” I explained. “You never know when a game might happen.”

“Sounds smart. Sort of like being a Boy Scout, always be prepared.”

“So the court was open, there was nobody on it,” Kia continued.

“It was the middle of the afternoon, and I think
it was too hot for people to play. So we just started playing when these guys came over.”

“Big guys,” Kia said. “Like teenagers or even older. They were really big … not big like you, but a lot bigger than us.”

“And one of these guys—these
big
guys—kicked your ball over the fence?” JYD asked.

“The biggest one,” Kia answered. “And he told us that it was his court and that we couldn't play there. He told us that if we ever came back, it wouldn't just be the ball that he kicked over the fence.”

“I hate bullies,” JYD said. “I guess we've all had bullies pick on us.”

“You've been picked on?” I asked.

“No matter how big you are, there's always somebody bigger or badder who gets his kicks picking on people. Can't understand why somebody thinks it makes them a man to pick on somebody smaller than them.”

“That's what we said, too,” Kia said.

“I just wish there was something I could do to make it better,” JYD said.

“Signing the ball helped. Listening to you and your brother and QTMC today helped.”

“That's what we're here for. Just curious, since this happened, have you gone back?” JYD asked.

“It just happened today.”

“Today. Must still sting bad. You planning on going back?”

“We'd like to go back and beat them at basketball,” Kia said. “They told us we could come back when we were able to beat them in a game of three-on-three and…”

Kia stopped talking, but the look on her face meant that she hadn't stopped thinking. What could she possibly have in mind? Oh, no … she couldn't! Not even Kia had enough nerve to do that.

“You know, JYD, you said you wished there was something you could do to help.”

“Kia, don't!” I exclaimed.

“I'm just going to ask. It couldn't hurt to ask.”

“Go ahead, shoot, what do you want to ask me?”

“Well … I was sort of wondering if you would play some basketball with us?”

6

We stood off to the side, watching the court from a safe distance. We could see them playing—as clear as day—but they couldn't see us that well. They were out there, the three big goons. We'd been watching for almost thirty minutes and had seen them play against two other teams. They'd won both games. Easily. Maybe they were jerks, but they did know how to play ball. They clearly were the best players in the park. That made the whole thing even stupider … more stupid. Did we really think that we had a chance in the world of beating these guys … even with JYD as the third member of our team?

I shook my head. Only Kia would ever think of asking JYD to play ball with us. Okay, sure, I'd thought of it too—once I saw where she was going.
But nobody except Kia would ever have enough nerve to actually ask him to play.

When Kia popped the question, I wanted to just scurry away. I felt so embarrassed. And then JYD asked some more questions and—to my complete shock—he said that he'd do it. I just couldn't believe my ears. Jerome “Junk Yard Dog” Williams was going to be joining Kia and me in playing a game of three-on-three. Unbelievable, simply unbelievable. So here we were, standing in the trees, waiting for JYD to drive up so that we could play a game of three-on-three against the three stooges.

BOOK: Triple Threat
8.06Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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