BASKETBALL TRYOUTS IN THE GYM AT 4:15
As I change into my gym clothes in the locker room, I can’t believe I managed to avoid playing pickup games with the guys this long. I made excuses, and they let me get away with them. It was almost as if they were okay with me not joining their pickup games as long as they knew I’d show for tryouts today and bring my A game.
Honestly, I don’t know if I can bring my C game or D game or even my Z game.
But I’m not nearly as bad as I was. I’ve been working like crazy at improving and honing my skills.
Bubbie and I have worked together every night. She said I improved so much she might create a new line of videos—Bubbie’s Basketball Workout—to add to her Bodies by Bubbie collection of products.
This made me feel really good.
Bubbie even got a few of her friends to challenge me to some pickup games at the rec center, which were hilarious, because her friends are each about five feet tall. But those ladies had game. They moved more quickly and more gracefully than I ever could with my long, awkward legs.
If I can barely keep up with a bunch of short, senior señoras, how will I ever manage with the guys on the court? Sure, I can sink baskets from the paint now and from the foul line sometimes, but actual running and dribbling? At the same time? With other guys chasing me? My legs will probably tangle and send me flying before I get a chance to shoot the ball.
Against my better judgment, I head toward the gym doors.
I hear the squeak of sneakers on the court and balls bouncing and know with complete clarity I’m not prepared. Not really. Not in the ways that matter. It’s not as though I had a dad helping me with my basketball skills since I was little, like most of these guys I’m sure had. All I had was Bubbie and her friends helping me. That’s not enough. That’s never going to be enough.
My mind races through the myriad ways I might embarrass myself today. Falling. Tripping. Missing the basket. Falling, tripping and missing the basket. Making a lame pass that doesn’t reach its intended target. Catching a pass with my face instead of my hands.
The possibilities are endless.
With a trembling hand, I pull open the door to the gym and step inside.
A Particular Kind of Pain
I peek through the small window in the door of the gym and see two things:
One: On the right-hand side, Coach Outlaw is yelling at the cheerleaders. Good. I’m not a fan of cheerleaders. I think a girl should play sports, like Dare does—she’s a beast on the lacrosse field—not dress in skimpy skirts and cheer for the boys. “Rah. Rah. Blah.” Do you ever see boys cheer at girls’ sports games, while wearing skimpy outfits?
Two: On the left-hand side, Coach Ochoa yells at the boys. He’s making them run different drills, while the assistant coach marks things on a clipboard.
I squint and see Dunkin. He’s running a heat against Vasquez.
My stomach clenches as I watch Vasquez easily outrun him, even though Dunkin is taller. I expect Vasquez to make fun of Dunkin or something, but he pats him on the back and jogs to the next drill.
Pats him on the back. He’d never do that to me. More likely punch me in the back.
I’m dying to go into the gym and see how Dunkin does during tryouts, even though I know I shouldn’t care about him. It’s obvious he doesn’t care about me or Dare. He won’t eat lunch at our table and he barely talks to me, even less than he did before our Dunkin’ Donuts situation, unless he has to during Mr. Creighton’s class. Not exactly good friend behavior, but still, there’s something about him that makes me want to keep reaching out.
I consider opening the doors and slipping inside the gym, except I don’t want the cheerleaders staring at me, judging me. And Vasquez would surely notice me and say something cruel. In fact, I know the exact word he’ll say.
Can’t deal with that.
So I turn and walk down the hall, thinking I’ll head to the outside sports fields and see what’s going on there, or maybe I’ll go to the Beckford Palms Library and lose myself among the shelves of books. I could even spend time with Bob, but the sign near him makes me so sad, it’s hard to be there.
When I pass the utility closet near the water fountain, I remember what’s inside, and I get an idea.
A crazy idea—my favorite kind.
Al E. Gator (aka Ali Gator)
The inside of the alligator head smells like ancient sweat.
It should. I don’t want to think about how many students have worn this mascot costume before me. Have jumped around in it. Have gushed buckets of sweat inside of it while cheering for Gator Lake Middle.
Good old Al E. Gator—Gator Lake Middle’s mascot for all football and basketball games. In my opinion, it should be named Ali Gator, but of course no one asked for my opinion.
I slip into the rest of the costume. It’s like pulling on green carpeting. But there’s something about being inside it that feels like Halloween and my birthday rolled into one. Something secret. Something magical.
I complete the transformation by putting on the alligator costume’s oversized feet and hands, or paws and claws, as the case may be.
If there were a mirror in the utility closet, I could see how I look, but I can barely see out of the eyeholes. It’s hot in the costume, like wearing a winter coat in summer, but it’s also perfect because it covers every part of me.
I take a deep, sweat-smelling breath and open the door.
It’s quiet in the hall. The only sounds are the distant squeaks of sneakers on the court, a whistle being blown and cheers being called.
I walk toward the gym, carefully placing each giant, green furry foot in front of the other. Then I grab the door handle with my Al E. Gator paw and pad inside the gym.
Through the small eyeholes, I see a couple of the basketball boys point and laugh, but when Coach Ochoa yells, “Focus or leave!” they go right back to the drills. Dunkin is concentrating so hard he doesn’t even seem to notice I’ve walked in. Before I get yelled at by Coach Ochoa, I walk to the side of the gym and stand behind the cheerleaders. I make a few dumb moves, so people will think I’m one of the dopey jocks in the costume—probably assume I’m someone from the football team.
I have fun dancing and making the cheerleaders giggle. Even Coach Outlaw laughs, but she waves me away. “We’re working here.”
If that’s what you want to call it. I back up—sweat dripping into my eyes—shuffle my feet, twirl my hands around and keep an eye on the opposite side of the gym—the basketball side.
What I see surprises me.
SUPERCHARGED
I’m surprised when my shots go in the basket.
I’m surprised when I keep up with the guy who’s guarding me and the guy I’m guarding. I’m surprised when my legs don’t twist together like a pretzel and I don’t fall on my face during dribbling drills. I’m utterly shocked when I beat a few guys during timed runs.
Thank you, Bubbie and the sassy señoras!
I’m so focused on not humiliating myself, I barely notice when someone comes into the gym wearing an alligator costume. School mascot? I guess he has to practice his routines, too, but it doesn’t look like he’s practicing—just goofing around behind the cheerleaders. The alligator is kind of hilarious, which helps me relax, so I end up playing even better.
Several days later, Coach posts a list of the kids who made first cut. And right there on the list is “Norbert Dorfman.” It’s the only time I’ve been happy to see my name.
The guys who made the cut try not to cheer too much because the guys who didn’t make it are hanging their heads and slinking away. Each of us knows that in a few days, when the final list of names is posted, any one of us might not be on it. Well, Vasquez and a couple of the other guys will be on it. That’s a given.
The threat of not making the final cut seems to make each of us try harder at practice. I know I’m giving it everything I’ve got. It’s almost like something has given me superpowers on the court. And I know exactly what that something is. Not Bubbie. Not the sassy señoras. Not the goofy mascot. Something else.
When the final team list is posted, I’m shocked and thrilled to discover my name on it.
I knew cutting back a little on my meds was a good idea. It’s given me zip and energy to keep up with the other guys. I sleep less, too, which means more time to practice. At first I just forgot to take a couple doses. I didn’t mean to skip any medicine because I knew Mom was trusting me to take my pills every day. But doing well on the court is super important, so it seems like a good plan to “forget” to take my pills a bit more often now.
As we’re all crowded around the list and the guys see their names (or don’t), Vasquez pulls me into a huddle with the other guys who made the team. They chant, “We are Gators! We are Gators! WE ARE GATORS!!!”
I join in.
Our voices blend together, and the vibrations ripple through me like an electric current. I feel supercharged.
“WE ARE GATORS. WE ARE GATORS. WE ARE GATORS!!!”
This is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me. And the most terrifying. From now on, these guys are counting on me to help them have the best season ever.
And I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen.
I can’t wait to tell Bubbie and Mom the great news.
I wish I could tell Dad.
IT’S TIME TO GO
After school, I drop my backpack near the stairs.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Mom says. “We’re going out.”
“Where?” I ask, but before she answers, I’ve motored to the kitchen and grabbed a sawdust and raisin muffin. I’m so hungry I could eat twenty of them, even though it’s like chewing on ground tree bark. My mouth stuffed with the first bite, I shout, “I made the team!” Sawdust crumbs spray everywhere.
Mom leans against the kitchen counter and narrows her eyes at me. “Is that why you’re so excited?”
Why can’t Mom be happy for me? This is the biggest news of my life. And I didn’t think I was acting that excited. Just happy. Really, really happy. “The stuff Bubbie did helped a lot.” I shove another bite of muffin into my mouth and walk in tight circles—two steps forward, turn, two steps forward, turn, two steps, turn. I count the things Bubbie did on my fingers and talk with my mouth full. “The drills. The dribbling. The running. The throwing. The drills.”
“You already said that one.” Mom’s looking at me strangely, like I messed up, so I start again. “The drills. The dribbling. The—”
“Norbert?”
“Don’t call me that!” I shriek.
Mom reels back, like I pushed her. “Okay,” she says. “What should I call you, then?” Her arms are crossed. Her eyes look tired with dark circles underneath. I hope she hasn’t been crying again. I didn’t get why she was crying so much before. I mean, it’s not like—
“Norb?”
I bob from foot to foot. “Yeah?” I should probably do some basketball drills right now to use up some of this energy. I could probably sink a hundred three-pointers in a row the way I feel.
“Let’s go,” Mom says.
I’m not sure why, but her words grate on me, like they’re rubbing my nerve endings.
“And bring your meds,” she adds.
I stop moving, which isn’t the easiest thing for me to do right now. “Where are we going?” I ask, breathing hard through my nose.
“Calm down,” Mom says.
“I AM CALM!”
“Just grab your meds and let’s go. We’ll stop at Dunkin’ Donuts afterward.”
That softens me. A little. But I’m not happy about this. “Where did you say we’re going?”
“I didn’t.” Mom looks at me like she’s trying to figure something out. Like I’m hiding something. “We’re going to a new psychiatrist. There’s only one in the whole area who specializes in bipolar disorder, and it took me forever to get this appointment, so let’s get moving. I don’t want to be late.” Then Mom mutters, “Sorry he couldn’t get you in sooner. We never should have waited this long.”
“But we saw my psychiatrist right before we left Jersey,” I remind her.
“So?”
“So, do we have to go now?” I ask. “I feel great. See?” I do a bunch of jumping jacks and some pushups, like Bubbie would if there were a few unoccupied moments. “I feel absolutely fantastic.”
“I’ll bet you do,” Mom says, but not in a nice way. “Please grab your meds. We’re going.” She snatches her purse from the counter and waits by the front door.
Upstairs in the guest room, I look at my pill bottles. Way too full. I must have been skipping more doses than I realized. I shake some out from each bottle and wrap them in a tissue. Then I shove the tissue under some papers in my trash can. I feel bad about that because of how expensive my antipsychotic medicine is and how hard I imagine it is for Mom to pay for things since Dad…Anyway, I really didn’t need all those pills. I do much better…feel much better when I skip a few doses. And Mom wouldn’t understand that.
Pill bottles in hand, I jog downstairs, grab another sawdust and raisin muffin and hustle to the car. While I wait for Mom, I tap a complicated melody on the car window with my fingers. “What took you so long?”
“I was right behind you,” Mom says. “I only stopped to lock the door.” She looks at me like I’m crazy.
I can’t be crazy. I’ve never felt better. Right, Phin? I wish he were here. Why isn’t he here?
In the car, my leg bobs up and down so much it feels like I might drill a hole in the floorboard with my sneaker. “Let’s go!”
Mom shakes her head, starts the car and pulls out of the driveway. “Yes, let’s.”
