1
The Deciding Factor
T he late-afternoon wind had turned cold and was right in their faces as a half dozen boys made their way along the Boulevard. Dunk zipped his jacket up to his neck, then noticed that his right shoelace was dragging on the sidewalk.
He stopped and bent down to tie it. Jason Fiorelli, walking a few steps behind, was deep in conversation with Miguel Rivera and nearly tripped over Dunk.
“Sorry, bro,” Dunk said.
“No problem, but whoa ,” Fiorelli said. “What size is that shoe?”
“Twelve.”
“Yow. That’s huge! If you ever grow into those feet, you’ll be, like, eight feet tall.”
Dunk smiled, placing his hands on the sidewalk and pushing himself up. Four pigeons scattered away.
Dunk’s legs were dead tired; Coach Davis had run the players hard today—lots of wind sprints and line drills. “I think I got a blister on my heel. All that scrambling around.”
“Get used to it,” Fiorelli said. “Coach says he’s building this team around speed .”
Dunk swallowed hard. Speed was one of the major things he lacked. That and jumping ability. “When did he say that?”
“In the hallway yesterday morning. Said he might even go with four guards on the floor sometimes with Jared.”
“That’d be you, Miguel, Spencer, and Willie?” Dunk asked.
“Probably. He wants to run teams off the court this season. It’s what works best for us. Speed is one thing we got.”
“That could be bad news for a big, slow center like me,” Dunk said with a frown. He looked away from Jason and stared at the street, busy with trucks and buses and cars. Across the way, the window of Jalapeño’s restaurant said AUTHENTIC MEXICANO—FREE EXPRESS DELIVERY.
“Well,” Fiorelli said, “you’re probably safe. Jared has to have somebody backing him up. He never comes out of the game unless he gets a T, but he got plenty of them last year.”
“He had a temper, huh?”
“Yeah, but then he got it under control. Only got kicked out of a couple of games.”
Dunk quickly thought over his competition for a spot on the roster of the Hudson City Middle School seventh-grade team. The guys Fiorelli had mentioned were all locks, and he had to figure on Ryan Grimes, Lamont Wilkins, and David Choi making it, too.
That left four spots. There were twenty-seven guys trying out for the team. Only a few of them were slower getting up and down the court than Dunk was.
There was more to it than that, of course. Dunk was the best free-throw shooter in the school, and he’d become a rebounding force and a solid defender. And at five-foot-ten, he was definitely one of the bigger players.
Still, if speed was going to be the deciding factor, Dunk’s chances looked a little bleak. Only twelve players would make the roster.
And as much as he loved playing basketball, there was something else at stake, too. Being part of that group—competitive guys like Willie and Miguel; self-assured athletes like Spencer and Lamont; easygoing comedians like Fiorelli and David—that was something Dunk secretly longed for, too. Not for status, but just because they were fun to be around.
The others had kept walking and were now a block ahead of Dunk and Fiorelli.
“You worried that you’ll get cut?” Jason asked.
Dunk shrugged. “It’s out of my hands. This coach doesn’t know me so well. I don’t know what he’s noticed. And he did cut me last year.”
Fiorelli, Spencer, and Jared had sparked this group of players to a fifth-and-sixth-grade league championship the winter before under Coach Davis. This year’s team would be all seventh-graders, and Coach Davis had moved up to coach them again. He was only in his second year as a teacher and coach, but the players had grown to respect him.
“You have one more tryout session to make him notice,” Fiorelli said.
“Well, unless I turn into a track star overnight, I’ve got nothing more to show.”
They walked past Bonita Fashions and El Torito Market. Dunk
The Deciding Factor
T he late-afternoon wind had turned cold and was right in their faces as a half dozen boys made their way along the Boulevard. Dunk zipped his jacket up to his neck, then noticed that his right shoelace was dragging on the sidewalk.
He stopped and bent down to tie it. Jason Fiorelli, walking a few steps behind, was deep in conversation with Miguel Rivera and nearly tripped over Dunk.
“Sorry, bro,” Dunk said.
“No problem, but whoa ,” Fiorelli said. “What size is that shoe?”
“Twelve.”
“Yow. That’s huge! If you ever grow into those feet, you’ll be, like, eight feet tall.”
Dunk smiled, placing his hands on the sidewalk and pushing himself up. Four pigeons scattered away.
Dunk’s legs were dead tired; Coach Davis had run the players hard today—lots of wind sprints and line drills. “I think I got a blister on my heel. All that scrambling around.”
“Get used to it,” Fiorelli said. “Coach says he’s building this team around speed .”
Dunk swallowed hard. Speed was one of the major things he lacked. That and jumping ability. “When did he say that?”
“In the hallway yesterday morning. Said he might even go with four guards on the floor sometimes with Jared.”
“That’d be you, Miguel, Spencer, and Willie?” Dunk asked.
“Probably. He wants to run teams off the court this season. It’s what works best for us. Speed is one thing we got.”
“That could be bad news for a big, slow center like me,” Dunk said with a frown. He looked away from Jason and stared at the street, busy with trucks and buses and cars. Across the way, the window of Jalapeño’s restaurant said AUTHENTIC MEXICANO—FREE EXPRESS DELIVERY.
“Well,” Fiorelli said, “you’re probably safe. Jared has to have somebody backing him up. He never comes out of the game unless he gets a T, but he got plenty of them last year.”
“He had a temper, huh?”
“Yeah, but then he got it under control. Only got kicked out of a couple of games.”
Dunk quickly thought over his competition for a spot on the roster of the Hudson City Middle School seventh-grade team. The guys Fiorelli had mentioned were all locks, and he had to figure on Ryan Grimes, Lamont Wilkins, and David Choi making it, too.
That left four spots. There were twenty-seven guys trying out for the team. Only a few of them were slower getting up and down the court than Dunk was.
There was more to it than that, of course. Dunk was the best free-throw shooter in the school, and he’d become a rebounding force and a solid defender. And at five-foot-ten, he was definitely one of the bigger players.
Still, if speed was going to be the deciding factor, Dunk’s chances looked a little bleak. Only twelve players would make the roster.
And as much as he loved playing basketball, there was something else at stake, too. Being part of that group—competitive guys like Willie and Miguel; self-assured athletes like Spencer and Lamont; easygoing comedians like Fiorelli and David—that was something Dunk secretly longed for, too. Not for status, but just because they were fun to be around.
The others had kept walking and were now a block ahead of Dunk and Fiorelli.
“You worried that you’ll get cut?” Jason asked.
Dunk shrugged. “It’s out of my hands. This coach doesn’t know me so well. I don’t know what he’s noticed. And he did cut me last year.”
Fiorelli, Spencer, and Jared had sparked this group of players to a fifth-and-sixth-grade league championship the winter before under Coach Davis. This year’s team would be all seventh-graders, and Coach Davis had moved up to coach them again. He was only in his second year as a teacher and coach, but the players had grown to respect him.
“You have one more tryout session to make him notice,” Fiorelli said.
“Well, unless I turn into a track star overnight, I’ve got nothing more to show.”
They walked past Bonita Fashions and El Torito Market. Dunk
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