crushed.
Coach Davis appeared a few minutes later and blew his whistle. He was tall and thin and looked almost young enough to be in high school. “Let’s have five quick laps around the gym, then everyone take a seat in the bleachers,” he said.
Dunk had done a lot of running in the fall to get ready for this, so he had no trouble jogging laps. It was the sprints at the end of practice that got to him. In fact, he felt better as he finished the laps than before he had started. More relaxed, now that the sweat had begun to flow.
Dunk had done some counting while the players were running; there were only eighteen kids in the gym. Maybe Coach had already cut some guys.
“Where is everybody?” Fiorelli asked. “They hiding in the locker room?”
“Everybody’s here,” Coach said. “Except Jared. He’s excused from practice today. The others have been informed that they haven’t made the team. . . . No coach likes cutting anyone, but we had more than twice as many kids trying out as we have spots for. So the rest of you are the final contenders. I’m expecting a lot of effort out of all of you today.”
Dunk did a quick scan of his memory to see who’d been cut. Little Warren Soto was gone, and so was scrawny Mike Cooper. No surprises there. Tarik Howard hadn’t made it, but most of the other big men—Dunk’s competition at center and forward—were still around.
But where was Jared?
They did passing drills and rebounding drills and shooting drills for an hour, then finally took a three-minute break.
“All right,” Coach said, “we’re going full-court for the rest of the session, people. I need to see you working out there. Nobody has made this team yet.”
Dunk let out his breath. Who was Coach kidding? Of course some of these guys had already made the team. Fiorelli, Spencer, Miguel. But Dunk knew he wasn’t on any list yet.
Coach pointed at Fiorelli and waved him onto the court, handing him the ball. “I want Spencer and Willie out here. You’re the guards. Ryan and Fiorelli at forward. Dunk at center. You guys put on the pinnies.”
Dunk’s mouth dropped open. Coach was putting him in Jared’s spot. He stepped down from the bleachers. Fiorelli tossed him a blue-mesh pinnie to put on over his T-shirt.
Coach called five more players onto the floor, including Louie Gonzalez, who’d be matched up at center against Dunk.
Spencer waved the first five over and they huddled up. “Listen. Coach gave me a heads-up before on how he wants this to go. We’re gonna run, but he wants us pounding the ball inside mucho .” Spencer met Dunk’s eyes. “He needs to get a handle on the big men before he makes some decisions.”
They broke the huddle. Fiorelli put his hand on Dunk’s shoulder. “Do it up,” he said.
Dunk’s sweat suddenly seemed to turn cold, but he took a deep breath and sucked in his stomach. He was nervous. Just play the game, he told himself. Just play some basketball, Cornell Duncan.
Dunk shook Louie’s hand before the scrimmage began. Neither said anything, but they could see what was at stake. There was a good chance that only one of them would be on the final roster. The team probably only needed one second-string center.
Both kids were similar in size and build—tall but on the chunky side—although Dunk had slimmed down a bit since summer. Both of them had close-cropped hair; Dunk’s skin was a shade or two darker. He and Louie had been subs on the YMCA’s summer-league all-star team that played in the state tournament down at the Jersey Shore. That had been Dunk’s first taste of big-time basketball. But he’d choked with the game on the line in the semifinals.
Dunk had vowed after that tournament to do whatever work was necessary to make the school team this winter. That had included miles of running, hours of solitary shooting at the Y, and even a few of his aunt’s evening aerobics classes.
It’d be great if me and Louie both make it, he
Coach Davis appeared a few minutes later and blew his whistle. He was tall and thin and looked almost young enough to be in high school. “Let’s have five quick laps around the gym, then everyone take a seat in the bleachers,” he said.
Dunk had done a lot of running in the fall to get ready for this, so he had no trouble jogging laps. It was the sprints at the end of practice that got to him. In fact, he felt better as he finished the laps than before he had started. More relaxed, now that the sweat had begun to flow.
Dunk had done some counting while the players were running; there were only eighteen kids in the gym. Maybe Coach had already cut some guys.
“Where is everybody?” Fiorelli asked. “They hiding in the locker room?”
“Everybody’s here,” Coach said. “Except Jared. He’s excused from practice today. The others have been informed that they haven’t made the team. . . . No coach likes cutting anyone, but we had more than twice as many kids trying out as we have spots for. So the rest of you are the final contenders. I’m expecting a lot of effort out of all of you today.”
Dunk did a quick scan of his memory to see who’d been cut. Little Warren Soto was gone, and so was scrawny Mike Cooper. No surprises there. Tarik Howard hadn’t made it, but most of the other big men—Dunk’s competition at center and forward—were still around.
But where was Jared?
They did passing drills and rebounding drills and shooting drills for an hour, then finally took a three-minute break.
“All right,” Coach said, “we’re going full-court for the rest of the session, people. I need to see you working out there. Nobody has made this team yet.”
Dunk let out his breath. Who was Coach kidding? Of course some of these guys had already made the team. Fiorelli, Spencer, Miguel. But Dunk knew he wasn’t on any list yet.
Coach pointed at Fiorelli and waved him onto the court, handing him the ball. “I want Spencer and Willie out here. You’re the guards. Ryan and Fiorelli at forward. Dunk at center. You guys put on the pinnies.”
Dunk’s mouth dropped open. Coach was putting him in Jared’s spot. He stepped down from the bleachers. Fiorelli tossed him a blue-mesh pinnie to put on over his T-shirt.
Coach called five more players onto the floor, including Louie Gonzalez, who’d be matched up at center against Dunk.
Spencer waved the first five over and they huddled up. “Listen. Coach gave me a heads-up before on how he wants this to go. We’re gonna run, but he wants us pounding the ball inside mucho .” Spencer met Dunk’s eyes. “He needs to get a handle on the big men before he makes some decisions.”
They broke the huddle. Fiorelli put his hand on Dunk’s shoulder. “Do it up,” he said.
Dunk’s sweat suddenly seemed to turn cold, but he took a deep breath and sucked in his stomach. He was nervous. Just play the game, he told himself. Just play some basketball, Cornell Duncan.
Dunk shook Louie’s hand before the scrimmage began. Neither said anything, but they could see what was at stake. There was a good chance that only one of them would be on the final roster. The team probably only needed one second-string center.
Both kids were similar in size and build—tall but on the chunky side—although Dunk had slimmed down a bit since summer. Both of them had close-cropped hair; Dunk’s skin was a shade or two darker. He and Louie had been subs on the YMCA’s summer-league all-star team that played in the state tournament down at the Jersey Shore. That had been Dunk’s first taste of big-time basketball. But he’d choked with the game on the line in the semifinals.
Dunk had vowed after that tournament to do whatever work was necessary to make the school team this winter. That had included miles of running, hours of solitary shooting at the Y, and even a few of his aunt’s evening aerobics classes.
It’d be great if me and Louie both make it, he
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