I just don’t think I need to."Ĭoach Baxter finally looked at me, and I wished he hadn’t. No exceptions.Ĭhris elbowed me and whispered, Let’s go.īut I wasn’t finished. I saw the sign, but I wanted to talk to you about it because. Uh … it’s about the tryouts.Ĭoach lined up the books on the middle shelf, from tallest to shortest. The clock is ticking, Coach Baxter growled. But so did we, the Lewis and Clark Middle School Pioneers. The guy obviously knew what he was doing.
I checked out the team photos on the wall behind his desk, the framed newspaper pages with champ headlines, and the shiny trophies on top of his bookcase. What can I do for you? he asked, without looking up from the box of books he was unpacking. It sounded like a squeak, so I cleared my throat and tried again. And it was all muscle.īefore I could say anything, I heard Chris breathing next to me. He wanted us to try out for our own team. I only knew three facts about our new coach:ģ. I rolled my eyes, turned the knob, and swung the door open.
Uh … He took a couple of steps away from me. You coming? I asked Chris, hoping I had backup. Talk to the coach, I said, knocking on his door.Ĭome in, a deep voice boomed from inside the office. Next Wednesday afternoon, Chris said, then pointed at the word as he read it. We were undefeated in sixth grade (if you didn’t count our five losses, which I didn’t because the refs had been out to get us), and we’d been shooting hoops at Sunset Park all summer to stay on top of our game. Unbelievable, I muttered, staring at the sign-up sheet on our new coach’s office door.Ĭhris, the rest of the guys, and I had been playing together since Cotter Elementary. Seventh-grade basketball started out all wrong, and it only got worse.
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