Full Court Press by Eric Walters Read Free Book Online

Mr. Roberts and if I could drive back with one of them after the game. Then again, after the game I was sure my stomach was going to be better no matter who was driving.
    â€œSo how are people feeling?” Mr. Roberts asked.
    â€œFine — cool — excited” were the words that bounced back at him. I thought that ‘about to bring up’ didn’t quite fit in.
    â€œThe team we’re playing today is Vista Heights Public School,” Mr. Roberts said.
    â€œVista Heights!” I exclaimed. “Didn’t they win the league championship last year?”
    â€œYes, they did,” Mr. Roberts confirmed. “But all those kids from last year’s championship team have graduated and moved on.”
    That was good to hear. Maybe this year’s players wouldn’t be as good as last —
    â€œOf course, they’ve won the league championship four of the last five years,” Mr. Roberts added. “They seem to be able to put together great teams year after year.”
    Everybody in the whole car fell silent. I had a thought that maybe I wasn’t the only one who suddenly didn’t feel so good.
    â€œI know their coach,” Mr. Roberts said. “That’s how I was able to arrange this game before the season officially started. You know, have a little friendly game. He said his team wasn’t quite up to the standards he expected.”
    So maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.
    â€œBut I’m sure their coach was just saying that about his team to get me all psyched out. You know, claiming they weren’t so good to get us overconfident.”
    I almost laughed out loud. Being over-confident was just about the last thing I was worried about. The car lurched again and I remembered what I
was
most worried about — barfing in the back seat.
    * * *
    I tried to stay close to Mr. Roberts as we walked in. Nobody was saying anything. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who was feeling nervous. The only sound was the noise of our feet shuffling up the hall.
    Then, faintly at first, I could hear the unmistakable sound of basketballs bouncing. We followed the sounds, getting louder and louder. Then I picked up that other basketball sound — the squeaks of sneakers against floor. I loved that sound.
    Mr. Roberts pulled open one of a pair of double doors. “Here we are,” he said as he ushered us in.
    â€œWow,” somebody mumbled.
    Stretched out before us was a gigantic, gleaming gymnasium. It had to be three times as big as our little gym. There were nets — I counted them — eight nets, and bleachers — real live bleachers. I’d played in gyms like this before, when our rep team was in tournaments, but those were always in high schools or colleges or fancy recreation centers. Not ever in elementary schools.
    At the far end of the gym, warming up, wasour opposition. They were doing a simple layup drill. Simple, but they were doing it well. Very well.
    â€œOkay, everybody, go and get changed,” Mr. Roberts said.
    Mr. White led us to a bench off to the side, while Mr. Roberts went down to see the teacher leading the drills at the other end. I watched as I walked. The two of them met, shook hands and began joking around, laughing. I turned my attention to the kids doing the drill. Their coach wasn’t watching and they still executed the drill perfectly. That wasn’t good.
    â€œHere you go,” Mr. White said.
    â€œThanks,” I said as I took the sweater he offered me from the bag he was carrying.
    I held it up. It was Clark colors — yellow and blue. Number eleven was on the back. These were our school’s basketball sweaters. And soccer sweaters, and volleyball sweaters and baseball sweaters. I figured if we had a swim team they would have put these on before they jumped into the pool.
    As I slipped it on over top of my T-shirt I caught a deep whiff of the sweater. I didn’t think it had been washed