Out of the Pocket by Bill Konigsberg Read Free Book Online Page A

to say to me.
    Outside I found a bunch of reporters, many of whom were familiar from last year, waiting for me. I felt a little sorry for the old ones, coming year after year as if high school sports were their life. I mean, it was my life, but I was only seventeen.
    “Bobby! How do you feel?”
    A circle of reporters closed in around me. I was still smarting about Austin, but I put on a happy face. “Great. Not bad for an opening game.”
    “Do the Bulldogs have a chance to compete for the Division Nine title?” asked a short guy, one of the older ones.
    “Your guess is as good as mine. You watched us play. I hope so,”
    I said, and they all shook their heads as if this was a brilliant thing to say.
    “Hoping to be recruited this year?” This came from a guy I knew wrote for the Durango Sun.
    “Yeah, I hope so,” I replied.
    “Any calls yet?”
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    “Colorado State and Arizona. None from California yet, unless they came in to you and you’re here to tell me about them.”
    It was an awkward thing to say. Carrie would have rolled her eyes, but they all laughed, way bigger than necessary, as if this was a great line for their stories.
    As I answered their questions, I was thinking about the recruiting thing. I knew that the top players in the state were already visiting programs and talking to many schools at once. I was disappointed that more of this hadn’t happened for me. I wanted to be sought after. I wanted calls at all hours of the day, and for my father to be proud of me.
    My parents hadn’t made it to the game. I knew they’d wanted to, had planned to go, but at the last minute they called and said they couldn’t make it. It was weird—they never used to miss my games.
    And no matter how hard your work was, how could you be too tired to sit in the stands and watch?
    The reporters droned on, asking about our game plan, and Austin’s injury. I did the best I could. While answering a really stupid question about throwing on the run, I looked up and saw, behind the tight circle of press, a guy a little older than me, maybe in college, about my height, with a goatee and jet-black hair.
    We caught each other’s eye. He smiled and looked away.
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    “Word on the street has it that Austin’s put a hit on me,” I told Rahim as we headed to Spanish class the following Monday. I hadn’t seen Austin yet, though we’d spoken on the phone Saturday.
    “Bruised ribs,” Austin had told me.
    “Mmm. Braised ribs,” I’d said.
    “Don’t be an idiot,” he’d answered. He was basically okay.
    “He’s gonna miss two, maybe three games. He’ll get over it,”
    Rahim replied.
    Rahim was probably my second closest friend. Rahim and I could talk better than Austin and me, but I’ve known Austin way longer.
    Rahim’s family moved here sophomore year from Oregon, and I liked him right away.
    “It just sucks because it’s my fault,” I said. “What if this costs him a good scholarship somewhere?” We walked past Rahim’s 47
    locker and he stopped to drop off some books. Rahim was a pretty amazing player and had already made a verbal commitment to Berkeley.
    “You need to learn about what you can change, and what you can’t change,” he said, fi ddling with his combination.
    “What does that mean? Rahim-to-English dictionary?”
    “It’s not that complicated. You know my mom’s in AA, right? She says the Serenity Prayer every night before dinner,” Rahim said. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. “ ‘ God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.’ It’s kind of beautiful, isn’t it?”
    Rahim slammed his locker shut and we continued down the hall to Spanish.
    “What does that have to do with me? And what does that have to do with Austin and me, and what are you talking about?”
    He laughed. “Sorry, B. I’ll stop my preaching.”
    I smiled. “I mean, I get it.”
    We entered the