The Judge Who Stole Christmas by Randy Singer Read Free Book Online Page B

come to practice but changed her mind late last night as she tossed and turned in bed, feeling sorry for her little sister. She would show Barker a thing or two during practice. Afterward she would take the opportunity to pull him aside and casually give him a few pointers about the game.
    Nobody should treat her little sister the way Barker did.
    It was 8:15 before Barker showed up in his Ford pickup, a gun rack and American flag covering the back windshield. He opened the gym, rolled out the balls for the girls to warm up, then disappeared into his office.
    â€œWhere’s he going?” Jasmine asked Ajori.
    â€œSmoke break.”
    The scrimmage didn’t start until nine. Barker placed Jasmine with the second team and put eight minutes on the clock. “Call your own fouls,” he said.
    For the first few minutes, the starters actually showed sparks of potential. Ajori hit a couple smooth jump shots, and a tall, lanky white girl named Ginger pulled down a few rebounds when she wasn’t busy pulling her long blonde hair back into a tight ponytail. Ginger was probably six feet tall and might have been a good post player, except that she didn’t have a competitive bone in her body. She was quite possibly the nicest player Jasmine had ever played against. “Sorry,” Ginger would say if she touched Jasmine on a shot. “My bad” when a teammate’s pass would sail through her hands. And when Jasmine boxed her out, Ginger would simply move out of the way, as if physical contact with another player might result in some deadly communicable disease.
    â€œCongratulations,” Barker said to Ginger at one point in the scrimmage. “You get the least production out of six feet in height of any player in women’s basketball.”
    â€œSorry,” Ginger said.
    The only African American on the team other than Ajori, a little water bug named Tamarika, took care of the ball-handling responsibilities. In one particularly nice sequence, Ginger grabbed a rebound and threw an outlet pass to Tamarika. The quick little guard scooted around a few of Jasmine’s helpless teammates and drove right at Jasmine. At the last possible second, just as Jasmine went up to block Tamarika’s shot, the kid dished a no-look pass to Ajori, who banked in a nice jump shot. Barker immediately blew his whistle, stopping the scrimmage so he could yell at a few of Jasmine’s teammates. He never complimented the starters on their nice play.
    Jasmine took advantage of the coach’s rantings to bend over, hands on her knees, and suck in a few deep breaths. Law school and basketball don’t mix, she thought. But she also wondered how this team could look so pitiful in the game and have such brilliant moments in practice.
    â€œYou ladies better give Woodfaulk some help defensively,” Barker screamed at Jasmine’s teammates. “You can’t expect her to do it all! She’s got two bad knees and she’s out of shape.” Jasmine jerked her head up and gave Barker the eye, which he ignored. “Plus, she’s carrying around a few more pounds than she did in college.”
    Jasmine dominated the next several minutes. She drove the lane, crashed the boards, and blocked one of Ajori’s shots back to half-court. Barker’s shrill whistle brought her out of the zone. This time he turned his ire on the starters.
    â€œThis is what happens every game,” he complained. “The other team starts running on us and we lose control . . .” He stared at Ajori and Tamarika. “We start playing hip-hop basketball, totally undisciplined.”
    What’s that supposed to mean—“hip-hop” basketball? Jasmine was liking Barker less by the second.
    â€œThis isn’t the WNBA,” Barker continued. “I want three passes before you shoot or I’ll tie up the nets for the rest of practice like I did last week!”
    Ajori rolled her eyes.