October 6th, 2008
JerryAnn, again
The team mopes, entering the gym slowly, shoulders sagging. They whisper to one another, and none of them make eye contact with me. Despite our home-court advantage, a fat zero sat on our side of the scoreboard after our first game on Friday night. Eisenhower Middle School, our opponent, scored 44 points. Bethany sits on the bleachers, and one by one, the whole team follows suit. Even Milo sits instead of showing off on the open court.
It’s 3:15—time to start.
“We suck,” Bethany says. There are a few snickers, lots of nodding heads. “What’s the point of trying?”
I step onto the court. “Raise your hand if you agree with Bethany.” Aside from Milo, who comments on his awesomeness, every hand shoots up, including Toby’s. I knew today would be hard, but I didn’t anticipate a ‘we suck’ mutiny. “Okay, hands down.” Hands drop. “Raise your hand if you’ve improved over the last few weeks.” Every hand is raised, including Milo and Toby. “Do you want me to start with what we did wrong, or what we did right?”
Bethany shouts, “Tell us what we did wrong.”
“Cate, can you come up here with the game stats?” She rolls her eyes at me but grabs her clipboard, places it in my hand, then returns to the bleachers next to Milo and her homework. “Can anyone here tell me the final score?”
“Forty-four them, zero us,” Toby says.
“Any guess how many shots the other team took?”
“At least 22.” Milo stands and smiles. “Cause two times 22 is 44.” He bows and then sits.
Cate whacks Milo on the arm with a spiral notebook. “Thanks for the math lesson, genius.” Milo grins wider.
“Multiply Milo’s guess by two and a half.” The girls think, and then the number 55 ripples through the bleachers in whispers. “58 shot attempts.” I hold up the clipboard. “Eisenhower Middle School took 58 shots, which doesn’t seem like much, considering they scored 44 points. If each shot is worth two points, how many points would they have had if they’d made every shot?”
A few girls grumble that this isn’t math class, but Cate whispers to Milo, who shouts, “116.”
“Yeah, that sounds pretty bad, right? They only made about 37% of the shots they took.”
Bethany chimes in. “But we made zero percent of the shots we took, which is way worse.”
“Interesting that you say that. How many shots do you think we took as a team?” There’s silence. “Fine. Raise your hand if you shot a basket and failed.” Four girls raise their hands. “Of you four, how many of you tried more than once?” Three hands go down. There’s one girl, tiny, blonde, freckled. “Of the eleven shots taken throughout the entire game, Annie took eight of them.”
Judging by her crimson cheeks and the terror in her eyes, she thinks she’s in trouble. “Annie.” She’s close to tears. Oh, crud. “I am so proud of you. You were the star of the game.” I pull a candy bar from my pocket and toss it to her. She catches it with a smile and I clap, and everyone joins in.
I address the whole team. “I’m not going to spell out what you did wrong. I want you to tell me where we fell short.”
“You were all a bunch of wusses,” Milo shouts. “You didn’t try—or chickened out after one failure. Or you were awesome, like Annie.”
Bethany turns to Annie, who’s sitting in the back by herself. “Why did you keep trying?”
“I saw an opening and took a shot,” Annie whispers.
“Exactly.” My hands fidget with the clipboard. “From now on, if you see a shot, you take it. Can you promise me you’ll do that? Promise me you’ll take a shot.”
There’s a rumble of quiet yesses.
I put my hand to my ear. “What’s that?”
“Yes, coach,” they yell.
“Good. Do you want to know what you did right?”
Toby pumps his fist in the air and shouts a lonely, “Yes.” He’s never been on a team before, and his timing is off.
“You communicated with each other, and your passing was excellent.”
They nod in agreement.
“Now, get out there and do your free throw drill.”
Energy revived, the girls bounce back, sinking shots left and right. I grab Bethany’s arm before she grabs a ball. “Bethany.” Her eyes widen. Am I really that scary? “I told Coach Delgado I wouldn’t coach this team unless you were team captain.”
Her eyes get even bigger, and she asks, “Why?”
“Because you’re a leader.” I put a hand on her shoulder. “People follow you and believe you.” I squint. “If you tell this team they suck, they’ll believe you. If you tell them they are amazing, they’ll believe that too. No matter how bad things get, you have to be an optimist from here on out.” I say the next three words slowly. “No matter what.”
“Yes, coach,” Bethany says, nodding. When she moves away, Toby’s standing behind her.
“Good speech.” He nods in approval. I smile because he’s experiencing his first team sports high. He pumps his fist in front of him. “I just want to say…thank you. You’re doing a great job.”
“You’re welcome.”
Toby runs onto the court and joins the girls in free-throw drills. I sit by Cate.
“Your Dad knows about Gavin,” Cate says but doesn’t face me because she’s playing with her phone.
This is bad—worse than bad. I want to put a hand on each of her shoulders and shake answers out of her but settle for gripping the bench. “What? How do you know? What does he know?”
“Jeez, chill.” She scrolls through several texts and then reads, “Your Dad wrote, ‘Have you figured out who Jerry’s boyfriend is? Amigo thinks she has a boyfriend, too.’”
Dad knows I have a boyfriend, and Amigo is what he calls Toby, so Toby thinks I have a boyfriend. They’re right, but what does Toby know—and how does he know it?
“Thanks for telling me.” I loosen my grip and face the court. Cate acknowledges my appreciation with a thumbs up. I stand and walk toward Toby, who’s up next for a free throw. He releases the ball, and it arcs through the air, bouncing on the rim twice before falling through the hoop.
We stand slack-jawed—everyone. Toby jumps and shouts, “I did it! I made a basket!” He spreads his arms out in victory then turns to his right, where Milo gives him a high-five, and then he turns to his left, looking directly at me. There’s a short hesitation, and then he wraps his arms around my waist, lifts me an inch or two off the ground, and spins me in a full circle.
I’m three years old again. Dad’s spinning me in the air at the park while Mom works on her tan, and I’m carefree, happy, and giggling and don’t want it to stop, but this isn't Dad. It's Toby. My heart pounds and my insides melt and something bubbly and intoxicating gains momentum in my chest. Toby’s arms relax and I slip down his front, surprised by his strength, the delicious scent of his cologne, and his warmth. Just before he lets go, our eyes meet, and I get lost in his eyes. They’re as warm as he is, thick with emotion. When my sneakers hit the polished hardwood, the momentum halts and reality strikes.
I swallow hard, pat Toby on the shoulder, and say, “Good job. Now make another one.”
The team stares and whispers, wondering if there’s something between Toby and me, so I walk back to the bleachers and sit by Cate.
She stares at me. “You giggled.”
I harumph, shaking my head.
“Toby made you giggle. I didn’t think you could giggle.”
I watch everyone on the court except Toby.
“I did not giggle.” But I did, and it was great.
“Sure you didn’t.” Cate nods, eyes narrowed, then returns to her math.
Practice is dedicated to shooting: layups, free throws, hook shots, and bank shots. The girls smile as they leave. Cate, Toby, and I remain, and my heart flips a little as Toby practices shot after shot and misses them all while Cate loads her backpack. I don’t confront Toby about Dad’s text because I don’t understand or trust the giddiness coursing through me. “See you tomorrow.”
“Okay, coach.” Toby doesn’t look up. He chases after a ball as we walk out the door.
We’re almost to the double doors when I remember the clipboard I left on the bleachers. I tell Cate, “Hang on, I forgot something.”
Cate’s eating chocolate-covered malt balls and nods as I run back into the gym. Toby’s shot swishes as I step into the door, and he’s excited. I walk toward the clipboard, hoping he’ll see me, hold me, spin me again, but I’m so absorbed in Toby that I don’t see Rose until he runs toward her. She’s standing in the corridor squealing with excitement as Toby lifts her in his arms the same way he did me, but she’s a lightweight, and he gets her a foot off the ground. Her knees bend, and her little high-heeled feet draw a bright pink squiggly pattern in the air as they spin.
I grab the clipboard and take one last look at Toby as their spinning stops and she presses into him in a kiss. I don’t know who instigated it, but it’s a first kiss: quiet, tender, sweet.
I leave with silent feet and don’t let the gym doors click behind me.