Most Valuable

  This book is dedicated to all the children around the world who dedicate themselves to excellence.

  Stay smart. Believe in school.

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  The phone was still ringing out in the hall. I looked across the couch at Junior, like: You gonna get that?

  My older brother flicked his chin toward the basketball game we were watching. Are you kidding?

  I nodded. Sometimes brothers don’t need to say anything to say a lot.

  Finally, the phone stopped ringing and I heard Dad talking in the hall. A minute later, he ducked his head into the room. “Hey, STAT,” he said. “It’s Overtime.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said, pointing toward the TV. “It’s still the fourth quarter.” That’s when I figured it out. “Oh, you mean Overtime Overtime!”

  Dad chuckled and held out the phone. I shot up off the couch and into the hallway. You didn’t keep a street-ball legend like Omar “Overtime” Tanner waiting.

  “Hello?” I said when I picked up the phone.

  “What’s up, STAT?” said Overtime. I thought it was cool that he was using the nickname Dad had given me. It stood for Standing Tall and Talented. Overtime got right down to business after that. “What are you doing the next few weekends?”

  I thought about it for a second. I’d probably help out Dad with his lawn-care company, hang out with my friends, and hit the books. “Usual stuff,” I said.

  “Think you can make time for some hoops?” he said.

  “I can always make time for that! You having another tournament?”

  “Yeah, the biggest one of the year,” he said. “It’s the Classic, the fund-raiser that makes all the others possible.”

  “Oh, man, I’ve heard of that! Wait, you want me to play in the Classic?”

  “You bet I do,” he said. “Getting the right mix of players is a big part of what makes it work, and I want to lock up some of you core guys early.”

  He said some other stuff after that, but I missed it. I was thinking, I’m a “core guy”? But after a few moments, I realized there was silence on the other end of the line. He was waiting for an answer.

  “I’m in!” I said. As if there was any doubt.

  “That’s great, Amar’e,” he said. “I’ll get you the practice schedule and all that once it’s set.”

  After the call, I wandered back into the living room. Dad had taken my spot on the couch and was watching the game. It really was in overtime now. I walked over and stood behind Dad and Junior, checking out the score.

  “Don’t worry about work,” said Dad without peeling his eyes from the action. “You can make it up after the Classic.”

  “You’re playing in the Classic?” said Junior, not turning around, either. “I did that. Cool.”

  None of us said another word until a half-court shot went wide and the game was officially over. I was thinking how awesome it would be to be in a tourney my brother had played in. It was like a family tradition or something. When the phone rang again, I shot out into the hall and grabbed it on the second ring.

  “Hey, man,” I heard on the line. I recognized the voice instantly. It was my friend Jammer. His real name was James, but no one had called him that since his first monster dunk. As soon as I heard his voice, I knew why he was calling. He was a “core guy,” too!

  We talked for a while. We were both wondering who else Overtime would be inviting.

  “You going to the old-timers game?” Jammer said after a few minutes. “Overtime and some of the other big names from back in the day are playing a charity game down in Polk City.”

  “Oh, I gotta see that. When is it?”

  “Tuesday at seven.”

  I did some quick math in my head. That was enough time for me to get back from basketball practice with my school’s team and get down there.

  “Pretty sure I can get a ride,” I said.

  “Don’t sweat it,” said Jammer. “My cousin’s driving me. We’ll swing by.”

  And just like that, I had plans for Tuesday — and for the next few weekends.

  Before we even reached our seats at Overtime’s game, we knew this wasn’t going to be any ordinary game. “Young blood!” a booming, amplified voice called out as we scanned the bleachers for open seats.

  The voice was coming from a set of outdoor loudspeakers, but we turned to see who was doing the talking. He wasn’t hard to find. A man wearing a bright red sports jacket and crazy plaid pants was standing at center court. He was holding a microphone and entertaining the crowd.

  “Look at these three young bucks,” he said. Jammer was a year older than me, and his cousin Carl was at least sixteen. “Moment they walked in, they lowered the average age by ’bout half!”

  There was laughter from the stands, and I couldn’t help but smile. This was an old-timers game, and from what I saw, that went for the crowd, too.

  “I remember when I was their age,” the MC continued. “ ’Course those memories are a little hazy.”

  We climbed the rows and found some spots. We scooted past a couple of old-timers. “Excuse me, sir,” said Jammer. “Pardon me.” He was that kind of guy.

  Pretty soon the game got started, and the MC really hit his stride. “Introducing the first team,” he bellowed into the mic. “Straight out of Polk County, and possibly fresh out of the ground, it’s … the Senior Centers!”

  The crowd roared with laughter. I scanned the crew taking the court. We saw a lot of gray in their hair but we didn’t see Overtime.

  “He must be on the other team,” said Jammer.

  “And introducing their opponents, fighting out of the gray corner, they’re … Old as Dirt!”

  Sure enough, Overtime was in the lead. A lot of the crowd recognized him and cheered a little louder.

  “Look at their outfits,” said Carl. “Straight out of the seventies!”

  Both teams had their socks pulled up to their knees and their shorts pulled halfway up their stomachs. And some of those bellies were as round as the ball. But as soon as the game started, they showed that they’d learned something in all those years.

  There were precise cuts, pinpoint passes, and lots of fancy dribbling. It was a good show, and the MC described everything in hilarious detail. A few plays in, Overtime zoomed down the lane. The guy with the ball was facing the other way, but somehow he hit him in stride with a between-the-legs bounce pass.

  Overtime’s dunking days were over, but he finished with a sweet finger roll. It’s true that the defense wasn’t exactly knocking itself out on either side, but it was still an impressive bucket. The MC just about lost it.

  “Is this a basketball game or a magic show, folks?” he shouted. “Old as Dirt takes the lead! Overtime Tanner with another two points! What’s that, OT, one million, lifetime?”

  Overtime flashed the MC a big smile and gave him a finger point. It was a nice gesture, but bad timing. One of the Senior Centers was cutting in front of him, following the guy he was supposed to be pretending to guard. OT didn’t see him and they bumped knees.

  That’s always painful, but when you’re pushing sixty? The crowd got quiet and Ov
ertime crumbled to the ground. There was a loud BWONK as the MC dropped the mic.

  Everyone was watching, waiting to see if OT was okay. It didn’t look good. He was on the ground, grabbing his knee, and his face was twisted in pain. But he was a gamer. We all knew that. As we watched, his face turned from pain to determination. He called two teammates over. His familiar deep voice carried through the warm Florida air. His teammates bent down and helped him get to his feet. But we all noticed he only used one leg.

  With his arms around their shoulders, he hopped over to the sideline. I could tell he didn’t want to hold things up or put too much of a damper on the fun. Another old-timer made a big show of taking off his warm-ups.

  The MC picked up the mic. He waited for Overtime to give him a thumbs-up and then went back to work. “Well, folks, that’s a warrior right there. Let’s have a hand for Overtime!”

  We all clapped and cheered.

  “But the game must go on,” the MC continued. “As you know, when the equipment is this old, you need to have a lot of spare parts.”

  There were gentle chuckles as he introduced OT’s replacement. The game went on, maybe just a little more carefully. Jammer and I had seen enough, though. We worked our way down through the bleachers to check on our friend, and Carl tagged along.

  It took us a while to get through the crowd. When we finally reached the bench along the sideline, Overtime was nowhere in sight. “ ’Scuse me,” I said to a guy riding the bench, “where’s OT?”

  “On his way to the hospital,” the man said. “Just slipped out so he wouldn’t worry anyone.”

  “Oh, man,” I said. “Not good.”

  Jammer turned to his cousin. “You know how to get to the nearest hospital?”

  “I play football for Polk City South,” he said. “Of course I do.”

  Carl drove us over to the hospital. It was the same one I went to when I had hurt my eye during practice. I knew just where to go. “Let’s try the emergency room entrance,” I said.

  We walked through the sliding door and followed the signs for the ER waiting room. There were a dozen people there, but Overtime wasn’t one of them.

  We tried the main desk next. Carl was in the lead, because he was the oldest. He patted down his hair as we approached the nurse at the desk. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, sounding a lot like his cousin. “We’re looking for someone.”

  The nurse looked up. “And who might that be, son?” she said.

  “Overtime Tanner,” said Carl.

  The nurse raised one eyebrow. “Overtime?”

  “It’s Omar, ma’am,” I said. She didn’t look like much of a hoops fan.

  “Omar Tanner,” she said, looking down and typing. “Ah, yes, just admitted.”

  “Great!” said Carl. “Well, not great that he was admitted, but great that … Oh, you know.”

  She gave Carl a concerned look, like she was thinking of admitting him.

  Jammer leaned around his cousin. “Uh, what room is he in, ma’am?”

  “Room 327-B,” she said. “Two flights up.”

  We hopped into the elevator and took it up to the third floor. The clean, quiet hallway reminded us where we were — and why we were here.

  The only sounds were our sneakers on the tile as we worked our way down the room numbers. We turned the first corner and there it was: 327-B. The door was open just a sliver. We could see that the light was on, but that was it.

  “Should we knock?” I whispered. “What if he’s asleep?”

  “What if there’s a doctor in there with him?” asked Carl.

  We stood there motionless.

  “Well, we’re here now,” whispered Carl. He raised his hand to the door. Before he could knock, we heard a big, deep voice from inside.

  “Come on in, boys.” It was Overtime.

  Carl pushed the door open and we all filed in.

  “You’ve got some good ears,” said Carl.

  “For an old guy, you mean?” OT managed a smile, to let us know he was just joking. He was lying on a narrow hospital bed, the kind with metal rails on either side. He was wearing a hospital robe and resting on top of the covers.

  Jammer, Carl, and I were all athletes, so we all knew the deal: RICE. That stood for Rest, Ice, Compression, and Elevation, and right now, OT was a textbook example. His left knee was bundled up in an enormous ice pack. This thing was the real deal, with a layer of tape and gauze under it, so it wouldn’t be right on his skin, and about five more layers over and around it. It looked like his knee was in a big white cocoon.

  The bed, ice, and tape took care of the R, I, and C. And the E wasn’t just some pillows tossed underneath. His whole leg was hoisted into the air by some cotton straps and a pulley set up over the bed.

  “Some setup, isn’t it?” he said. That sort of broke the spell and I realized we’d all been staring at it.

  “Yeah,” I said. “How, uh, how are you feeling?”

  “I’ve felt better,” he cracked. He managed another smile, but I could see the effort it took this time. “They’re just waiting for the swelling to go down, and then they’ll operate.”

  “Oh, man,” said Jammer. “I’m really sorry.”

  “Me too,” said Carl.

  I was about to put in my “Me three,” but OT held up his hand. “That’s all right, boys. I’ve been through it before. I’m just sorry about the tournament.”

  Jammer and I looked at each other, then back at OT. “What d’you mean?” we said at exactly the same time.

  “I’m sorry, boys, but there’s no way I can pull the Classic together now. There’s just a couple of weeks to go and so much left to do. And, well, I’m in no shape to do it.”

  I looked down at Overtime’s leg. He still moved so well on the court that it was easy to forget how old he actually was. He must’ve been following my eyes.

  “Oh, this old leg is only the half of it,” he said. “The doctor wasn’t too happy with me when he saw me again. Says I’ve been ‘overdoing’ it.”

  He paused for a moment and then let out a little laugh. “Hard to argue with that!”

  I remembered him running full out down the lane and leaping up to lay the ball in.

  “I’m on strict orders to take it easy, and I’m afraid the doc might be right about that, too,” he said. “You reach my age, you start to get a feel for when you need to listen.”

  “Oh, man,” said Jammer, shaking his head.

  “But the Classic’s been going on forever,” said Carl.

  “My older brother even played in it,” I said.

  “Been going on longer than that,” said OT. “Nineteen years and never missed a beat. At first, I thought maybe I could make the calls from here, but there’s more to it. We’d need at least eight teams — good ones — plus practices and promotion and everything else. Nope, nineteen years. Shame we couldn’t make it to twenty, but it was a good run.”

  We were quiet for a while. Jammer and I were both bummed about not getting to play in the Classic together. But more than that, we could tell how much the tourney meant to OT, and what a big loss this was.

  Then I started to get a strange feeling. It started down in my chest and rose up like a balloon. It was the feeling I got when I was about to make a big — and possibly crazy — decision. Sure enough, that balloon popped right out of my mouth. “What if you had some help?”

  Overtime looked at me. “What’s that now?”

  “What if you had someone to do all the legwork for you, to make the calls, and to run the practices,” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Jammer. “Someone — or someones.”

  I looked at my friend and nodded.

  “I don’t know,” said Overtime. “It’s an awful lot of work….”

  But the more I thought about it, the more I knew. I wouldn’t even have met Jammer if it wasn’t for OT. For two decades, he’d been making a difference, putting on tourneys, and giving kids around here something positive to work toward. And now, on
the twentieth anniversary, that was all supposed to end in some little hospital bed with railings? Not going down like that!

  “I don’t mind the work,” I said.

  “I don’t, either,” said Jammer.

  “And I don’t mind driving ’em to it!” said Carl. Jammer reached over and bumped fists with his cousin.

  A smile spread slowly across Overtime’s face. And this time, just for that moment, there wasn’t even any pain in it. “Well, if you think you can …”

  There was a knock at the door. It was the nurse. “Visiting hours are over,” she said.

  Overtime needed to get his rest, and we needed to let him. I had just one thing left that I needed to say.

  “The Classic will happen this year. That’s a promise.”

  A crazy promise, maybe, but a promise just the same.

  B R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R A N N N N K K K ! BRRRRRRRRANNNNKKK!

  The noise filled the classroom. It was so loud, it shook my eardrums. It was third period on Wednesday, and I’d spent most of the day a million miles away, thinking about everything I’d have to do to make the Classic happen. This definitely snapped me out of it.

  My best friend Deuce was sitting one desk up. He turned around: “Fire drill.”

  “Everybody up,” called Ms. Lake from the front of the class. “Line up. Single file now.”

  I got to my feet. Mike, my other best friend, said, “Awesome! I didn’t do the homework!”

  Deuce and I waved him off. We’d both done ours. And just like that, we were marching out the door.

  The hallway was a sea of kids. Our line started moving toward the big double doors that led to the back parking lot.

  “Think this is a real fire?” asked Deuce.

  “No way,” said Mike. “No smoke.”

  “Yeah, this is a total fire drill,” Deuce said.

  He was right, too. Ms. Lake had been way too calm when the alarm went off. She must’ve known it was coming. I was about to say so, but something bigger occurred to me. This was exactly what my life felt like right now: a fire drill. I was just going along, everything normal. Then all of a sudden, I’m scrambling to put together a tournament.