Slam Dunk Read online

  “Well, look who’s here,” said Dad when I climbed into the truck on Saturday morning. I didn’t know what he meant by that, and once we got going it was almost too loud to ask. The engine rumbled and coughed. The backfires had gone from firecrackers to thunder-cracks. I was almost surprised we made it to the job.

  I went over to help Manny again — and we were wearing almost the same goggles. He shook his head and I smiled. “Don’t be biting my style now, Amar’e,” he said.

  At the end of the day, Dad and I climbed in the truck and just sat there.

  Manny left.

  The other guys left.

  Some dude who was at the office park working on a Saturday left.

  And we watched them go. It seemed like a bad idea: What if the truck didn’t start? Or blew up? But that’s not why I was nervous. I was nervous because we were pretty clearly going to Have A Talk. He was facing forward with his hands on the steering wheel like a little kid pretending to drive.

  “I was thinking,” he said to the windshield. “The other day, when you came into the yard with those backpacks on and a ball in your hands.”

  Here we go, I thought. He’s going to let me have it about the basketball. He’s so mad he can’t even look at me.

  “You know what I was thinking, STAT?”

  I looked straight ahead, too. The cab of the truck felt small and hot.

  “Nope,” I said.

  “I was thinking: He is working hard.”

  I wasn’t sure I heard him right. I looked over at him, but he was still talking to the windshield. “He may not be mowing lawns, but he’s a kid. He’s got something that’s important to him, and he’s working hard at it.”

  I could’ve said something. I could’ve jumped up and said, “I told you so!” But for one thing, if you jump up in a truck, you’re just going to hit your head. And for another, this wasn’t a time to talk. My dad was a proud man, and he was apologizing, in his own way. The thing to do was to keep my lips zipped and let him finish.

  “And he’s your son, and you should be proud of him.”

  Dad was a big man with a big voice, but he said these last words so quietly I barely heard them: “And I am.” And then he turned the key and the truck sputtered a few times and roared to life.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I said, but I don’t know if he heard me over the rumbling. I lifted my goggles and wiped something from under my eyes. Some sweat must’ve collected under there or something.

  I woke up sore all over on Sunday. My legs were still screaming from a week of workouts and the rest of me was yelping from a full day of weeding and mowing. At least I didn’t have to garden with those backpacks on, I thought. And then I listened a little closer and knew I wouldn’t have to garden at all — not with all that rain beating down on the roof!

  I could do anything I wanted today. I started it out with another hour of sleep. I don’t think I was the only one, either. I didn’t hear a single sound in the house apart from the rain on the roof. At least, I didn’t hear anything in the 3.5 seconds it took me to fall back to sleep.

  When I woke up again, it was still raining. I heard voices out in the living room, so I thought I’d better get up and see what was going on. Dad was standing there looking out the window, carrying a big mug of coffee. It was dark gray outside, but it was like a cloud had lifted between the two of us now. He was wearing his worn-out old bathrobe over his work pants and a white T-shirt. He must’ve been half-dressed before he realized the rain wasn’t going to let up.

  Junior was sitting on the couch with a plate in front of him and a video game controller in his hand. The plate was empty but I could tell from the thin layer of syrup on it that he’d had waffles.

  We all looked at each other and said “Mornin’” at exactly the same time. I guess when you live with people long enough, you get into the same rhythm. I headed into the kitchen to get some waffles of my own and came back out to school Junior on whatever game he was playing.

  It was a nice, lazy morning. The rain stopped for a while, and I thought Dad might try to get some work in after all. He didn’t look too disappointed when it started back up again. “Grow, grass, grow,” he said. Rain was always good news for the owner of a lawn care company. “That’s what I call ‘business development.’”

  “How’s it going?” said Junior.

  I never really asked Dad about work, but sometimes Junior did. I guess because he was older and had a real after-school job of his own.

  “Good,” said Dad. “Been busy” — no kidding, I thought — “but we’re just about done at that big old office park, and it’ll settle down some after that.”

  “Done for now,” said Junior, nodding toward the rain.

  “Yes, indeed,” said Dad. “And I think they’ll have us back before too long. And they say money doesn’t grow on trees….”

  “Yeah,” said Junior. “Maybe then you’ll be able to afford a new bathrobe!”

  Dad raised his right arm. A big hole appeared underneath it, and he looked at us through the hole. “What’s wrong with this one?” he said.

  It was fun to joke around with my dad and brother again, but it kind of made me miss the rest of my family. After a while, I headed into the next room to call my mom and half brother up in New York. It was a regular Sunday thing for me, so I figured I’d just call a little early.

  Afterward, I came back into the room to get Junior so he could talk, too. Dad’s bathrobe was nowhere in sight, and he had his shirt and shoes on. I looked out the window. It wasn’t raining as hard, but it was still coming down.

  “You aren’t working, are you?” I asked.

  “Nah,” said Dad. “But I am taking care of my most important piece of equipment.”

  “The lawn tractor?”

  “The truck, STAT,” he said. “Called first thing this morning and got an appointment. Finally getting that old bucket of bolts fixed up.”

  That reminded me of my own appointment tomorrow: at the doctor’s. A little explosion of nerves went off inside me. My bucket of bolts wasn’t that old, but what if there was still something wrong with my right headlight?

  “Headed downtown if you want to come along,” said Dad.

  “Sure,” I said. “At least if the truck catches fire today the rain will put it out.”

  The truck lurched and coughed all the way to the garage. Dad talked to the mechanic for a while, and then we watched as he raised the whole truck up on the hydraulic lift. Before he started working, he put on goggles, too.

  “Don’t be biting my style,” I said.

  We got some lunch downtown while we waited. Neither of us was surprised when the mechanic said they had to keep the truck overnight. Dad just called Junior, and he came and picked us up in his car.

  It was a good day, and the best part? I didn’t miss practice. There’s no way they were out there today — not unless they planned to switch the basketball tournament to a swim meet.

  By Monday, everyone was used to the goggles. Sometimes I even forgot I had them on. Then the final bell of the school day went off like the horn at the end of a basketball game. Today was going into overtime, though. I finally had my appointment with Dr. Guntrum to see how my eye was doing. I was hoping she’d say it was all healed up and I was good to go for the tournament. My eye seemed okay. I could see fine and the area around it wasn’t swollen anymore. But sometimes it still felt a little uncomfortable, like when an eyelash gets stuck under your lid. It wasn’t so red anymore, but what did I really know about eyes? And what about the parts I couldn’t see?

  Anyway, I must’ve been nervous about it, because when that final bell went off I jumped about two feet. That was pretty impressive considering I was sitting down at the time.

  “Good luck,” said Deuce as we gathered up our books and got ready to head home. He knew the deal.

  Ten minutes after I got home, I was in the kitchen fixing myself a snack when Dad walked in the door. He kind of surprised me. (Okay, I admit it: I jumped
another two feet.) “I didn’t even hear you pull in,” I said.

  “That’s right,” he said, smiling. “The truck’s a whole lot quieter now.”

  I looked out the window and there it was in the driveway. Two days ago, I would’ve heard it coming a quarter mile away.

  “Thing’s like a stealth fighter,” I said.

  I hoped things would go as well with my appointment. And then something else occurred to me, and I just about dropped my sandwich. That truck didn’t fix itself…. What if I still wasn’t better and they had to operate on me?

  “Well,” said Dad, “we might as well get this over with.”

  I thought we’d have to go back to the emergency room and wait again. I wasn’t looking forward to spending another long stretch in that sad, germ-filled waiting room. It turned out I didn’t need to. Dad parked on the other side of the hospital this time, and we walked in the big front doors.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “We’ve got an appointment this time,” he said. “We’re going to her office.”

  “You mean Dr. Guntrum?”

  “Yep,” he said.

  I just nodded. I kind of wished it was with someone a little less serious and gloomy. I ended up in a different waiting room this time. From what I could tell so far, hospitals seemed to be about half made up of waiting rooms. This one was smaller, though, and everyone waiting inside was a kid. Some of them were a little younger than me, and some of them were a little older, but at least none of them were sitting in a corner and coughing nonstop.

  I looked over at Dad, sitting next to me. It was amazing to me that we’d been so mad at each other. Families are funny that way. It’s like they’re equal parts hurt feelings, short memories, and forgiveness. And just when I was thinking about all these big things, the nurse called my name. Or something like my name. She mispronounced it pretty badly, but when no one named “Ay-meer-ay” stood up, I knew it was me.

  Dad and I got up and headed into another little room. It looked almost exactly like the little room from last time, even though I was in a completely different part of the hospital. I looked around once the nurse closed the door behind us. Sure enough, there was my old friend the Pain Intensity Scale.

  We only waited a few minutes, but with every one that passed, I was more sure it was going to be bad news. Things had been going too well lately, and this is where it all went wrong.

  But then the weirdest thing happened. Dr. Guntrum came into the room, and she was smiling! I could hardly believe it. I looked all around, but I couldn’t see that dark cloud that had been over her head anywhere.

  “All right, Amar’e,” she said. “Let’s take a look at that eye.”

  She even pronounced my name right.

  “How were the goggles?” she asked.

  Did she say were? I thought.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “All right, well, take them off now so I can get a better look.”

  I took the goggles off and handed them to Dad. She took out a tiny flashlight and made me follow it with my eyes. Then she shined it in the right one. Basically, she did the same stuff as last time, but she was still smiling. I wanted to ask, “Who are you, and what have you done with Dr. Guntrum?” but she was the one asking the questions.

  “How does it feel?” she said.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “No pain?”

  “Just a little sometimes,” I said. I told her about the eyelash thing.

  “Mm-hmm,” she said.

  She flipped up my eyelid and looked underneath. “A-ha,” she said, as if she’d found a gold coin under there. The rubber glove she’d put on made her hand feel cold.

  “All right,” she said, taking a few steps back and snapping the glove off her hand. “I’m going to give you something else, a cream this time. You put it right under that top eyelid, morning and night. Let’s say a week.”

  Dad and I started talking as soon as she stopped.

  “What about basketball?” I asked.

  She looked at me. “Play ball!” she said.

  All right! I pumped my fist to celebrate.

  I liked this version of Dr. Guntrum a lot better than the one in the emergency room. I guess the emergency room wasn’t exactly smile central.

  “But wear the goggles for another couple of weeks, just when you play,” she added. “And try not to hurt yourself.”

  “He won’t,” said Dad, handing the goggles back to me. “He’s more coordinated than he looks.”

  They both thought that was pretty funny.

  “Well, you better clear out,” said Dr. Guntrum. “There’s a nine-year-old with a projectile vomiting problem coming in next.”

  Dad and I got out of there like we had rockets on our feet, but not before I said one more thing. “Thank you, Dr. Guntrum.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said.

  And I wasn’t just saying it, either. I really was thankful. I was thankful and relieved and, most of all, ready to play some basketball!

  “Hey, guys,” I said at lunch on Tuesday. “Who’s up for some hoops after school?”

  Deuce looked over. “What about the workouts?” he asked.

  “Not today, D,” I said. “I need to get out on that court and operate.”

  “You know I’m game,” said Deuce.

  Mike just nodded. Of course he was in. But we still needed one more for two-on-two, and Marcus and Tavoris both said they were busy.

  “What about you, Dougie?” I said.

  “I’ve got some things to do,” he said.

  “Come on, man,” I said. “I haven’t played in forever.”

  He looked over at me for a few seconds, considering it. Then he broke into a little smile. “I guess I can do them later on,” he said. “I’m in.”

  “Great!” I said.

  We had our four. A few hours later, we were walking onto the court. If our team had been sponsored by a local business, like in Little League, it would’ve been an optician. I had my goggles back on for the game, just like the doctor ordered. And Dougie showed up wearing his own pair of goggles!

  “Where’d you get those?” I said.

  “My pops had an extra pair for work,” he said as we bumped fists. I knew exactly what he meant.

  “I just thought it was kind of a cool look,” he added. “And I don’t want anything happening to these soulful brown eyes of mine.”

  “Well, it makes picking teams easy,” said Mike.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Deuce. “That’s even better than shirts versus skins.”

  So it was Dougie and me against Mike and Deuce.

  “Specs versus pecs,” said Mike, flexing his nonexistent pectoral muscles.

  The joking stopped when the game started. Mike and Deuce were both good players, and our team was tough, too. Dougie had some really slick moves.

  There was no one else there, so we decided to play full court. The game went back and forth for a while. We were up 5–4, but the other team had the ball. Dougie was all over Deuce, slapping at the ball and being a real pest. Deuce had this look on his face like: Get him off me, man!

  Mike wasn’t really ready for the ball, but Deuce fired it anyway. I stepped in front of the pass, and I was off and running. Now I had the ball and clear sailing to the hoop. It was time to see if all my hard work had paid off.

  I was all alone by the time I reached the free throw line. I gathered the ball in, took a few steps, and launched myself into the air. As I rose toward the rim, I pulled the ball back and slammed it forward.

  Buh-DOING!

  At the last second, the very bottom of the ball hit the very top of the rim and the ball shot straight up into the air. So close! I had missed a dunk by a few millimeters! It was close enough that I could’ve blamed the paint on the rim, if that stuff hadn’t peeled off years ago.

  Everyone else had given up on the play, so I was still all by myself. I waited for the ball to come down, collected my own rebound, and laid it up an
d in.

  “You were right there!” said Deuce, when he finally arrived to inbound the ball. “Right there!”

  “Another inch and you would’ve had it,” said Dougie.

  “Not even an inch!” said Mike.

  It was the closest I’d ever come to dunking, but I still needed a little more. Even though I was having a great time and Team Specs was up 6–4, I knew I’d have those sweaty old backpacks on again tomorrow.

  I still had a few more days to go before the tournament. I hoped it would be enough.

  It wasn’t hard to convince Dad to drop me off extra early on Saturday. That let him get a head start on all the grass that had grown after the rainstorm — and it was a quicker trip anyway now that his truck was all tuned up.

  “Is this it?” said Dad, slowing down in front of a big high school.

  I double-checked the name I’d written down. The practices had been on a blazing hot court, but the game was being held in an air-conditioned high school gym.

  “Yep,” I said. “Gym is supposed to be out back.”

  “Big one,” said Dad as he turned off the main road and wound his way slowly to the back parking lot.

  “Look over there,” I said as we pulled to a stop. Just outside the doors to the gym, a man with a microphone was talking to a guy holding a big TV camera. A news van from the local station was parked off to the side.

  “That’s the sports guy from the local news,” said Dad.

  “Man, this is gonna be big,” I said.

  The whole trip over, excitement and nervousness had been battling it out inside me. My nerves launched a powerful offensive as I climbed down out of Dad’s truck. I think he could tell, because he said: “Good luck today, STAT. You’ll do great. I’ll try to swing by for some of the game, and you know Junior will be here.”

  I adjusted my goggles and forced a smile, so he’d know I was ready. Then I headed through the doors. The gym was huge, with row after row of bleachers. They were still mostly empty, but the whole place echoed with the sound of basketballs. A solid hour before we were supposed to be there, the court was already half full. Right in the center, I saw the familiar figure of Coach Dunn. Volunteers were moving around the edge of the court, setting up tables and decorations.