A Whole New Ballgame--A Rip and Red Book Read online

  “You don’t, Mason Irving?” Red said, puzzled.

  “Just playin’.”

  “Well, I would understand if you didn’t,” Mr. Acevedo said. “A buddy of mine has dreadlocks like yours. No one’s allowed to go near them.”

  Up until last year, I always buzzed my head, or should I say, my mom always buzzed my head. I only started growing my hair in fourth grade.

  “So what’s your one thing, Rip?” Mr. Acevedo asked.

  “I do basketball play-by-play.”

  “Fascinating. I hope I get to hear you.”

  * * *

  “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way,” Mr. Acevedo said after he finished taking attendance, “let’s…”

  Xander’s hand shot up.

  “Yes, X?” Mr. Acevedo pointed.

  “Where’s Ms. Hamburger?”

  Other kids raised their hands.

  Mr. Acevedo motioned to Gavin.

  “Where was Ms. Darling this morning?” he asked. “Is she still the principal?”

  “Is Ms. Waldon still the parent coordinator?” Attie called out.

  Mr. Acevedo pointed with his chin to Trinity.

  “If you’re only our ELA teacher,” she said, “who are our other teachers?”

  “Are we switching classes?” Attie called out again.

  “Wow. Questions, questions, questions,” Mr. Acevedo said. “I’ll answer all of them. I promise. But not until tomorrow. We only have about ten minutes left today, and I really want to finish this chapter.” He held up the book he was reading during the break. “But I will answer Attie’s last question. Yes, you are switching classes.”

  “Where do we go?” she asked.

  “I’ll let you know on your way out. But right now, these pages are calling to me.” He knocked the cover. “Please make sure you have something to read in here at all times. I don’t care what you’re reading, so long as you’re reading something. In Room 208, we’re committed to reading. We’re committed to reading every day.” He picked up his do-not-disturb sign, slipped it around his neck, and sat cross-legged on his desk. “Tune in tomorrow for another exciting episode of Room 208, Unexpected.”

  Slammed!

  “I feel like I got hit by a bus,” I said, twisting a lock near my forehead at its root.

  “How do you know what it feels like to get hit by a bus?” Red asked.

  We were in the cafeteria, sitting in a fifth-graders-only booth along the sidewall.

  “I mean by Mr. Acevedo,” I said.

  “Mr. Acevedo drives a bus?”

  I let out a puff. “It’s an expression, Red. It means getting hit hard or slammed.”

  “Got it. Hit by a bus.”

  I stared at my tray. Most days, I wolfed down my lunch. But today, I didn’t touch it. I was still trying to digest the morning. “Where’d you go after ELA?” I twisted another lock.

  “I was with Ms. Yvonne,” Red said, spinning his empty tray. “Ms. Yvonne says things are going to be very different this year. Ms. Yvonne doesn’t have her schedule yet. She’s going to let me know her schedule as soon as she gets it.”

  Ms. Yvonne is a special ed teacher. She’s worked with Red ever since pre-K. All the fifth graders know Ms. Yvonne. Whenever she’s in the classroom, she tries to help everyone, not just the kids who get services.

  “Are you going to eat your Super Salad featuring chilled chicken tender strips, crispy green lettuce, and freshly diced tomatoes?” Red asked.

  Red always describes the school lunch word-for-word from the announcement monitor.

  I slid him the tray. He scarfed down my lunch.

  Ready to Ball

  “You almost done in there?” I asked.

  “One minute,” Red said.

  We were in the boys’ bathroom on the K-1 hallway. Red was in the middle stall, the only one he’ll use at RJE. I was sitting on the sink, checking my scalp in the mirror.

  “When Coach Lebo and those varsity kids see you shoot free throws,” I said, “you’re going to blow their minds.”

  Red is the best foul shooter I’ve ever seen. One time, in the schoolyard, he sank forty-four in a row. Yeah, forty-four in a row.

  Coach Lebo coaches the Clifton High School varsity basketball team. Twice a week during the fall and spring, he brings the varsity and junior varsity players down to RJE for the fifth-grade basketball program.

  “I’m done, Mason Irving,” Red said, opening the door.

  “You’re wearing the exact same thing.”

  “No, I’m not.” He showed me the clothes in his bag. “This is a different shirt. These are different shorts.”

  Red only wears shorts. Never jeans, never long pants, no matter the weather. He never wears anything clingy or itchy either. Definitely never anything itchy.

  I slid off the sink and ripped a paper towel from the dispenser.

  “Irving holds for one,” I play-by-played. I crumpled the towel and sized up the garbage by the door. “Six seconds on the clock … Irving eyes his defender. Fakes left … jukes right … driving down the lane…” I flicked the towel toward the can. “Finger roll!”

  But the towel didn’t make it over the lip. It fell to the floor.

  Red pounced.

  “Bam!” he shouted as he overhead-slammed it into the trash. He pinched out the Warriors logo on his shirt.

  “Let’s go play some real ball,” I said.

  We headed out past the kindergarten classrooms and turned down the main hall. Even before we got to the cafeteria, we could hear the squeaking sneakers and bouncing balls.

  “It sounds like everyone’s here,” Red said.

  “Do you have your earplugs?” I asked.

  He patted his pocket.

  Red doesn’t like loud noises. Sometimes he wears noise-canceling headphones or earplugs.

  We speed-walked through the cafeteria toward the gym door. When I pulled it open, I stopped dead in my tracks.

  Mr. Acevedo stood in the middle of the gym.

  Huh?

  Mr. Acevedo stood in the middle of the gym twirling his whistle like a lifeguard.

  “What’s going on?” Red slid behind me. “Where’s Coach Lebo?”

  “Where are all the high school kids?” I asked.

  The gym was packed, but not with the varsity and junior varsity players. The gym was packed with fifth graders—boys and girls—from all the Clifton elementary schools. I recognized most of them from spring soccer. From RJE, Jordan and Noah were shooting at the hoop near the locker rooms. Christine and Isa were at the basket by the stage.

  “Why are all these kids here?” Red turtled his neck. “Where’s Coach Lebo?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Rip and Red,” Mr. Acevedo called. He snatched his whistle and started toward us.

  “Look at all his tattoos,” Red said.

  I already was.

  Mr. Acevedo’s arms and legs were covered in ink. On his right arm, there were musical symbols and notes. On his left, there was something written in cursive. His leg tats were all different colors. On his right leg, there was a flag. On his left, butterflies.

  “More familiar faces,” Mr. Acevedo said, walking up. “Excellent.”

  “Where’s Coach Lebo?” I asked.

  “What are you doing here, Mr. Acevedo?” Red pinky-thumbed his leg. “Where are the high school kids?”

  “Questions, questions, questions.” Mr. Acevedo twirled his whistle again. “I’ll answer them in a few minutes. Glad you two made it.” He headed off.

  I turned to Red.

  He was gone.

  Handshake

  I tore out of the gym and into the cafeteria. I spotted Red right away, sitting at the same booth from lunch.

  “What happened?” I said, hurrying over.

  He was hunched forward with his hands clasped behind his neck and his elbows vise-gripping his head. His knees knocked against the underside of the table.

  “Red, what happened?” I sat down ac
ross from him.

  He didn’t answer. He just shook his head and stared off.

  I checked the gym door. Mr. Acevedo hadn’t seen Red run out, and I was pretty sure he hadn’t seen me leave either. But he would definitely notice if we weren’t there for the start.

  “What happened?” I asked again.

  “I don’t know,” Red said softly, still shaking his head. “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

  “Let’s go back in and play ball.”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

  “Come on, Red.”

  “I don’t know, Mason Irving. Where’s Coach Lebo? Why are all those kids in there?”

  “Let’s go back in and find out.”

  “Where’s Coach Lebo?”

  I checked the gym door again and then tapped the table. “We need a handshake,” I said, standing up.

  “A handshake?”

  “Yeah, a handshake. We’re finally playing ball together, Red. We need our own handshake. Stand up.”

  He slid out of the booth.

  Together, we came up with a handshake:

  Right-handed high-five.

  Left-handed high-five.

  Right elbow-bash, left elbow-bash.

  Right-hand slap, front and back.

  Left-hand slap, front and back.

  Top fist, top fist, knock fists, blow it up.

  Three-sixty turn, jumping hip bump. Then on the landing …

  “Boo-yah!”

  We nailed it the first time.

  “Put in your earplugs,” I said.

  Red pulled them from his pocket and put them in.

  “You ready?” I said.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be, Mason Irving.”

  Coach Acevedo

  Tweet! Tweet!

  “Let’s huddle up!” Mr. Acevedo called from center court. He waited for everyone to get close. “Let’s hold the balls, please.” He pointed to the kids still dribbling. “Not while I’m talking.”

  Tweet! Tweet!

  “I get a little whistle happy,” he said, smiling. “Get used to it.”

  Tweet! Tweet!

  “I’m your basketball coach this year. My name is Coach Acevedo.”

  Coach Acevedo?

  “This year’s fifth-grade basketball program is going to be a little bit different. Make that, this year’s fifth-grade basketball program is going to be a lot bit different.”

  “Where’s Coach Lebo?” a girl asked.

  “Coach Lebo is only coaching the varsity team this year. I’m running the fifth-grade program, and as you can see, it’s no longer just for RJE students.” He drew a circle in the air with his finger. “The basketball programs have been consolidated this year, and if you don’t know what consolidated means, look it up when you get home.”

  I’m pretty sure I knew what consolidated meant. It’s like when you try stuffing all your socks, T-shirts, and underwear into the same drawer.

  I checked Red. He stood on my left, his eyes fixed on Coach Acevedo like back in class.

  “The basketball program is now a district program, and because it’s a district program, not everyone can make the team.”

  “Make the team?” the same girl said.

  “Make the team,” Coach Acevedo said. “There’s only room for twelve or thirteen of you.”

  “So are we having tryouts or something?” Jordan asked.

  “We are. An hour of tryouts today and an hour of tryouts on Saturday. Our first official practice is Tuesday. Two weeks from Saturday, we have our first game.”

  Game.

  Two weeks from Saturday, we have our first game.

  You know that feeling you get when you’re supposed to go to the beach for the weekend, and your mom cancels the trip the day before because she has to work? Or the feeling you get when you’re finally first in line for Nitro, and you’re not allowed on because you don’t meet the crappy height requirement? Or that feeling you get when you catch the puking-your-brains-out stomach bug the day before Xander McDonald’s paintball party?

  The feeling I had right now felt like all of those wrapped in one.

  I checked Red. He was smiling his basketball smile—the mega-grin he gets when he plays ball—and doing his hopping-from-foot-to-foot, I’m-so-excited-I-just-can’t-hide-it dance.

  I grabbed the back of my neck and squeezed.

  He had no idea.

  Not. At. All.

  Suzanne, his mom, wasn’t going to let him play. The fifth-grade basketball program was only supposed to be drills and conditioning. Not games. She didn’t think Red was ready for real basketball.

  He wasn’t ready for real basketball. He wasn’t going to let an opposing player—someone he didn’t know—body him up.

  He’d freak.

  I brushed the locks off my forehead. We weren’t going to be able to play basketball together.

  “The league we’re playing in is not a school league,” Coach Acevedo continued. “We’ll be playing against teams from all over the county.”

  “Is it co-ed?” another girl asked.

  “It is,” Coach Acevedo said, “but not every team will have boys and girls on their roster. Some of the teams … well, we’ll get to that later. Our team will have boys and girls on the roster.”

  Tweet! Tweet!

  “Enough with all this talking,” he said. “Let’s get poppin’!”

  Hoops Madness

  The forty-eight fifth graders in the RJE school gym were not going to be mistaken for the Celtics or the Heat.

  Not in a gazillion years.

  Tweet! Tweet!

  “We don’t run with the basketball!” Coach Acevedo said over and over during the first ball-handling drill. “That’s called traveling. When we run with the ball, we lose possession of the ball.”

  Tweet! Tweet!

  “We don’t dribble the basketball with two hands,” he said over and over during the next ball-handling drill. “We dribble with one hand. When we dribble with two, we lose possession of the ball.”

  Nah, I wasn’t running with the basketball or dribbling with two hands, but I wasn’t in basketball mode either, and when I’m on the court, I’m always in basketball mode.

  What’s basketball mode? When I’m playing ball, I’m all about hoops. All about hoops. My brain focuses on nothing else.

  Which is how it should be.

  But not today.

  Today, I couldn’t shake Red from my head. We were finally on a basketball court together at RJE. We were lining up next to each other for every drill. But all I could think about was what was going to happen later.

  That’s not to say I wasn’t having fun. Of course I was having fun. I was playing ball, how could I not be having fun? But I was distracted, and I’m never distracted on the basketball court.

  So I started doing play-by-play for Red. That helped.

  “Red dribbles down the right side,” I announced. “He circles past the first cone, switches to his left, and heads for midcourt. Look at the way this kid handles the rock. He nears the timeline and … oh, what a great-looking crossover!”

  A Free-Throw-Shooting Machine!

  At the foul line, Red trapped the ball soccer-style under his left foot. He placed a finger over each earplug and took several breaths. Then with both hands, he picked up the ball, squared his shoulders, and looked at the front rim. He dribbled three times low to the ground—hard dribbles—and then stood back up. He spun the ball until his fingers were around the word SPALDING. He looked at the rim again, extended his arms, and took the shot.

  Underhanded.

  Swish.

  “Boo-yah!” I shouted. “Twelve!”

  I scooped up the ball, dribbled it back, and put it on the line next to Red. Then we went right into our handshake: “High-five, high-five. Elbow, elbow,” we said together. “Right, right, left, left, fist, fist, knuckles, blow it up. Turn, jump, bump … boo-yah!”

  We’d started doing the handshake after Red hit his seventh in a r
ow.

  At the end of practice, Coach Acevedo wanted everyone taking foul shots until we got picked up. Red and I shot with the group at the hoop by the stage, but since we walked home and could stay the latest, we went last.

  At the line, Red went through his routine and took his next underhanded free throw.

  Swish.

  “Thirteen!” I leaped. “Unstoppable!”

  I grabbed the rebound, we danced through our handshake, and Rip went back to work.

  “What a performance Red is putting on,” I play-by-played. “Do I hear fourteen?”

  Swish.

  “Fourteen!” I hammer-fisted the air.

  “Blake Daniels can’t miss.” He popped his Warriors logo. “Blake Daniels is on fire.”

  “He sure is!” Coach Acevedo clapped, walking up.

  Red turned. His fists shot to his cheeks.

  “I’ve been watching you the whole time,” Coach Acevedo said. “You’re a free-throw-shooting machine!”

  “No one’s better than Red from the line,” I said.

  “That’s what I’ve heard.”

  “You have, Mr. Acevedo?” Red hunched his shoulders and squinched his nose. “I mean, Coach Acevedo.” His fists tapped his cheeks.

  “I have.” Coach Acevedo turned to me. “You said Rip’s a basketball nickname. Like Rip Hamilton from the Detroit Pistons?”

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “Absolutely,” Coach Acevedo said. “Excellent team player. Always hustling. Made everyone around him better.”

  You know when you’re playing ball and there’s always that one kid who’s running around in warp speed? Well, that’s me. That’s why I’m Rip. Like the guard on the Pistons who never stopped moving. He was also known as the Running Man and wore number thirty-two.

  I’m number thirty-two.

  I have another nickname: Gnat. Teams called me that the year I played on the third-grade select team because when I play defense, I can be annoying. Really annoying. I’m the kid who picks off the lazy inbounds pass and the kid who sneaks up on the big man posting up down low and strips him from behind.