Rocket Man Read online

  Rocket Man

  Jan L. Coates

  For Liam,

  and for basketball fans,

  players, and benchwarmers,

  and for families learning to live with cancer

  A hero is an ordinary individual

  who finds the strength to persevere and endure

  in spite of overwhelming obstacles.

  – Christopher Reeve (Superman)

  First day of basketball tryouts. The gym smells like rotten socks and last year’s sneakers. It’d be a fail, a colossal fail, to play D2 in Grade 8. I’ve gotta make Division 1 this year.

  I’m warming up, doing some power crossovers, when Roy Williams struts up to me, steals my ball, slam-dunks it, then hangs off the rim for about an hour, doing chin-ups. Dunking is so not an option for me. I’m five foot, five inches—in my shoes. Roy’s over six feet—in his sock feet—and he can palm the basketball. He seriously looks like a gorilla. Crazy long arms, probably from hanging off the rim, big ears, smucked nose, fat lips.

  “Your turn, Blob.” He laughs and drills the ball at me, driving my middle finger back so it cracks. I bite my lip and try not to let on that it kills.

  “It’s Bob.” My teeth are jammed together so tight I can hardly spit the words out. Like, Roy’s a rusty nail giving me lockjaw. And doesn’t he know that blobs are fat? I admit I used to be a little pudgy, before I lost my baby fat, but now I’m scrawny—James calls me “Stick-boy.” He’s just trying to be funny … I think … and he doesn’t say it in public. For a totally cool, hardcore basketball god brother with a hot girlfriend, a 95 average, and a bazillion friends, James is okay.

  Not like Roy. I can smell him following me around the gym. He wears this crazy aftershave even though he’s still a baby-face like me. He smells like a Christmas tree, or cough drops. I try to ignore his shiny red basketball shoes squeaking along behind me. Seems he’s got a new pair every month, probably five-toe discount. You know, walk in with the old, out with the new. I’m wearing my dad’s vintage high-top black Chucks. Dad was a basketball phenom in school—MVP, Athlete of the Year material. Or at least he was, until he had to drop out to go to work. He’s still the single-game scoring record holder at Oakdale High. His 1982 sneakers are only a bit too big for me—this year. Last year they were flipping off me. Roy’s nickname for me then was “Bozo.” How clever is that?

  “So, Blob, what position you goin’ out for this year—right or left bench?” Roy laughs—like some snorting pig. With his shaved head, he looks like a pig, too. Pig-gorilla combo: pigorilla. Last year, he made D1; I got cut in the second round and had to be a D2 loser. I keep my eyes on the net, fake right, then dribble left. Focusing on my ball handling’s tricky when my shoulders keep getting closer and closer to my ears, like some turtle trying to hide in his shell. Why is this freakin’ guy in my face all the time? What did I ever do to him? And why didn’t he stay away when he left in Grade 3?

  “Or, hey—you could be the geeky mascot, good old Oakley the Owl.”

  “Funny, Roy—you should be on the comedy channel.” I try to sound tougher than I am. Only my voice cracks in the middle of “comedy.” I cough and go in for a layup. He charges up behind me. Just as I’m going up, he stuffs me. Hard. My nose slams into his sweaty armpit, and my glasses fly into the end wall—with me right behind them. Just like in the cartoons. Except this hurts. Not like in the cartoons. I pick up my glasses. One arm’s dangling from the frame. My own arm, my shooting arm, doesn’t feel so great either.

  “Thanks a lot, Roy—you’ll have to pay for these!” I want to shove them in his face and tell him where to go. Instead, I just mumble. He’s busy looking around to see who saw the stuff.

  “You’re such a klutz.” He slams me into the wall with one of his meaty shoulders. “Why don’t you get one of those geeky nerd-bands to hold them onto your stupid fat head? It’d look sweet with those messed-up shoes.” Apparently, he doesn’t notice my head’s about half the size of his. Or that my brain’s twice as big.

  Coach Adams comes out of his office just then, writing something on his clipboard. I hope it’s a big black X beside Roy Williams’s name. Or maybe permanent detention. I’d never put him on the team, no matter how tall he is or how many points he scores.

  Coach blows the whistle and we start running laps. I’m tired before I even start.

  Wednesday morning, I sleep in. Stupid James knows he’s supposed to get me up when he’s got early practice. Today, he must’ve hopped in Mom’s car and taken off, leaving me in la la land. Idiot! Now I’ll miss band—again. Mrs. Archibald is going to kick my butt out.

  One thing I’m pretty good at is music. Not that it’s something to get pumped about at Oakdale Middle. Carrying a trombone case is about the same as having a big loser “L” stamped on your forehead. When I’m not there, the horn section blows. Hey, is that one of those pun things we learned about? Archie’ll notice I’m missing right away, since nobody else on trombone can even read music.

  I yank on yesterday’s shorts and a clean T-shirt, do a quick sniff check, then put on extra deodorant. A splash of water on my face and I’m good to go.

  “Hannah, get up.” I’m whispering and brushing my teeth at the same time. I wipe a bit of toothpaste froth off her cheek. “We’re late—hurry up!”

  She jumps out of bed and gives me a big toothy smile. She’s always smiley, bouncy like Tigger, over-the-top happy. The worst of it is she’s not faking it. She’s really that sweet, like cotton candy, to everybody, even the nose pickers in kindergarten. If she wasn’t my sister, I’d call her a super butt-kisser.

  I’m the stuck-in-the-middle kid—in between perfect King James and precious Princess Hannah.

  “Thanks, Bobby.” She doesn’t even sound sleepy. “I guess James was too busy and forgot us again, huh?”

  “He forgets we’re alive most of the time. You’ve got two minutes to get ready.” I go downstairs, slap together two peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches, and stuff them into bags. No juice packs; water’ll have to do.

  I throw on my backpack, grab my hoodie from the rack, take an apple off the table, and toss one to her. “Let’s go. We’re gonna have to run.”

  She slides her arms into the sleeves of my old red soccer jacket, zips up her little monkey backpack, and follows me out the door. “Mom must’ve worked really, really late last night. Do you think Daddy had a good night?”

  “I didn’t hear her come in. Maybe they both slept all night—I wish.”

  My mom’s a continuing care worker, a babysitter for old people. My dad’s sick.

  We get to the door just as the last buses are pulling out of the parking lot. “Bye, Bobby.” Hannah squeezes my arm. “Hope you have a super awesome day! See you later, alligator!”

  I pull my arm away. “Bye, Hanny.”

  “Bobby!”

  “Okay, okay. In a while, crocodile.” When’s she gonna outgrow that little-girl huggy thing? I am so not into PDA—girly Public Displays of Affection.

  Crap—there’s the first bell. I’m really late now. One more late slip and I’m in detention for the next tryout. I slide through the door just as Andrews is about to close it. I don’t think he likes me—probably because I’m no James, the Wonder Boy.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen—nice to see you all looking so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this fine, sunny morning.” Mr. Andrews strolls around the class with his hands behind his back, looking everybody over. Do we look like a bunch of squirrels? More like a bunch of slugs. He’s the kind of teacher who always thinks he’s hilarious. Doesn’t seem to notice nobody’s laughing. We’re pretty sure he wears a wig—now that is funny. His hair’s, like, dark brown and thick and curly—but he’s about a hundred years old. Sometimes you can see the
nasty gray hairs on the back of his neck, sproinging up over the collar of one of his collection of 300 or so plaid shirts.

  Maria peeks in through the skinny window on the door. She knocks and he opens the door, just a crack, and lowers his face to the same level as hers.

  “Sorry I’m late, sir,” she whispers. “I promise it won’t happen again.” Then she giggles. “At least, not this week.”

  Lucky for her, Andrews likes girls way better than boys. He doesn’t even say anything about a late slip. Maria sort of reminds me of Hannah. She’s friends with everybody—even the geeky kids and the ones that hide in the back corner of the cafeteria to eat lunch. She’s cute, but not gorgeous; her hair’s almost long enough to sit on. She mostly wears it in braids with different-colored ribbons on the ends. Most Grade 8 girls would be way too cool for that.

  If I stop and think about it, Maria’s the only girl I ever really talk to at school. Maybe I’m one of those geeky ones I was talking about. She’s the only girl I know who plays the electric guitar. She’s not bad; I mean, she’s not into metal or anything, like me. But she’s more real than lots of Grade 8 girls, if you know what I mean. Not all painted and ditzy, orange-tanned and stunned.

  “Ahem—sorry to interrupt your deep pondering, Mr. Prescott—bottom of page 78, please and thank you.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Andrews … right, page 78 … got it.” I better start listening up—I can just see the smoke blasting out of Coach’s ears if Andrews gives me a detention. I’ve heard them going at it in the hall before, usually about some player missing practice time.

  The thing I don’t get is why stupid Roy and his Siamese twin Kyle never get detentions from Andrews. I’m guessing he likes them because they’re basketball stars or something. Oh, yeah, and Jeff told me Andrews’s wife is Roy’s great-aunt; that might explain a few things. Like why Roy never gets his name on the board for being late and not doing his homework. Or skipping—he’s always missing class.

  I put my head down and start working on the problems. Hey, there’s a pun. What kind of teachers have lots of problems? Math teachers—especially Andrews. Math is pretty easy for me—by that I mean, it’s soooo boring because Andrews teaches the same thing over and over. He sounds like the droids in those old Star Wars movies. How could anybody talk that much about numbers? I wish he’d come by and start teaching algebra some night when I can’t sleep. I check the clock for the tenth time. Is it lunchtime yet?

  I sit in our usual back corner in the cafeteria, eating my PB & J slowly, hoping it’ll fill me up. Seems like I’m always starving lately, waking up with a slimy pillow from drooly dreams about hamburgers and extra-cheese meat-lovers’ pizza. Jeff and Andy are making up a science lab they missed last week, so I’m stuck eating alone. Loser with the ear buds. Mr. Invisible.

  Back in nursery school, Jeff and me used to play superheroes; I was Mr. Invisible and he was SnapDragon, the Flame-Throwing Karate King. My best weapon was disappearing, which would be pretty sweet at Oakdale Middle School. On the bench, in the horn section, in boring math classes, when girls try to talk to me and I get all stuttery ...

  “Okay if I sit here?” I look over my shoulder and see Maria smiling down at me. Ribbons the same blue as her eyes today. I’m pretty sure my face is the same red as the apple on her tray.

  I pull my buds out of my ears. “No, well … I mean … sure, whatever.” I’m pretty smooth when it comes to talking to girls. By which I mean they make me crazy nervous, even Maria. I can’t seem to look girls right in the eye. Boys are way easier. Mostly with my friends, we just grunt or burp. Talking’s lame.

  She unwraps her sandwich, then carefully folds up the waxed paper and puts it back in her lunch bag.

  “So … what’s new?”

  She’s a vegetarian and eats some really moldy-looking stuff. It’s usually green and nasty-looking—even the bread is all bumpy and lumpy, like something we’d put in the bird feeder. Actually, she kind of looks like a bird, all perky and fluttery. Sorta jumpy, but cute jumpy.

  “New York, New Orleans,” I say, without thinking.

  She laughs.

  I can feel the red creeping up my neck. “Crap. I sound like my dad.”

  “How is your dad?”

  I drain my milk, squish the carton flat, and shrug. “Tired. Just finished chemo.”

  “Remember my Uncle Jack, the one that had the same kind of tumor a few years ago? His cancer’s in remission; he’s even back at work.”

  I shrug again and stuff a blue gummy worm in my mouth. Two years ago, Dad started losing his balance and falling down all the time. Turned out he’s got a big nasty brain tumor, a C Monster Hannah calls it, near the base of his skull. Of course, it’s in a place where they can’t just dig it out, like the tumor Jeff’s mom got cut out of her boob. How unfair is that?

  “So, how’re tryouts going?” Maria bites into a carrot stick dipped in peanut butter.

  “About the same as last year. Brutal.” I help myself to one of her carrots. “Roy busted my glasses yesterday. Gotta wait ’til I get paid Saturday to get them fixed.”

  “He is such a derp.”

  “Yeah. Makes the tryouts real interesting when I can’t see the hoop. Or the ball, unless it’s right in my hand.”

  She snaps a carrot stick in two. “His goal in life must be making everybody in the world feel like a pile of dog poop.”

  “He’s doing a decent job, then,” I say. “A real over-achiever.” I start cleaning up my garbage. “I gotta go downtown, drop off my glasses, and pick up some drugs for my dad. Later …”

  “Want some company?” She stands up fast. Her T-shirt’s got blue and pink owls all over it. “I could be your guide girl.” She giggles. “Not the Girl Guides that sell cookies … in case you can’t see, I mean, like a guide dog.”

  “Sure … I guess so.” I’ve never actually walked anywhere with a girl before—except Hannah. It feels kind of weird—what’ll we talk about? I hold the cafeteria door open for her—Mom would be so proud—and try to put a silencer on the apple belch that’s brewing in my throat. Feels like a wet one, a vurp—part vomit, part burp.

  Maria’s one of the few Grade 8 girls I’m taller than, so that’s a good thing. The girls all turned into giants over the summer. The only thing giant about me is the zits all over my face. Oh, and my feet, I guess. Outside the band room, Roy’s butting some Grade 6 boys at the water fountain. They’ve got that big-eyed puppy-in-the-headlights look. Lucky for them, Mrs. Archibald shows up. She grabs Roy by the ear, hard, and marches him to the back of the line, old-school style.

  “Sweet.” I don’t realize I said it out loud until I notice the boys in the line staring at me. Some of them are grinning and laughing, but looking sideways at Roy at the same time. Roy’s staring at all of us like he wants to rip our heads off, then slam-dunk them in the trash can.

  “Chill,” I say, giving the boys a big James smile. Maria laughs and we speed-walk out the main doors. I wonder if this would be considered a date, and if Roy’s gonna kill me at tryout.

  “Hey, Blob … who’s the little girl I saw you with today?” Soon as I get to practice, Roy yells at me from the other side of the gym. “She one of your baby sister’s friends? You robbin’ the playpen?”

  Like you’re really interested. I dig through my bag like I’m busy looking for something and don’t hear him. Like, she’s been in the same math class as you for six weeks, you moron.

  Coach makes us run twenty laps at the start of every practice. I’m in decent shape from running or biking out to work at Oaklawn Farm almost every day all summer. Joe, the guy who owns the farm, used to play ball with my dad, so he’s teaching me a few of his tricks when we’re not shoveling cow crap. Joe’s a midget, like me, but he’s fast for an old guy. We usually play to 21; in Grade 6, I used to get five, maybe six baskets. Sometimes he still wins, but mostly it’s me now. He taught me my best shot—a reverse layup. I’m amazing at it in practice and one-on-one—but they’re wicked hard
to do in a game.

  I finish my laps and grab a ball off the cart. Whoa! Is that my bicep? It’s actually bigger than an egg. Come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time James called me Stick-boy. When Coach handed out the practice jerseys yesterday, I needed a medium instead of small. At least I don’t look so much like the team mascot anymore, especially without my glasses.

  I’m halfway through my forty foul shots by the time Roy huffs and puffs his way to the line. Like the Big Bad Wolf and the Pillsbury Doughboy, all in one. He grew a little gut over the summer. In fact, he looks kinda puffy all over. Too many doughnuts and double-doubles, probably. I ignore him and keep shooting. I’m ten for twenty, which is way better than last year. The best NBA players shoot ninety percent from the free-throw line, so fifty percent isn’t so bad.

  You can learn a lot from watching the NBA on TV. One time, I saw this little guy—maybe an inch or so taller than me—win this mega slam-dunk contest. He won, like, a million bucks or something. Okay, maybe it was only a thousand. Anyway, his vertical jump was awesome. It’s like he was defying gravity, like some astronaut. I’ve been working on my jump—sometimes I can touch the rim, just barely, with the tip of my middle finger.

  I spin the ball, drive it into the floor, three solid bounces, then line it up with the net. BEEF: Balance, Eyes, Elbow, Follow-through. Swish! Roy’s right behind me—air ball. I grab his “rebound” and sprint to the back of the line. Foul shots are the best—nobody defends on them. In a floor shot, you never know when you’re gonna get an elbow to the head or your glasses knocked off. I like being on the line—foul shots are mostly the only points I get. Short guys like me get fouled lots.

  Coach blows the silver train whistle he got when he retired from the railroad. “Okay, everybody in. Have a seat.” We all sit on the bench and he paces up and down in front of us, looking at his clipboard. “Listen up, basketball players. You’ve got two more days to show me what you’re made of. You need to be tough as nails, live to possess the ball. One team, one goal, no egos. The road to becoming a good basketball player is no cakewalk. It’s paved with hard work, sweat, and ripped-up knees.”