dropped my backpack, too, and unfolded the clipping. Bragger crowded in behind me so he could read over my shoulder.
Mrs. Zimmer started off exactly the way she said she would: demanding a full apology. Her rage crackled right off the page. I could imagine her scrawling that letter in her big black notebook, her stern school-board face pinched into a grim pucker.
And even though sheâd threatened to cancel seventh-grade basketball, I was in full agreement with her, thinking, Go, Mrs. Zimmer.
Till I got to the end of the letter:
Furthermore, although your reporter stated that the Stuckey team will watch the University of Kansas retire Brett McGrewâs jersey, I assure you, we will not be there merely to watch. We have been invited to participate. Our boys will take part in a scrimmage with Brett McGrew at halftime. The seventh-grade Stuckey Prairie Dogs will be playing basketball on the court at Allen Fieldhouse.
âScrimmage?â I stared at the clipping. â Scrimmage? We have to scrimmage? â
âCool,â said Bragger.
âCool?â I looked at him. âDo you have any idea what this means? It means we have to play basketball. In the fieldhouse. With fans and reporters and the Stuckey school board watching. With TV cameras recording our every pathetic move. What part of that could possibly be cool?â I scanned Mrs. Zimmerâs letter. It had to be a mistake. âWhy didnât Coach ever mention this? Why wasnât it on the permission slip? It shouldâve been on the permission slip. Everything is supposed to be right there, in writing, on the permission slip. Iâm sure itâs a school regulation.â
Bragger shrugged, obviously not comprehending the seriousness of violating school regulations. âMaybe it was supposed to be a surprise.â
âA surprise?â
âAnd you know,â said Bragger, âI donât mean to burst Mrs. Zimmerâs bubble, but that sports column guy was kinda right. Except for Brett McGrew and that other player with all those steals, Stuckey hasnât made a dent in the game of basketball. I hate to say it, but without Brett McGrew, Stuckey really would be a big, smelly armpit.â
âExactly!â I said, trying to steer the conversation back on track. âWhich everyone will see for themselves when the seventh-grade teamâof which I am a memberâhumiliates itself on national television during this scrimmage. â
âI think youâre getting yourself all worked up over nothing, Kirby.â Grandma shuffled the mail into a pile and set it on the counter. âI imagine itâll just be a short little exhibition thing. Nobodyâs going to be paying much attention to you boys, anyway. Theyâll be too busy watching Brett McGrew.â
âYeah.â Braggerâs eyes locked onto mine. âRemember him? Brett McGrew? The whole reason weâre going? Donât think of it as a scrimmage, Kirby. Think of it as an opportunity to get closer to Brett McGrew.â
Oh, yeah, it was an opportunity, all right. An opportunity to show Brett McGrew once and for all I had no business being his son.
Sixteen
Maybe it was Mrs. Zimmer. Maybe it was the bump on the head. Whatever it was, Coach started acting strange, even for Coach.
I really didnât have time to think about Coach. Not at first. I was too busy thinking about the scrimmage. I thought about it all weekend, and by Monday morning, Iâd come up with an amazingly brilliant Step Five: Take a Dive.
Literally.
During practice, sometime before we went to Lawrence, Iâd make a maniac dive to keep the ball in bounds, or a wild leap to bring down a rebound, or an insane lunge for a steal, and presto: a sprained ankle, a pulled hamstring, a mangled tendon. Thatâs all it would take to keep me on the bench during the KU scrimmage. Iâd get to meet Brett McGrew, but I wouldnât frighten him by actually trying