Airball by L.D. Harkrader

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 she’d 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 McGrew’s 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.
    â€œScrimmage?” I stared at the clipping. “ Scrimmage? We have to scrimmage? ”
    â€œCool,” said Bragger.
    â€œCool?” I looked at him. “Do 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?” I scanned Mrs. Zimmer’s letter. It had to be a mistake. “Why didn’t Coach ever mention this? Why wasn’t it on the permission slip? It should’ve been on the permission slip. Everything is supposed to be right there, in writing, on the permission slip. I’m sure it’s a school regulation.”
    Bragger shrugged, obviously not comprehending the seriousness of violating school regulations. “Maybe it was supposed to be a surprise.”
    â€œA surprise?”
    â€œAnd you know,” said Bragger, “I don’t mean to burst Mrs. Zimmer’s bubble, but that sports column guy was kinda right. Except for Brett McGrew and that other player with all those steals, Stuckey hasn’t 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€œExactly!” I said, trying to steer the conversation back on track. “Which everyone will see for themselves when the seventh-grade team—of which I am a member—humiliates itself on national television during this scrimmage. ”
    â€œI think you’re getting yourself all worked up over nothing, Kirby.” Grandma shuffled the mail into a pile and set it on the counter. “I imagine it’ll just be a short little exhibition thing. Nobody’s going to be paying much attention to you boys, anyway. They’ll be too busy watching Brett McGrew.”
    â€œYeah.” Bragger’s eyes locked onto mine. “Remember him? Brett McGrew? The whole reason we’re going? Don’t think of it as a scrimmage, Kirby. Think of it as an opportunity to get closer to Brett McGrew.”
    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 didn’t 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, I’d come up with an amazingly brilliant Step Five: Take a Dive.
    Literally.
    During practice, sometime before we went to Lawrence, I’d 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. That’s all it would take to keep me on the bench during the KU scrimmage. I’d get to meet Brett McGrew, but I wouldn’t frighten him by actually trying