Airball by L.D. Harkrader Page A

to play basketball.
    It was the perfect plan. I couldn’t fail. Falling down was maybe my best talent. All I had to do was take that talent to the next level. Fall down harder, faster, and with a little more rotation.
    The injury itself was pretty ingenious, but here was the brilliant part: With all that adhesive tape plus an Ace bandage and maybe an ice pack or two wrapped around the damaged body part, I’d look athletic. More athletic than I’d ever looked in my life. Shoot, wearing that much medical gear, I’d look positively All-American.
    And to top it all off, when we got to the fieldhouse, I’d make a big show of trying to get into the game. But of course, my injury would be too serious to allow me any playing time, so I’d grimace in pain and hobble back to the bench. Acting all disappointed, of course. Any uncoordination on my part (and there would be uncoordination—we’re talking about me, after all) would be blamed on the injury, not on my own personal lack of motor skills.
    Amazing how much a sprained ankle could cheer me up. I actually started to feel All-American. Not in the athletic sense, of course. I wasn’t completely delusional. But in the figuring-things-out sense. The sense that no matter what Coach or Mrs. Zimmer or anybody else threw at me, I’d figure out how to deal with it.
    I was feeling so All-American, in fact, that I’d actually talked myself into showing Coach my list of team strengths and possible plays. It was good strategy. And it could work. It could totally work.
    Of course, it could totally fail, too. We weren’t dealing with a real talent pool here.
    But if we picked out the things we were good at and concentrated on them, we might just win some games. If nothing else, we’d confuse the other team for a while. They’d probably never seen anybody do the things we were good at. Not on purpose, anyway.
    Monday after school, armed with my list and pumped up with temporary courage, I trotted into practice with Bragger. We found all the windows in the gym taped over with black bulletin-board paper. Which all by itself should’ve tipped us off that something was up. Something we didn’t want any part of.
    And, just in case we didn’t catch on right away, Coach was waiting by the locker room door. Behind a big stack of boxes. Bright red with a big swirl and the words S TEALTH S PORTSWEAR in gold. The blotch on the side of his face had turned into an angry purple bruise.
    Final clue: when Coach stepped out from behind the boxes, he was naked.
    Okay, not naked naked. But close enough. Closer than I ever wanted to see. He stood there, right in the middle of the gym, wearing nothing but his undershorts and whistle. Hands on his hips. Hairy chest puffed up. Knobby chicken legs poking out beneath his boxers.
    By this time, the other guys had all traipsed into the gym. And stopped cold. We stood in a startled huddle, all twelve of us, trying not to stare at Coach. It was like a train wreck—so horrible you didn’t want to look, and at the same time, so horrible you couldn’t tear your eyes away.
    â€œEverybody at the beauty parlor was laying bets on what Coach would do next,” Duncan whispered. “Boy, are they all going to lose.”
    Coach flipped his clipboard under his arm and paced over to stand directly in front of us.
    â€œListen up,” he barked. “This”—he pointed at his bare stomach—“is highly advanced technology.”
    We glanced at each other out of the corners of our eyes.
    Coach pulled out an official-looking document with a gold seal on the cover. “You’re looking at a Stealth Warm-up Suit, gentlemen. Developed by the Marine Corps.” He tapped the document. “Completely undetectable by radar.”
    We stared at him.
    â€œLightweight. Aerodynamic.” Coach flexed his shoulders. “Fits like your own skin.” He flipped the document open and