Sink it Rusty by Matt Christopher Page B

on. Let's take the road.
     I'm going home, too.”
    They walked to the paved road and followedit around the hill. Lights on poles blazed the way.
    “Joby,” said Rusty suddenly, “please don't tell anybody I tried to climb the hill.”
    “Don't worry,” said Joby. “I won't. But you were really nutty to do it!”
    They reached the houses on top of the hill. Lights glowed in windows. Smoke curled out of chimneys, faded into the dark sky.
    Joby's and Rusty's homes were across from each other.
    “Goodnight, Joby,” said Rusty.
    “Goodnight, Rusty.”
    The instant Rusty walked into the kitchen he looked at his pants. Horror came over him. They were covered with dirt! There
     were even bits of twigs and leaves sticking to his clothes.
    Quickly, he began brushing them off. But he wasn't improving things. The dirt was bouncing onto the clean, polished floor.
     If Mom —
    He started to go back out. Just then his mother appeared from the dining room.
    “Rusty! Heavens! What are you doing? And where in glory's name have you been?”
    Rusty trembled and stammered out his story.
    Her blue eyes softened. Rusty hoped she'd smile, too, but she didn't.
    “Get the clothes brush, step outside, and get yourself cleaned,” she ordered. “And then sweep up this floor. After that, you'd
     better take a bath.”
    Rusty did all those things. Afterwards, his mother showed him a letter they hadreceived from Marylou, Rusty's sister. She was a sophomore at State Teachers College.
    He read the letter. There were a lot of words, but as far as Rusty was concerned she hardly said anything.
    Rusty didn't go to the barn again until Saturday afternoon. First he made sure no one was there. He took his own basketball
     and began playing all by himself.
    He dribbled and shot from different spots on the floor. His shots were either too short or far to the left or right of the
     basket. He tried jump shots and realized he could hardly get off the floor.
    Anger built up inside him. Why couldn't he run faster? Why couldn't he jump? Why did he have to be different from other boys?
Why did it have to happen to him?
    “Hello!” a voice said behind him.
    He dropped the ball. He spun, and almost lost his balance.
    “Oh! Hi!” he said. His heart thumped. “Hi, Mr. Daws!”

4
    “I saw you pass by the store with the basketball,” said Alec. “I thought you were coming here. Practicing shots?”
    “I guess so,” said Rusty.
    Alec came forward. He walked gracefully despite his towering height. A smile warmed his gray eyes. Then a little frown appeared
     on his forehead.
    “Aren't you the boy who was refereeing the ball game here a few nights ago?”
    Rusty nodded. He was really nervous. Boy, this guy was tall!
    “Bet you didn't like it when I took over your job, did you?” Alec Daws said.
    Rusty looked away. He shrugged. “I —I didn't mind,” he said.
    Alec Daws reached out a long, muscular arm and squeezed Rusty's shoulder. “Don't tell me that,” he said. “What's your name?
     Mine's Alec Daws. You can call me Alec.”
    “My name's Ronald Young,” said Rusty. “Everybody calls me Rusty. Because of my hair.”
    Alec laughed.
    Rusty's gaze fell upon the black glove Alec wore on his left hand. There was something strange about the hand. Even with the
     glove on, it didn't look as big as the other.
    “Go ahead,” said Alec. “Let's see you hit one from here.”
    Rusty turned, looked at the basket. Hestood near the middle of the floor. He had no chance of even hitting the backboard from here. He began to dribble, then quickly
     stopped. He stood frozen, his face turning red.
    “What's the matter, Rusty?”
    “N-nothing,” he said. He shot. The ball fell far short.
    He'll notice something is wrong with my legs! He will!
    Suddenly Alec swept past him. He caught the bouncing ball with one hand — the hand without the glove — and dribbled it to
     the side. He stopped, held the ball up in both hands, then shot at the basket. Rusty noticed