Hook Shot Hero Page 3

  Dick laid the hand of his uninjured arm on Tim’s shoulder. “Remember what I said about not putting all my eggs in one basket? I’ve got backup plans if basketball doesn’t work out. If this injury is bad enough to keep me off the court forever—and I really don’t think it is—then I’ve got plenty of other options.”

  He pointed a finger at Tim. “So now that you know that, I hereby order you not to beat yourself up over this. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Tim agreed.

  They mounted the steps of the infirmary together. As Tim pushed open the door, Dick smiled at him. “By the way, I don’t know where Gruber gets off calling you weak. You hit me like a linebacker going for the quarterback!”

  Tim left Dick with the nurse on duty. He wanted to stick around, but the nurse told him that it was getting close to dinner and that he needed to return to his camp unit or else he’d miss eating that night. It had been a busy day and Tim was hungry, so he did as the nurse instructed. Besides, Dick told him to go.

  Campers were pouring into the dining hall, talking and laughing as usual. Tim joined the food line. He picked up his tray and reached for his silverware. His fork, still hot from the dishwasher, burned his fingers.

  “Ouch!” He dropped it with a loud clatter and waved his hand through the air to cool it.

  That’s when he noticed that a strange silence had fallen around him. He looked around to see what was going on—and gulped.

  Everyone around him was staring at him. One camper nudged another. “That’s the guy who took out Dick Dunbar.”

  Like a flash, word of what had happened spread like wildfire throughout the dining hall. Soon, every person at camp knew that a kid named Tim Daniels had injured basketball star Dick Dunbar.

  It didn’t matter that Dick didn’t blame Tim. Everyone else at Camp Wickasaukee did.

  8

  The next day was the worst of Tim’s life. Most of the Eagles shunned him—the only exceptions were Billy and Sam. Their efforts to cheer him up might have worked if Tim hadn’t heard a rumor that Dick needed an operation to fix his arm.

  The morning mentor session was disastrous. Tim yelled himself hoarse trying to get Red, Peter, and Keanu to pay attention to his instructions.

  The afternoon practice was equally awful. Without Dick around, the Eagles turned in a lackluster performance on the court. Even Tito and Jody, usually so full of competitive energy, appeared not to care how their players executed their drills.

  And that was a problem, for the first of three inter-camp matches was scheduled for the next day. The basketball game between the Eagles Nest and Camp Woodbine’s thirteen-and fourteen-year-old boys was the last competition of that match. If Wickasaukee and Woodbine were close in points by the day’s end, that game would decide which camp was the overall winner. So the Eagles needed to be fired up and fully prepared.

  But the players couldn’t seem to pull it together. They blamed one another for mistakes, loudly pointed out one another’s faults, and ran their plays so haphazardly that few of them worked. Tito became so aggravated that he kicked a basketball into a nearby field. Jody’s frown deepened with each passing minute until he looked like a volcano ready to explode.

  “We’re going to get crushed tomorrow,” Tim told Billy when they met up in their room before dinner.

  Truer words had never been spoken. While Camp Wickasaukee emerged victorious at the end of the day of events, it was no thanks to the Eagles. They lost their match 62–47.

  Tim had spent most of the last quarter of the game on the bench, watching Mike Gruber try to single-handedly erase the point deficit. Whenever Tim did get in, it was as if he didn’t exist. Except for inbounding passes to Elijah, he barely touched the ball because no one passed to him.

  Not that it mattered, he thought. I probably would have botched the play or tossed up an air ball anyway.

  Despite the basketball players’ dismal showing, the mood in the Eagles Nest before dinner was celebratory. Several of the nonbasketball players had performed well in their events.

  Billy had been the top swimmer of both camps, Tim found out later. He congratulated his friend enthusiastically. But in the next breath, he began to pour out his frustration at how the game had gone.

  Billy stopped him after a moment. “Why don’t you talk to Dick about all this stuff? He might be able to help you better than me.”

  Tim glared at him from his bunk. Some friend he was; after Tim had put up with Billy’s complaints all last summer, Billy couldn’t even listen to one of his!

  “How am I supposed to talk to Dick?” he snapped. “He’s still in the hospital!”

  “No, he’s not,” Billy retorted. “He’s in the infirmary.”

  Tim sat bolt upright. “What? Since when?”

  “Since an hour ago,” Billy said. “I heard some of the waterfront guys talking about it.”

  Tim leaped to his feet and raced out the door.

  “No need to thank me!” Billy called after him.

  Tim took off at a run for the infirmary, his mind racing. How serious is Dick’s injury? Will he be sidelined for a few days or the rest of the summer, or—Tim gulped—will it mean the end of his career?

  He bounded up the steps of the infirmary two at a time and burst through the door.

  “Goodness, young man, what’s the problem? Is someone hurt?” the nurse on duty asked in alarm.

  “No! I’m looking for Dick Dunbar!” Tim gasped.

  “You found him.”

  Tim spun around to see Dick reclining in a hospital bed. His eyes widened as he took in the cast on Dick’s arm. “Oh, man,” he groaned. “How bad is it?”

  To his relief, Dick laughed. “I told you, I’ve had worse.”

  He shook his head when Tim asked about the operation. “Is that the rumor going around the camp? Don’t worry. I didn’t have an operation. It was a clean break, and a pretty minor one, too, from what I saw on the X-ray. I was about to check out of here, in fact. You can carry my bag. Come on.”

  Tim soon had Dick settled in a chair in his room.

  “That’s better,” Dick said with a sigh. “Now tell me: How are things going with you?”

  Tim hesitated. He wanted to tell Dick how everything—from his mentoring sessions to his playing to his relationships with the other Eagles—was falling apart. But he was ashamed to admit that he was having so many problems.

  Then Dick looked him straight in the eye and said, “Come on. Out with it. All of it.”

  So Tim launched into a review of the past two days. Dick listened attentively until Tim hung his head and wondered aloud if he should just pack up and go home. “Nobody wants me here anyway. Not my mentees, not my teammates, and maybe not even Billy.”

  “Funny,” Dick said then, “I didn’t peg you for a quitter. Last year, when your shot wasn’t falling, when Mike and the other boys were giving you grief, when Billy needed a boost, you didn’t run and hide. You found solutions!”

  He ticked off his fingers one by one. “You got my help with your shot. You turned the tables on the practical jokers. You handed Billy the biggest shot of the summer—and when he made it, you turned him into a hero, at least for the day. So my question to you is: Why are you shying away from these new challenges?”

  “I don’t know.” Tim looked up. “You ever feel overwhelmed by stuff?”

  “Sometimes,” Dick admitted.

  “What do you do about it?”

  Dick thought for a moment before answering. “You ever eat a whole pizza by yourself?”

  Tim frowned. “Yeah, but what does that—”

  “Did you eat it all at once or one slice at a time?” Dick pressed.

  “A slice at a time.”

  Dick sat back with a satisfied smile. “Exactly!”

  Tim stared at Dick, completely baffled. Then, slowly, he figured out what Dick was trying to say.

  “My problems are like the pizza, right?” he ventured. “I can’t tackle them all at once any more than I can e
at a whole pizza in one bite. But if I take the problems one at a time—like slices of pizza—I might be able to deal with them.”

  “And the first problem you’re going to take care of,” Dick said, rising clumsily out of his chair, “is your shooting trouble. I haven’t forgotten about my promise to teach you a shot that could help.” He stopped at the door and looked over his shoulder. “Well? You coming or not?”

  With hope rising in his chest, Tim jumped up. “You bet I am!”

  9

  Dick led Tim to the indoor gymnasium. He produced a key, unlocked a side entrance, and ushered Tim inside.

  The gym was empty. Patches of late afternoon sun gleamed on the shiny wooden floor, dust swirling in the beams. Their footsteps echoed and squeaked as they moved to the bleachers.

  “Wow, this place is so different when there’s no one here!” The cavernous space amplified Tim’s voice so that it sounded as if he’d yelled rather than whispered. “Is it okay for us to be here?”

  Dick waved away his concern. “You’re here with me, so it’s fine,” he said. “Now, as to why we’re here. You ever heard of a hook shot?”

  “Sure,” Tim responded. “Lots of NBA players use it. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar of the Lakers was the master. Magic Johnson learned from him. Nowadays, Tim Duncan is—holy cow!” His eyes widened. “Is that the shot you’re going to teach me?”

  Dick laughed. “That’s the one. Even though I can’t demonstrate it,” he added with a gesture toward his cast, “I can talk you through it. Head to the upper-right corner of the key.”

  “Should I take a ball?”

  Dick shook his head. “I want you to practice the motions first.”

  He continued talking while Tim went to the key. “The hook shot gets its name because the shooter’s arm hooks over his head during the shot. But that’s just a small part of the whole move. Proper footwork, body position, and well-timed release of the ball are equally crucial to getting the shot to fall.

  “The hook shot is difficult to block,” Dick went on, “because the shooter’s body stays between the ball and the defender. The beauty of the shot is that you can do it any time the defense is covering you tightly. And, if for some reason you decide not to send it toward the hoop, you can convert it into a pass to an open player instead. But for now, practice it as a shot.”

  He instructed Tim to turn so his left shoulder was aimed at the hoop. “The next steps happen all at the same time, but we’ll go through them one by one.”

  “Like slices of pizza?” Tim said with a smile.

  “Pepperoni pizza, to be exact,” Dick replied. “First, the ball. Pretend you’re holding one in your right hand. Now bring it up in an arc from low to high until your elbow is about shoulder height and the ball is above your head.”

  He and Tim went through the motion together. “Obviously,” Dick said, “you’ll be moving a lot faster, so the momentum will keep the ball stuck in your hand. When the ball reaches the top of the arc, flick your wrist and shoot.”

  Tim pretended to shoot.

  “Good,” Dick praised. “Now for another part. The ball’s in your right hand. So use your left arm as a barrier, like you’re protecting your dribble.”

  “Like this?” Tim raised his left arm so it was nearly parallel with the floor. He made sure his elbow was jutting out, ready to defend against an attack.

  “Yes. You look at any picture of Kareem as he flicks in the hook, you’ll see his non-shooting arm in a position like that,” Dick said. “Now the footwork. Your left foot is your pivot foot and so stays nailed to the floor. As the ball reaches the top of the arc, push off and straight up with your right foot. That way, you’ll be at the greatest-possible height just when you’re releasing the ball.”

  Tim made a face. “What are the chances my ‘greatest-possible height’ will be high enough to get the ball over Mike Gruber’s hands?” he asked.

  Dick smiled. “If you do the move right, your chances are very good. Imagine a line drawn from your left elbow to the upraised ball. It goes up an angle, right? So to reach the ball, Mike, or whoever is defending you, wouldn’t just have to jump up—he’d have to jump on top of you!” He shrugged. “Sure, he might get the ball, but he’d foul you in the process. Might even get called for a technical because it’d be a pretty flagrant foul. Now, let’s see you go through the whole motion a few times.”

  Tim took a moment to picture what he was supposed to do and then shot five pretend hooks.

  “Not bad!” Dick said. He picked up a basketball and tossed it to Tim. “Now with the ball. Aim for the hoop.”

  Tim’s first few attempts flew wide of their mark.

  “Eyes on the hoop, not your hands!” Dick corrected.

  Tim nodded. The next attempts hit the backboard but didn’t go in. Then, on his seventh try, the basketball kissed the glass and swished softly through the net’s strings.

  “I did it!” Tim cried. He hurried to retrieve the ball, set up for the shot again—and sank it!

  “Two in a row!” he crowed happily.

  Two became three, but his fourth one missed. Dick instructed him to try the same shot but with his other hand and from the other corner of the key. Tim was righthanded, so most of these attempts were way off. He didn’t mind, however. He knew it would take a lot of practice to get the shot to fall consistently, no matter where he was standing or which hand he was using. But he was going to keep trying because if Dick was right, he’d finally have something that would work against Mike Gruber!

  “I’m feeling really good about this shot,” he said to Dick.

  “You should,” Dick replied. “Of course, you’ll feel even better about it when you know you can hit it during practice or, better yet, a game.”

  Tim’s face fell. “Oh, man, that’s right! I’ve got to practice it when someone’s defending me. But who’s going to help me with that? I’ll tell you who—no one!”

  10

  The hook shot lesson came to an end a few minutes later because dinner was starting. Tim and Dick walked together into the dining hall, where Dick was immediately surrounded by people asking about his injury.

  Tim moved away to pick up his food. He sat down at an empty table to eat, chewing slowly as he thought about his newest predicament.

  The hook shot promised to be a very powerful tool. But the shot was worthless unless it worked during a game. And the only way to make it work during a game was to practice it in gamelike situations. To do that, he needed a defender.

  Dick would have been his first choice, but obviously, he was out.

  Then who? Tim glanced at the table where the other boys from the Eagles Nest had gathered. Sam? He’s been friendly, even when everyone else was ignoring me.

  Even as the thought crossed Tim’s mind, Sam said something that made Mike Gruber laugh uproariously. Tim shook his head. Sam was friendly—with everyone. If he helped Tim, would he be able to keep the practice sessions a secret from the others? Tim wasn’t sure.

  That was the trouble, Tim realized. He needed someone who knew how to play basketball well enough to defend against him. But if he was to keep his new weapon a secret from Mike, it would be best if that person wasn’t on the Eagles Nest team.

  Who do I know who fits that description?

  He finished his supper without coming up with the answer. He was on his way out the door when someone called his name.

  “Hey, Tim! Wait up!”

  Tim turned to see Billy hurrying toward him. “Hi, Billy, how’s it—” He stopped in mid-sentence and clapped his hand to his forehead. “Billy! Of course! Why didn’t I think of you before?”

  Billy gave Tim a wary look. “Think of me before what?”

  Tim pulled Billy away from the other campers who were leaving the dining hall and explained the situation to his friend. “So I was hoping that while everyone else is at the bonfire tonight, you could help me practice the shot. What do you say?”

  Billy chewed on his lower lip. “Won’t we g
et in trouble for skipping the fire without permission?”

  “We won’t miss the whole thing,” Tim assured him. “We’ll show up at the start. Then we’ll ask to use the latrine or something. We’ll practice for half an hour and then come back before anyone misses us. Come on, please?”

  Billy let out a long sigh. “Fine,” he said. “If it’s that important to you, I’ll do it. But if we get caught—”

  “I’ll take full blame,” Tim promised.

  An hour later, Tim and Billy were at the bonfire with the rest of the Eagles Nest. They were singing along to a ridiculous song about a dog named Lima who had roamed away from home only to return “all nice and clean,” prompting the question, “Where, oh where, has Lima been?” The song went on and on, with campers shouting out the names of different beans like coffee, string, and jelly.

  While the other boys were laughing and singing, Tim poked Billy and whispered, “Let’s go!”

  Billy looked nervous, but he followed Tim into the darkness. They found the paved path that led to the outdoor courts. But before they got there, Tim heard the sound of girls laughing and basketballs bouncing on the hardtop. Members of the girls’ camp were already there.

  “Change of plans!” he hissed to Billy. “This way!” He veered onto a new path with Billy at his heels.

  But when Billy saw where they were headed, he stopped short. “The gym? Are you nuts? We’re not allowed in there!”

  Tim knew Billy was right. But he was so desperate to practice the hook shot that he refused to give up. So when Billy started to leave, Tim caught hold of his shirt and tugged him back.

  “Let’s just check the door,” he said persuasively. “If it’s locked, we leave. If not, we’ll get in a little bit of practice and then leave.”

  They stared at each other for a long minute. Then Billy rolled his eyes. “I don’t know how I let you talk me into these things.”

  Tim hadn’t really expected the door to be open, but the handle twisted easily in his grip. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  If the empty gym had seemed weird in the afternoon, at night it was downright eerie. Pale moonbeams cast ghostly shadows. The basket strings hung like giant spiderwebs in the gloom; all that was missing, Tim thought with a shiver, were multi-eyed, eight-legged monsters. Even the bleachers looked frightening, rising up the side walls like black, jagged cliffs. Anyone—or anything—could be lurking there!