EllRay Jakes Stands Tall Read online

  “Thanks,” I say, staring down at the ball.

  I never thought of hiking and rock climbing as sports before. They’re just fun.

  “Now, turn off that worrying brain, son, and hop into the shower,” Dad says. “Wash away those blues.”

  “Okay,” I tell him.

  No more Alfie-talk! And no losing my Die, Creature, Die privileges for a couple of days, either.

  Score.

  Two points.

  And I hop—while the hopping is good.

  15

  PLURALS AND DRIBBLE DRILLS

  “All done, spelling champs?” Ms. Sanchez says after Word Challenge, something we do every Monday morning. “Then give the corrected papers back to your neighbors, take a look at your scores, and pass everything forward to me.”

  Today, our spelling words were all plurals. “Plural” means more than one.

  Here is how I see plurals. “Boys” is the plural of boy. “Basketballs” is the plural of basketball. So far, so good. You just add “S.”

  But plurals can get a whole lot trickier. If there was more than one Joe in your class, there would be two Joes. J-O-E-S. But two banjos would end with “J-O-S,” not “J-O-E-S.”

  Luckily, one banjo at a time is usually enough.

  Plurals can get confusing with animals, too. Say you have one mouse. If he has a friend, they are “mice,” not “mouses.” But more than one house is not “hice,” it’s “houses.” It would be fun to say, “The mice are living in their hice,” but you can’t.

  By now in life, we are supposed to know most plurals, I think, passing forward my Word Challenge. But basically, you have to remember the plural of each word. Because there is no one rule that you can apply to all plurals. That’s why I think Ms. Sanchez should call this lesson “memorizing,” not “learning plurals.”

  No offense, English language.

  “You may be excused,” Ms. Sanchez says when all the Word Challenge papers are on her tidy desk. “But no running, please,” she adds, as most of the boys—and some of the girls—jump to their feet.

  Because—it is perfect basketball weather outside! Pre-basketball, anyway. The last raindrop fell sometime during “banjos.”

  And it’s finally time for recess!

  “Line up for your drills, and take your go-to stance,” Coach shouts as we run onto the sparkling playground, still shining from this morning’s rain. “Now, now!” he adds, clapping his baseball mitt-sized hands together.

  And we line up super-fast. I put my feet a shoulder’s length apart, one foot forward, and I bend my knees a little.

  “Okay,” Coach says. “Running in place on the balls of your feet.” He prowls up and down the middle of our two lines. “Hup, hup, hup! Who wants to quit running and go eat snackies with the little kids on the teeter-totters?”

  “Me,” Marco murmurs. But I’m the only one who hears him.

  You’re not supposed to eat on the teeter-totters, as Mr. Havens would be the first to tell you. But instead of arguing with Coach, we run faster.

  I wonder if he is like this with his second grade class? They must be like miniature marines by now!

  “Left side, dribble drills,” Coach shouts, tossing balls to my line. “Right side, keep running—but in a tight circle this time. Turn those bodies around. And keep your knees bent. This isn’t the Monster Mash, people. Move! Move!”

  I start dribbling, and Corey runs like a hundred-battery toy.

  “Lower, lower, lower,” Coach tells us dribblers. “And now I want you to grab those balls and pivot, still dribbling. Pivoting means that you turn on one foot, keeping it in place. Don’t just take off and run, because if you move more than one or two steps without dribbling the ball, that’s called traveling. And it’s a bad thing. Say ‘traveling,’ everyone. Say it!”

  “Traveling,” the dribblers and the runners all shout.

  “Say ‘bad thing,’” Coach tells us.

  “Bad thing.”

  “Oopsie,” Emma cries out, as her bouncing ball skitters away from her like a bank robber trying to make a getaway. Kry snags Emma’s ball without missing a beat.

  Awesome!

  I wait for one of the guys—Jared, Stanley, or Jason, probably—to make fun of Emma for saying “Oopsie,” but no one dares. Not with Coach on the job.

  Fwe-e-e-et! Coach’s silver whistle blows. “And—come on back and switch sides,” he hollers. “No time to lose. Hup, hup!”

  Coach is tough, but he’s fair.

  Plurals and dribble drills in the same morning, I think as I run in place, trying to copy Corey’s mad skills as I turn in a tight circle. Run, run, run, run, run!

  “Now for some bounce pass drills,” Coach says, grabbing a ball to demonstrate. He bounces the ball toward me once, and I catch it. “Good one, EllRay,” Coach says, and I feel like the sun is shining all over me. It doesn’t even matter how short I am! “Pass it on,” Coach tells me. “Hot potato. And keep those fingertips apart, don’t forget.”

  I bounce the ball toward Marco, who is standing there chewing on his lower lip.

  “Catch that rock,” Coach shouts at Marco. “Both hands! But don’t look at the ball, people. Look where it’s going. Okay, let’s get a few of ’em in the air,” he says, tossing a couple more balls into the mix. “Keep ’em moving, moving, moving!” he says. “One bounce only. And no ball hogs allowed.”

  I don’t know what a ball hog is, but I can guess. And I don’t want to be one.

  “Good job, EllRay,” Coach calls out. “You’re on fire, kid! And you too, Kry. Way to go. Now, we’re gonna try some swats before we cool down. EllRay,” he says, turning to me. “My man. Throw the ball to Kevin again. Just a rapid-fire pass this time, no bounce.”

  And so I shoot the ball straight to Kevin, hoping I am doing the right thing. I keep my eye on Kevin’s hands, not on the ball. But before the ball gets to Kevin, Coach’s tree-trunk arm appears out of nowhere, and he knocks the ball out of the air—toward Jared, who catches it on the bounce.

  “That was a swat. Good one, Jared,” Coach says, and Jared’s face creases into a rare smile. He looks like a whole new person! “Now, shoot that ball to Emma, Jared. And Corey, you try to intercept it. Then swat it toward Annie Pat.”

  “No, no. That’s okay,” Annie Pat says, waving her hands in the air like twin starfish.

  Plural, “starfish.” Go figure.

  “Here it comes, A.P.,” Coach tells her. “Heads up!”

  And Annie Pat actually catches it.

  Nobody is more surprised than she is. She smiles big-time, and her face turns pink.

  “And now we’re gonna slow it down,” Coach tells us. “Just gentle passes, guys. But using both hands, and keeping those knees slightly bent. You’re like coiled springs, people! Pass those balls toward me. EllRay, I’m putting you in charge of the net bag.”

  Plural, “net bags.” Easy.

  I scoop up the net bag and start jamming balls into it. Hup, hup!

  “We’ll meet again Wednesday morning, during recess,” Coach tells us. “Until then, keep handling those basketballs at home. Or those beach balls. Whatever. And if you can, find a wall—outside, people!—and do some rapid-fire passing drills on your own. Against the wall, no bounce when you pass. And never stop practicing. Just stand about two feet from the wall, throw hard, and work your way back. Got that?”

  Not really, I think. But I figure someone knows what Coach is talking about. And maybe they can tell me. After all, we have three more recesses before Wednesday morning’s coaching session.

  “Recesses.” The plural of recess. You have to stick that “E” in there, or it would look funny. “Sss,” like the noise snakes make.

  We have this afternoon, tomorrow morning, and tomorrow afternoon.

  Coach already said I was “on fire,” didn’
t he? And that’s the best thing any grown-up who isn’t a relative has ever said to me in my entire life! So who knows how good I’ll be by Wednesday morning?

  Things can only get better.

  Right?

  16

  MR. YEAH BUT

  “Hey, EllRay,” Marco says, catching up to me as we scuff our way back to class. “Do you like b-ball?”

  “Yeah,” I say, slowing down a little. “Except no one will ever pass me the ball, I’m so short. Why?” I ask. “Don’t you like it?”

  “Basketball’s too noisy,” he says after looking around to make sure no one else can hear. “There’s too much yelling and stuff. It gives me a headache and a stomachache.”

  “Really?” I say, trying to imagine it.

  I think Marco’s problem is that he’s a kid who needs a lot of peace and quiet. I guess that’s why he likes to play olden days on the grass with his plastic dragons and knights.

  But peace and quiet are like endangered species at Oak Glen Primary School.

  “Then don’t play it,” I say, shrugging. “You don’t have to play, Marco.”

  “Yeah, but that’s being a baby,” Marco says. “I’d be eating fruit leather on the teeter-totters before you know it,” he says, quoting Coach. “Kids would laugh at me. And anyway,” he adds, “I like hanging with everyone—when they’re not shouting and stuff, anyway.”

  He really looks miserable. I have a horrible feeling that he’s about to cry.

  And crying at school is every boy’s worst nightmare.

  “Maybe you could wear earplugs,” I suggest. “We could make some out of clay.”

  “Yeah, but then I wouldn’t be able to hear it if someone said, ‘Heads up!’ when they passed me the ball,” Marco says. “And I’d still feel like I was gonna hurl.”

  “Maybe you should try yoga,” I say. “That’s supposed to make you feel all relaxed, Ms. Sanchez says. Then the noise and stuff wouldn’t bother you so much.”

  “Yeah, but yoga’s just for girls,” Marco says. “At Oak Glen, anyway.”

  Marco Adair is turning into the type of guy my Dad calls “Mr. Yeah But.”

  “Well, maybe you should ask Coach not to yell so much?” I suggest, starting to run out of ideas.

  “Yeah, right,” Marco says with a bitter laugh. He shakes his head.

  “What about if you ask Ms. Sanchez to ask Coach to play b-ball quieter?” I say as we plod down the shiny hall toward class. We’re gonna be late!

  “Yeah, but that would be like tattling,” Marco says, sounding as if all hope is lost. “Anyway, I don’t think she’s the boss of him. But thanks for listening, EllRay,” he adds in a whisper. Quietly.

  “Quietly” and “Shortly.” That’s Marco and me, I guess.

  But—poor Marco!

  17

  FOUL!

  At Monday lunch, it is like we have taken a strange but silent vote: “No b-ball.” Instead, we stuff our faces with food, hang by numb arms and burning hands from the cold overhead ladder, and watch the girls compare fancy Japanese erasers from their collections.

  That’s a thing, I guess. This week, anyway.

  Emma has a panda eraser. Annie Pat’s is a tiny dolphin. And Cynthia has a butterfly, which Heather says is the best eraser, because of all the colors. The girls are holding their erasers in the palms of their hands, whispering to them like they are little pets.

  Sometimes, girls are just strange. No offense.

  I would like to have that dolphin eraser, though. I wouldn’t use it, either—even though I am a kid who needs erasers.

  Who needs them a lot.

  But it is now afternoon recess, and basketball is creeping back into our brains. The playground monitor—not Mr. Havens today—is busy keeping little kids from walking in front of moving swings and getting clobbered. So “the coast is clear,” as my mom sometimes says.

  That means we third-graders can do what we want.

  Jared is already practice-dribbling a ball.

  “Where’s Coach?” Corey asks, looking around.

  “Probably in the Teachers’ Lounge, with an ice pack on his back. Like Ms. Sanchez said that time,” I tell him. But I can’t really picture it. Coach looks too strong for that.

  “We don’t need Coach to play basketball,” Jared says, dribbling away.

  “Well, we don’t need him for practice drills, anyway,” Diego says. “But Coach hasn’t shown us how to shoot baskets yet.”

  “Duh,” Kevin says, making a face at Diego. “You just throw the ball and hope for the best.” He crouches and then shoots an imaginary ball, demonstrating. He is probably pretending he is a pro player tossing the winning throw as an invisible crowd cheers.

  Marco is playing with his olden days figures on the grass near the picnic table. He’s probably just glad no one is yelling. Major is standing next to him, like he can’t decide whether to join in Marco’s game or grab a kickball and start dribbling.

  Annie Pat has wandered over to where we are standing. “I don’t know,” she says, twirling a red pigtail as she watches Kevin leap around. “I think there’s probably an official way to shoot baskets, Kevin. A way you can practice. We should wait for Coach to teach us.”

  “Be quiet, girl,” Jared tells her. “Just because you caught the ball one time this morning. By accident, probably.”

  Uh-oh.

  Foul!

  “Her name is Annie Pat, and you know it,” Emma pipes up. She’s a little scared of Jared, I think. But for some reason, she always stands up to him anyway.

  I start to get the feeling that things are about to go seriously wrong with this afternoon recess. And we have waited for it ever since lunch! But Jared would never dare say something mean to Annie Pat if Coach was around. If he did, Coach would send Jared over to the teeter-totters to eat fruit leather with the little kids. Or make him run laps around the playground.

  But Jared’s the type of kid who acts up when there are no grown-ups nearby. It’s his specialty.

  “Ooh, she’s gonna tell on Jared. Just like a widdle baby,” Stanley jeers, using baby talk as he points at Annie Pat. He wipes his grimy fists in his eyes. “Wah, wah,” he pretend-cries.

  “I’m not going to tell,” Annie Pat says, protesting. “I never said I was, either.”

  “Go play with your stupid eraser, or do some stretchy, bendy yoga,” Jared tells her, turning away. “So lame,” he adds under his breath.

  “Yoga’s not lame,” Annie Pat says.

  “Us guys should divide up into teams,” Kevin says, after Annie Pat and Emma have joined a nearby group of girls: Kry, Fiona, Heather. They’re already laughing together, playing some other game. Tagging and chasing, it looks like.

  “Yeah,” Stanley chimes in. “Let’s divide up, and then try to get past each other.” He rams his shoulder into Marco, demonstrating his bashing skills, I guess.

  “I’ll choose the first team, because I’ve got the ball,” Jared announces. He really means that he’ll be the boss of that team. The boss of all of us, if he can pull it off.

  Not. Gonna. Happen.

  “And I’ll choose the other team,” Jason says. Like I said before, Jason’s kind of chunky. But as I also mentioned before, he always says it’s pure muscle, even when nobody asks.

  But—choosing teams!

  I hate it when us guys choose teams, mostly because of how short I am. I’m usually picked last for sports things, never first. Or second. Or even third. I liked it better when we were all on the same team during our training sessions, with Coach as our leader.

  But what can I do about this whole choosing-teams thing? Nothing!

  I’m not the boss of recess. I’m not the boss of anything.

  18

  THE CHOOSING

  It is as if a dark cloud has appeared over our section of the pl
ayground as the choosing begins. My part of the playground, anyway.

  “I choose Kevin and Stanley,” Jared shouts.

  “Hey! One at a time,” Jason objects. “Or else I get to choose Corey and Nate and Marco,” he says. “And then I want Major and Diego.”

  “That’s five, loser,” Jared tells him.

  We aren’t allowed to say “loser” at Oak Glen Primary School. But that doesn’t mean kids don’t say the word. Especially when there are no grown-ups around.

  World, meet Jared Matthews.

  “Give back a couple of your guys,” Jared tells Jason. “Or else you have to take EllRay, too,” he says, smirking.

  A smirk is a nasty little smile, by the way. My mom told me that once.

  But—wait. What? I’m like last prize now?

  I mean, okay. I’m not super good at basketball—yet. I don’t deserve any respect. But I’m not bad at it. I’m as good a dribbler as anyone here, aren’t I? So far? And didn’t Coach give me a shout-out just this morning? That’s more than Jared got!

  So why pick on me?

  “Hey,” Corey objects, taking my side. “EllRay’s got skills, and you know it.”

  It’s true. I have small skills, the kind that kids don’t notice.

  1. I’m a pretty fast runner, for example.

  2. And I’m quick. I learn stuff fast, too.

  3. Also, like I said, Coach thinks I’m good at bounce pass drills.

  4. And Dad says I’m a good hiker and climber.

  But nobody notices the skills I have. They like the big, splashy sports skills.

  “I know he can’t dunk,” Jared says, like he just won a bet. “Just look at him. And scoring is the whole point of b-ball, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Stanley says, piling on. “EllRay would need a ladder or a trampoline to get the ball anywhere near the basket.” He looks around for approval of this lame joke, but he doesn’t get any.

  Everyone’s too eager to get started with this bogus game, probably.