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Overview
Everyone thinks the team is a shoo-in to win the state championship, however, Clare can't seem to get it together. Her coach and her teammates are frustrated with her lack of focus and her displays of attitude. Her parents aren't attending the games like they used to. Her sports dreams seem to be slipping away, and she is constantly off -balance. Then, an unlikely friend helps her see things from a new perspective. To find her focus she must rediscover herself.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781450250757 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | iUniverse, Incorporated |
| Publication date: | 09/02/2010 |
| Pages: | 84 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.20(d) |
Read an Excerpt
Give 'n Go
By Kerby Mae Robinson
iUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2010 Kerby Mae RobinsonAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-5075-7
Chapter One
Clare got a lump in her throat as The Star - Spangled Banner played before the game. The opening game of her junior year and she was as nervous as a rookie. All eyes seemed to be on her. She was afraid to look up in the stands at her parents' usual spot. Would they be smiling? Would they feel any excitement at all- remembering other games? She tried to shake the anxiety off as the last plaintive note was played. She wiped her hands on her jersey and began the game ritual of giving high fives to the teammate on her left and the teammate on her right; usually it was Mia and Rhonda. This time she gave Mia a tentative slap and could see Mia's questioning expression. She compensated for the first one by hitting Rhonda's high five with too much force. Extremes- why was it she was always compensating, always going to extremes to prove that she could play this year without the crutch of her sister?The coach pulled the team into the circle, "Remember, defense. Rattle them right off the bat. Let's go."
The team members echoed Coach Larrabee twenty times louder, "Let's go." The bench took their seats and the starters took to the floor. Clare's team huddled at half court.
Mia gave Clare a knowing look and then a decisive nod. "Let's get it," she yelled to everybody and no one in particular, yet Clare felt Mia's discomfort about her.
The Mustangs set up for the offensive tip. Clare's height and athleticism usually won them the initial possession. As the official approached center court, Clare's feet felt like lead. Always in the past she had tipped the ball Debbie's way, so that they could usually score on the first possession. Debbie wasn't there this year. Nobody would understand how much she missed her sister. Automatically, Clare timed the toss and her fingertips guided the ball to Mia on the left of the circle. Mia hit the cutter going down the middle of the court that scored the first point of the game, an uncontested lay-up. Coach Larrabee had a slight upturn of her lips, but to call it a smile would be wrong.
The game was going by in a blur. She played, but she couldn't coordinate her head and her heart to get into the game at the same time. She had three fouls and five baskets, but everything she did seemed robotic, automatic. At halftime Coach Larrabee made a reference to her when she said, "I've seen zombies play better than you guys."
Last year everything came together- head, heart, and skills. Her sister Debbie, a senior, had been the driving dynamo of the team. Even though Clare was three inches taller, Debbie possessed a unique basketball savvy that made her the best player on the team. She seemed to anticipate the ball's movement on both ends of the court. Debbie was the consummate player- great on "D", smooth lay-ups, and fierce on the boards. Clare and Debbie had played intuitively together, as only sisters can. They knew each other's strengths and weaknesses, and they could create lots of excitement with their special plays. Their dad had taught them a lot, but he knew when to let them take the wheel and drive. It was more satisfying when Clare and Debbie would put a twist on one of his plays and make it their own. He would smile with such satisfied pride. The girls had yearned for that smile. Clare hadn't seen that smile since last season. Now, without Debbie on the team, would she see that smile this season?
Clare, being the youngest, always wanted to surpass her sister just once. It all started when Debbie began playing organized ball. Clare would follow her to the gym and watch her practice. Clare loved the camaraderie of the players. She waited on the sidelines for a turnover to come her way, so that she could eagerly get her hands on the ball and toss it back to one of the players. Little did she know that five years down the road, she would be teammates with that bunch of girls. Little did she know how much she would miss her sister and that class of girls who graduated last year. She missed having her sister on the team. It changed her game. She was wistful and unable to concentrate.
It was a typical season-opener- gangly girls fumbling and bumbling, trying to find their basketball legs and their shots. Lead passes were behind their backs, and chest passes were at the knees. The competition was surprisingly rough, but they took the bangs and played on. Then frustration took over. Clare was blatantly fouled and tasted blood from a cut on her lip. She still felt numb, as she knocked down two perfect free throws. Free throws were the only thing she did better than Debbie. In her sophomore year, which was Debbie's senior year, Clare had scored 88 percent from the line, while Debbie shot a weak 30 percent. Somehow the pressure of being the only one shooting was worse for Debbie than taking a shot with the defense all over her.
The free throws put her Mustangs ahead by fifteen points at the beginning of the fourth quarter. Still her team seemed to be struggling with rustiness as much as the other team, the Hawks. Coach Larrabee's face did not reflect happiness at the fifteen-point lead, but rather frustration at the team's rough and uncoordinated basketball. Coach's furrowing brow plainly said, "This is going to be a long season."
Coach Larrabee knew she wasn't going to have the powerhouse team of last year.
"She must be disappointed," Clare thought, but she couldn't work up any sympathy for the coach.
During a Mustang free throw, Clare out of habit looked up in the stands. There was her Mom and Dad, third row up just a little left of center court. That had been their spot since Debbie started playing for the high school team, her freshman year. Her dad was absently looking at the scoreboard. Her mom was focused on her fingernails, nervously picking at her cuticles. Clare missed the rebound as an arm in front of her face abruptly brought her attention back to the game.
Down the court Mia, nicknamed Hollywood, because the name of her street was Hollywood, stole the ball and passed it down the court to Peyton. Peyton cleared half -court and threw it back to Mia. Mia ran the show for the Mustangs and Hollywood seemed an apt nickname for her, because she was sort of showy with her skills. Mia's position was that of point guard or the one guard. She initiated the plays and got all players in their proper positions. Clare cut up to the free throw line as Mia passed the ball to the wing position, where Peyton faked a pass inside and passed it back to Mia at point guard. Mia then fed the ball to Clare at the free throw line and made a hard cut to the basket, where Clare hit her for a smoothly-executed give 'n go. Coach Larrabee finally had a smile of hope on her face. Clare tried to match the smile, but a strange feeling overcame her, a memory so strong it made her head swim. She took a deep breath, and felt her eyes sting with tears, as she remembered the last game, last season- a give and go to her sister to win the regionals and advance to state. That memory seemed more real than the game she was presently playing. She missed a pass, and her coach told her to get her head in the game. The next time down the court, she bobbled a pass from Tree, and then turned it over by throwing it to a defender instead of Peyton. On the very next offensive play, a pass slipped right out of Clare's hands. Coach got to her feet and looked down the bench in disgust, "Karen, get in there for Summitt."
Karen grabbed a towel and waited for the buzzer. Clare did not even know she was being pulled until Karen hit her in the chest with a towel and said, "Clare you're out. Who's your man?"
Clare looked around, "Number 42." Coach just harrumphed as Clare came trotting off the court. She avoided her teammates and went to the end of the bench for some water. When she did look up, her eyes automatically focused on her parents. They definitely weren't looking at her. This time her mother was looking for something in her purse. Mr. Myers, Karen's dad, was talking to Mr. Summitt. Clare's dad was politely pretending to listen to Mr. Myers' assessment of the game. Mr. Myers missed the fact that his daughter had entered the game and was playing the forward position for Clare. Clare's dad missed this fact as well.
Karen was a very good player, but she didn't see the playing time, as she was more methodical than aggressive. If there was an opening to the basket, the other post players would lower their shoulder and go to the hole. Karen would go through all options of the play as if she were following a script. Her play didn't hurt the team, but she did not make things happen like Tree and Clare.
Clare looked up in the stands again. She still didn't think it had registered on her Dad's basketball-loving brain that his daughter had been pulled unceremoniously off the floor and her butt was parked on the pine. Clare covered her face with the towel and held back the tears. She heard the buzzer and the uproar from the crowd telling her the game was over. The rest of the team stood up celebrating one for the win column. Smiling broadly, Mia started to hug Clare as she stood up in the midst of the revelry, but she ended up just thumping her on the arm. It was awkward for both of them.
The girls were loud and giddy in the locker room after the game. Val was screaming and creating havoc with a towel. Nothing wore Val out. She was always stimulated after a game and had energy to spare when everybody else's butts were dragging. Clare smiled and responded when she was required to, but mostly she dressed slowly because she did not want to meet and greet all the well-wishers, the re-hashers, and the wannabe-coaches after the game. The coast was mainly clear with just a few stragglers as Clare left the locker room. Her escape was almost complete, until she all but ran into her coach at the gym doors.
Coach patted her on the shoulder and said, "Not pretty, but at least we got the W."
Clare just responded, "Yes, Coach."
Coach smiled at her trying to mask her concern. She wanted to say something, but decided not to with a shake of her head. "We'll work on it tomorrow at practice. See you then."
"Good night, Coach," Clare went out through the double doors into the crisp autumn night. She flung her red and black gym bag over her shoulder and walked home in the moonlight thinking of the game and how this time last year she was walking home with her sister. They would do a play by play, critiquing each other's performance, teasing each other about bonehead moves. This was before Debbie became Jackson's girlfriend. After they got together, Debbie didn't walk home with Clare anymore. It took only a few weeks for Jackson and Debbie to become an item. They were the old high school cliché- star falls for star- Mr. and Ms. Mustangs. Then the after-game ritual changed. Jackson escorted her home from the games, with Clare following behind them. Clare would watch them laugh, hold hands, and playfully jostle each other as they walked down the street. It seemed that Jackson enjoyed disliking Clare as much as he enjoyed being with Debbie. If Clare would even try to talk to them, Jackson would tell her to bug off. He would offer Debbie advice on moves to the basket and try to give her pointers that worked for him in his last game. Jackson was the ultimate jock- good at every sport, respected team captain, and confident, if somewhat arrogant, leader. He loved to critique Debbie's game and offer all kinds of strategies to help Debbie, but not Clare. Clare felt as insignificant as a bug around him, because he didn't miss an opportunity to let her know just how annoying she was. When Jackson got his truck, Clare started walking home by herself. It was never the same after that.
How she would love to be tagging along behind the two now? She wouldn't feel like a sore thumb; she would be hanging on every word and gesture. Her heart ached with loneliness.
Playing ball with her sister on the varsity squad had always been such a rush. Clare could barely remember a play from tonight's game. Last year her sister and basketball were her life; now she felt lost, off-center, and unimportant without her.
Throughout their childhood, they played basketball-HORSE, 21, or a neighborhood pick -up game- where most red-blooded American kids learned how to play- in their driveway. When their father got home from work, he would take off his jacket and watch, just watch at first. Both girls wanted so badly to impress him. Then he'd smile and offer advice, "Follow through on that shot, Debbie. Go left, Clare." Having been a college player, their dad was savvy about the fundamentals of basketball. His picture and name were all over the gym at their high school. They learned a lot from him. He always seemed proud, but not too proud to have two athletic girls, and the girls were always proud that they were carrying on his tradition. People still remembered and would make comments like, "Your dad was a superb athlete. Why I remember the night ... just a top-notch player."
Deb and Clare both possessed a genuine love of the game. Some thought they were just trying to follow in the footsteps of their all-American father. All who knew the Summitt sisters knew this was far from the truth. They were both committed athletes, not because of him, but like him, they had a true love for the game. He played in the same gym- Hampton Athletic Facility-as the girls. He pumped iron, ran laps, sprinted the court and left his heart and soul on the same floor that the girls played on. He held the school record for career-points scored, season-points scored, and game-points scored. The one accomplishment that he had that they desired was a state title ... he had four of them. What would it be like to have just one! Their entire childhood they admired his four state championship rings and his letter jacket, that they just called the patch jacket, because no one could see the actual jacket as it was covered with patches announcing his accomplishments and accolades. When they were preschool aged, they would hide in their parent's closet. Somehow even at that early age, they were drawn to the jacket's carpeted letters and variety of textures. They knew exactly where it was kept in the rear of the closet, and they would stretch up to run their hands over the outlines of the patches.
At night when they were kids, they would talk of the day when they would play for the red and black of the Fighting Morgan Mustangs. Well, she was now a Mustang, but the fire and desire she once possessed weren't there. As she walked home, many unconnected thoughts were going through her head, but the one feeling she could not let go of was emptiness. She knew she would get the edge back, needed to get the edge back, but at the moment it didn't really matter.
She walked up the familiar driveway and stared at the basketball goal for a moment. The red Mustang's paint was fading. She jiggled her key in the door; her yellow Lab met her, jumping up to get closer to her owner's hand.
As she stepped on the first step to go upstairs to her bedroom, her mom Linda Summitt called out to her, "Clare, are you hungry?"
"No," Clare hollered back as she continued up the stairs.
Her mom pleaded, "You need to eat something, honey."
Clare paused a moment deciding. Reluctantly, she set her gym bag on the carpeted stair and went into the kitchen to grab a PBJ and milk. The kitchen was nicely-kept, but it was starting to look dated. The chipped Formica countertop should have been replaced years ago, and, though her parents would talk about it, they somehow never got around to deciding on a design or color. On the refrigerator were swatches of paint colors and countertop samples held on by magnets. She knocked one off as she got out the milk. Swoosh, acting more like a hawk than a hound, watched the proceedings with interest, waiting for a crumb or affection. Clare bent down and patted Swoosh on the head. As she balanced the sandwich and the glass of milk, she glanced in the den where her parents were glued to the evening news. The sad, unguarded look on her mother's face startled Clare. She almost dropped her sandwich, but like most good athletes, her reflexes responded and recovered. Would there ever be a time when she would look at her mother's face and find the old spark in her eyes, the old easiness in her body language?
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Give 'n Go by Kerby Mae Robinson Copyright © 2010 by Kerby Mae Robinson. Excerpted by permission.
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