On Monday, everybody comes to practice early and leaves late. Nobody goofs around. They even stop calling me Ball Boy. For one thing, everybody’s too tired—Mr. Tomski is “licking us into shape.” That’s what he calls it. He makes the players run “ladders” over and over again—sprinting from one side of the court to the other as fast as they can. Afterward, everybody has to take a couple of free throws, and if anybody misses both shots, the whole team has to run more ladders.

I start to feel bad, standing on the sideline, watching them run. Mr. Tomski can be short with me, too. He complains about the way I set up the cones or fill the water bottles or collect the balls. “Hustle up,” he says. “You see how hard everybody’s working.” Another time he makes me run ladders with the rest of the team. “Just so you get a taste of it.”

It’s almost a relief, but I feel like throwing up afterward. My school shoes have big rubber soles. It’s like running with weights on your feet. One of my toes gets a blister, and I have to wear a Band-Aid under my sock for the rest of the week.

Even Pete looks worn-out by the end of practice. Every time there’s any kind of race, he forces himself to win it. Afterward, in the showers, he stands with his eyes closed and lets the water fall over his face. Only two showers work—the hot water on the other wall is broken, and since Pete isn’t moving, kids have to take it in turns to wait for the second one. By the time he comes out, everybody else is already getting dressed.

Two days before the big game, Mr. Tomski takes us all aside at the beginning of practice. “No more running,” he says.

He’s dressed in plain brown pants and white sneakers and the kind of shirt camp counselors wear—short sleeved with a collar. He has a whistle around his neck. You can see where he stopped shaving that morning.

“Now I know y’all are a little mad at me right now.” Even when he loses his temper, he doesn’t speak loudly—you have to lean in to listen. But he isn’t angry now, and his voice gives you a kind of slow-burn feeling. “And you should be mad,” he says. “I’ve been working your tails off. But now’s the time to get mad at somebody else. Get mad at Murchison. That’s who you should get mad at.”

Murchison Middle School is who we have to play against on Friday night. The Murchison Matadors—they wear gray uniforms and come from the other side of town, across Route 1. Nobody likes Murchison.

For the first hour of practice, the team just scrimmages—they play games. Everybody has a good time. But then Mr. Tomski tells the kids to cool off, take a water break. Afterward, they walk through some of their sets on offense and defense. He shows people where they need to stand on the court, and what they need to do, depending on the situation.