There are double doors between the two gyms, and Mr. Tomski opens one of them a crack to see what’s going on. The bleachers are full of kids. I can hear the noise they’re making, it sounds like a train passing by—a train that keeps going and going. I remember taking the subway to Coney Island with my dad and holding my ears against the screech of the wheels against the metal tracks. Suddenly, my heart starts racing again, I don’t know why.

After a minute, somebody gives the signal to Mr. Tomski, and he swings both doors open. The players in their uniforms run into the main gym through a kind of human tunnel: two lines of kids holding their arms overhead, touching hands and making a long arch. The cheering gets even louder. The school band plays a marching song, and the principal stands in the middle of the court with a microphone in her hand.

Pete Miller’s the last player to come out, and he walks instead of runs. I don’t think the noise can get any louder, but it does. I feel something on my shoulder, and Mr. Tomski leans down to shout in my ear.

“They’re playing our song,” he says.

“What?” I can hear him, but I don’t understand.

“It’s our turn. To walk out there.”

“But—I’m not on the team. I don’t have a uniform on,” I say.

“Neither do I. Come on, son. This isn’t a choice.”

He puts his hand on my shoulder again. He has a heavy hand, and together we walk out into the bright lights of the main gym. It’s so loud it’s almost like you can’t see—and not just loud but warm. The air is thick with all the kids crowding on the bleachers and stamping their feet and cheering.

When we reach the middle of the court, Mr. Tomski lets go of me, and I walk over to the players lined up next to the principal, Ms. Fontenot, in two rows. I sneak in behind them because I feel stupid standing there in my jacket and tie, the only boy not wearing a uniform.

Ms. Fontenot makes a short speech, after raising her hands until everyone quiets down. “This just shows what you can do if you put your minds to something.” Her voice is real Texan, or southern anyway—sweet and slow. “All of these boys have sacrificed two hours after school every day to get here. They’ve put in the time and they’ve done the hard miles—I know Coach Tomski likes to make them run.” She smiles, but it’s hard to be funny if you’re the principal. Everybody knows you have to say all the stuff you have to say. My mom likes her, though. Ms. Fontenot doesn’t take any baloney from anyone, Mom says. She’s got gray streaks in her hair, which she doesn’t bother dyeing, and likes to wear cowboy boots—you can hear them click as she strides around the hallways. I can see them now, under her bright red dress. “The work you put in, you get that out in the end. This is what we call a teachable moment, where all of you sitting out there can think, I want to be on that court, with these kids . . . fighting for something together.”