There’s a big scoreboard fixed high up against the white brick wall of the gym. The digital clock shows minutes and seconds and tenths of seconds. The last number in the row changes so fast you can hardly read it, the next number moves more slowly, and so on. It’s like a funny kind of domino chain. Just watching it seems to make your heart go faster.

When the number in the first box goes from 8 to 7, I realize the clock is counting down to the start of the game: seven minutes to go. The bleachers are almost full, though people seem to keep coming in, parents and other kids. A couple of girls sit by a table near the entrance, taking tickets. The referee, in his striped shirt, stands in the middle of the court, testing a bag of balls. But I can’t see my dad in the crowd. Or my mom.

I see Sam, though. He’s sitting at the end of the first row of bleachers, as if he might want to sneak away later. I try to catch his eye, but he’s sort of hunched over and keeps staring at the entrance. With five minutes left on the clock, Mr. Tomski calls us in to practice free throws. We make a circle around the foul line and take it in turns to shoot. Everyone claps together after each shot—two claps if the shot goes in, and one if it misses. Everybody gets two shots.

Pete goes first and makes both of his free throws. I’m last, and even before anyone passes me the ball, sweat has started running off my forehead and into my eyes. I try to wipe them dry, but my uniform is made of this cool, shiny material that doesn’t soak up anything. The salt in my sweat stings when I blink it away.

Standing at the line, I remember what Sam always tells me: Point your elbow at the rim and bend your legs. Follow through. I’m just about to shoot when a big horn sounds, so loud I almost drop the ball. The game’s about to start.

Twenty-Five

AFTER THE WARM-UP, I gather all the balls and put them in a couple of bags, then drag them over to the sideline and sit down on the team bench. Usually I sit at the scorer’s table, but there’s an official scorer for playoff games. So now I’m with all the other players, just another kid in uniform. For a few minutes, I look for my dad in the crowd. But instead I see Mom, three rows up on the other side of the court. She smiles at me, the kind of smile you make so someone can see it a long way off. Granma’s there, too, wearing a bright orange sweatshirt with a picture of a hornet on it—the school mascot.

The horn sounds again, and the ref throws the ball up in the center circle. Breon’s our best jumper, but he’s going against the tallest kid I’ve ever seen. Big number 7 looks red in the face already; his mouth guard makes his lips swell out. His feet hardly leave the ground, but it doesn’t matter: he swats the ball back, and one of the Murchison players dribbles up court. The game has started. Kids are shouting, and I look over and see Mabley standing on one of the bleachers in a row of Hornets fans—she’s painted her face orange and black. Her mouth is a big O, but her voice is just the voice of everybody screaming at once.