After that I try to concentrate on the game. Murchison has some good players, but nobody as quick as Pete, and they have trouble keeping up with him. Number 7 is a problem, though. It’s hard to shoot over him; and every time one of his teammates misses, he just seems to reach over and tap the ball in.

Mr. Tomski keeps doing what he said he was going to do—and substitutes players. Everybody except for Pete. When he sends a new kid onto the court, Mr. Tomski puts an arm around his shoulder and says, “The only thing I expect is that you play hard. Don’t save anything for later. There is no later. Later is now.” Then he shoves him out there with a pat on the back.

I’m so nervous that I sit on my hands just to warm them up, they feel so cold. At least Mr. Tomski won’t put me in the game, that’s what I tell myself.

At one point, Pete drives hard to the basket. Big number 7 is standing under the rim and jumps up to block Pete’s shot. Maybe if you know him he’s a nice boy, but on the basketball court number 7 looks like a grown-up playing with kids; he looks like a bully. And after blocking the shot, he seems to lean forward a little—and lands on Pete’s shoulder. It looks like he pushes him to the ground.

Anyway, Pete falls in a funny kind of way, twisting as he falls. The referee blows his whistle, and Mr. Tomski rushes out of his chair and starts to shout. Everybody’s shouting, even Granma. I can see her standing up in her seat.

For a few seconds, Pete just lies there. Then Breon helps him up and Pete limps over to the free throw line. The ref gives him the ball, and Pete takes a deep breath and turns the ball around in his hands.

He misses the first free throw. Then he misses the second one. There’s a scramble for the ball, and somebody knocks it out of bounds. Mr. Tomski steps on to the court and calls time-out.

All the players gather around him in a circle. I stand up, too, and try to push my way in. I can hear Mr. Tomski saying to Pete, “You all right, son?” and I can hear Pete saying, “I’m fine. I just missed a couple of shots. It happens.”

“Take a seat for a minute,” Mr. Tomski says. “Catch your breath.”

“I’m fine!”

“No point playing the hero now. We got a long way to go.” He turns and looks at the players standing in a circle around him. Then he looks at me. “Ben! Check in for Pete,” he says.

I don’t have time to think. The horn sounds, and I wander onto the court, trying to dry my hands against my jersey. “Wait a minute,” Mr. Tomski calls out. “You have to check in.”

“What?”

“You have to check in.”