“What?”

It’s too loud in the gym; everybody seems to be talking. The words don’t make any sense.

Mr. Tomski looks at me calmly. “Go to the scorer’s table and tell them that you’re coming on for Pete Miller. Then get your butt out there.”

The whole thing lasts about a minute—I hardly have time to breathe. The ref blows his whistle and suddenly I’m running, but I don’t know where. One of the Murchison players seems to be standing alone under the basket. I can hear Pete shouting, “That’s your man.” He sounds like he’s shouting from the other end of a long tunnel, and then the kid has the ball and lays it in. Everybody starts running again.

Mr. Tomski calls something out, but I can’t understand him. I feel like I have weights on my feet and can hear my own footsteps—clump, clump, clump—in spite of the noise of the crowd. Or maybe it’s just the beating of my heart, very loud, in my ears.

For some reason I find myself standing in a corner, alone. And then the ball comes to me. I think, At least I caught it. That’s something. A Murchison player runs at me, waving his arms. I try to dribble but get stuck after one bounce.

Now there are two Murchison kids trying to take the ball away from me. I hold it like a football and swing my elbows around. Everybody seems to be calling my name or shouting. I can hear them, but I can’t see them; there are too many arms and legs. I throw the ball as hard as I can in the direction of one of the voices, and somehow Daniel Krasnick picks it up and shoots it. The shot goes in. A whistle blows. Somebody taps me on the shoulder. It’s Pete; he gives me a look, twisting his mouth to the side, like, I’m not saying anything. I can sit down again.

At halftime, I check the stands for my mother, but only Granma’s there in her orange sweatshirt. I want to see Mom, but before I can find her, Mr. Tomski calls everyone into the locker room.

On the way over, he puts a hand on my arm. “Keep your head next time,” he says.

“Pardon me?”

“The game is as slow as you make it.”

As the manager, it’s my job to make sure everybody has water to drink. But I’ve been worrying about the game and have forgotten to refill the bottles. “Come on,” Pete says, kicking an empty bag.

“I was playing, too.”

Pete just stares at me.

I walk to the sink and run the tap, testing the water to make sure it’s cold. Then I pick up all the bottles and fill them. The first person I give a bottle to is Pete.

While this is going on, Mr. Tomski checks his clipboard—he has the notes from the scorer’s table clipped under the metal bar and starts reading out the numbers. Pete has twenty points. Everybody else on the team, put together, has eight.