It’s a tough place to shoot. Because of that tree branch on one side and the telephone wire on the other, you have to put a lot of arc on the ball. The rim is hard iron, which makes the ball kind of bang around—sometimes it rattles halfway in and rattles out again. But I feel like I’m on an island somewhere, and nobody can reach me or get to me. The only thing that matters is making the next shot, that’s what I’m concentrating on. If it goes in, it’s like getting an answer to something, and the answer is yes; and if it doesn’t, you just have to keep shooting.

Every day after school, I go to basketball practice and set out the cones and collect the balls and take notes on Mr. Tomski’s clipboard. I help put everything away at the end of the day and make sure the uniforms are washed and ready before each game. But I never bounce a ball or take a shot on one of the baskets in the gym—I want Mr. Tomski to know that I’m not having fun. I’m just doing something because I have to do it. Because my mom thinks this is best.

The season’s been going since November, but my first game is Friday the 15th—against Pflugerville. Almost two weeks since we got back to school. (Mr. Tomski gave me a calendar with all the game dates, and Mom put it up on the fridge.) We meet in the gym after the last bell. I ride the school bus with them and carry their uniforms in a big duffel bag. It’s about a half hour journey. I can’t tell you how lonely it feels on that bus. None of the kids talks to me—they’re all on the team together, about to play a game—and I’m sitting in front with Mr. Tomski and a bag of clothes at my feet. The sun’s going down, we’re on the highway, there are cars coming and going below us, and I feel like everything I know is a long way away.

Even Mr. Tomski feels bad for me. He tries to start a conversation but eventually gives up—all I give him are yes or no answers. It’s all I can give, just saying a word is like lifting a heavy sack. You want to put it down again as soon as possible; you want to stop talking because at least that doesn’t take any work. You can just stare out the window.

Pflugerville has a pretty good team this year. They’ve got this one kid, Travis Brown, who’s already got some college scouts looking at him—you can see them in the stands, middle-aged guys wearing jackets, writing notes. Before the game starts, Mr. Tomski takes Pete aside—he puts his arm around him and points into the crowd. One of the men waves and stands up; he walks over to the coach, who introduces him to Pete. All the other kids are doing layup lines, but I’m sitting there on the bench. I can hear Mr. Tomski say, “Keep your eye on this kid, Howard.”