You decide you might as well get involved at your new high school. You get dressed, put on a pair of basketball shorts, a jersey and your running shoes. You go downstairs where Debbie greets you with breakfast.
"Just toast for me," you smile with gratitude. "Don't want to be too full. Where's Katie?"
"That one never eats breakfast, just off to cheer practice," Debbie replies. "Have a good day, see you after school."
You head for the school. You see a door ajar leading to the gym. Inside, the cheerleaders and basketball players are stretching and getting ready. You look around, impressed. You've never seen such a nice gym.
A portly, balding middle aged man hustles up to you and shakes your hand. "Hey, you're the kid living with the Larsens, right? I hear you're a hell of a basketball player."
You shrug. "Yeah."
"Alright, well, we need the help. My name is Mr. Kellogg, but the kids call me Coach K."
Your first basketball practice is a success. You practically grew up with a basketball in your hand, whereas most of the suburban kids look like they take shots between piano recitals and swimming lessons. All over the place, no focus. By the time practice ends, your fellow teammates and the cheerleaders are getting pretty excited.
Coach K comes up to you, beaming. "Hey, great job, . You're on the team."
Your teammates file into one changing room. Some of the cheerleaders are standing around, whispering and looking in your direction. |