EZ and the Intangibles Page 8

  My guess was that Coach wanted to see if regular season statistics—offensive touches, deflections, and the like—

  remained consistent under play-off conditions. It was information that might prove useful next season. Good coaches are always looking ahead. The announcers always say that.

  We easily won both Friday night and early Saturday against Medfield and Woodbridge. There was no significant statistical departure in these games from our regular season numbers. However, I did gather some interesting data in the off-the-books category that I was privately monitoring.

  Troy continued to be our high scorer. But our offensive efficiency—measured as the percentage of possessions on which we scored either a basket or a free throw—when we passed the ball two or more times and the shot wound up being taken by someone other than Troy, was nearly ten percentage points higher than when Troy took the shot.

  This seemed like information Coach should know. But I wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it.

  Before our late Saturday game against Arlington Valley, I gently tried to bring my little discovery about scoring percentages to Coach’s attention.

  He was seated beside me on the bleachers, looking over my stat ledger as he sometimes did during warm-ups. Casually, I mentioned that while Troy was having a great season, other kids—Rudy in particular—might sometimes be a “better option.”

  Coach cocked an eyebrow. “Okay. Tell me more.”

  So I told him. I said I’d been keeping an informal tally—

  just on my own, not one he’d assigned me—of a stat that could prove useful. Our scoring percentage was actually

  better if Troy was guarded by multiple defenders and, instead of shooting himself, he passed it to another shooter—namely Rudy.

  Coach scrunched his mouth. It almost looked like he was chewing his tongue. “And you have numbers on this?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Out on the court, players were in the final stage of their shoot-around. The sound of so many balls echoing off the hardwood was like the background percussion you hear on TV quiz shows when a nervous contestant, under pressure, struggles to come up with the right answer.

  After a long pause, Coach said, “You’re doing a fine job, EZ. That new stat of yours? Not needed. Don’t bother.”

  His reaction confused me. Coach was a numbers guy—he’d told me that himself when l agreed to help out; Mr. Freeman had told me that when he was coaxing me to help out. Someday I could be a numbers guy too. That’s what they both told me while explaining why I didn’t have to be on the court to make a contribution.

  “But this is an intangible,” I blurted. “It could be important.”

  Coach shot me a sour frown. He had not shaved and looked a little rough with a fringe of grayish stubble. “Numbers, EZ, are tangible. Remember that. If something can be counted, it’s tangible. Intangibles are stuff you can’t count, like character.”

  “But they matter, right Coach—the intangibles?”

  “Correct. But they can’t be measured.” Coach abruptly stood. He was itching to get down to the court. “Stay with the stats I assigned. Especially that one about the ref. I need more data on him. It could be key.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The problem in scheduling any event, indoor or out, during February in our part of the country is the unpredictability of winter weather. The championship game, against Nelsonville again, was set for one p.m., Sunday afternoon.

  This winter had already been severe—we’d had three snow days off from school since New Year’s (I’m not complaining, simply reporting the facts) and our away game against Hamilton had had to be cancelled because the roads were too treacherous. Last week they’d cancelled school again, even though the six inches of snow that everyone—including the school superintendent—expected turned into a hard rain. The forecasters got it wrong. Their projections of the air temperature were off by only two degrees Fahrenheit, but that can make all the difference.

  Sunday, February 26—the day of the championship game—the weather forecast was for clear skies, strong winds from the west, and cold air. When I woke up, there was a foot of new snow on the ground and it was still coming down hard.

  Normally I love a heavy snowfall. I love the thick blanket of peace it seems to toss over the town, at least until the snow blowers started revving up. I love the slowness that snowstorms impose on our regular lives. And I especially love it when everybody is forced to stay tucked in safely at home and wait it out.

  A few winters ago, Longview tied a record for the greatest accumulation of snow in a forty-eight hour period—twenty-seven-point-four inches. That was something. We were living on Hunter Lane then, and by the second day of the storm, the snow piled up so high that it blocked the view from our living room window. We had a blast imagining how we’d survive if the house got completely buried.

  For two solid days, we ate French toast with tons of syrup and never got out of our pajamas. We played Monopoly— all four of us. ZZ was surprisingly good at Monopoly. Don’t ask me how. He never seemed to count up his money, and he kept it all in one big mish-mash in his lap instead of creating neat piles of tens, twenties, fifties, and hundreds. But he always had a lot. And ZZ always held a number of expensive properties too, which increased his wealth still further whenever Mom, Dad or I had the misfortune to land on them. When it was ZZ’s turn to roll the dice, it was uncanny how he managed to avoid jail and land on Chance and almost never came to rest on any of our pathetic properties. Each time ZZ scored a success, Dad howled with delight. ZZ was Dad’s favorite. Sometimes this bothered me, but not during that storm when for two days we were all stuck inside together.

  This being a Sunday, the Longview public works department was in no hurry to start plowing. There was no way Mom would be able to drive me to the game, and I hadn’t seen a single car pass by all morning. If you had a sturdy jeep, driving might be manageable. Coach Rutledge had a Hummer. He’d be there, all right.

  I figured I could take the #17 bus, which was the same one I’d used back in the summer to get to my practice sessions. It ran right by the high school. If, of course, it was even operating in this weather. Under normal conditions, the ride would take a half hour, maybe less. I figured I should give myself at least an hour and a half.

  I was standing by the front door, zipping up my Parka, with my tall boots laced up, and my red wool scarf around my neck, when Mom came around the corner, rubbing her eyes.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Mom asked.

  “The high school. We’re playing for the conference title today.”

  “We? You are a loyal one, EZ.” She wrapped the scarf once more around my neck. “And those? What are you doing with those?”

  My black Nike basketball shoes were laced together and slung across my shoulder. I couldn’t explain it to her. It just seemed that I should have them with me. Just in case. “The gym floor,” I lied. “They don’t like you on the gym floor with wet boots.”

  Mom twisted her features into an oversized cartoon face, broadcasting extreme disbelief. I think she was suspicious. But really, there was no reason to be.

  “One more thing. Did ZZ talk to you about coming with?”

  Now I made a face—one which I didn’t think Mom would have any trouble interpreting. “If he really wants to,” I said, concealing my annoyance, “tell him to meet me there.”

  It felt safe saying that—ZZ hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet, and he would never take the bus by himself.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The bus stop was on Longview Avenue, three blocks downhill from our apartment. Longview Avenue ran the entire length of our town, east to west, and was the main artery that connected just about everything that really mattered—Kroger’s, the police and fire headquarters, the medical clinic where Mom worked, the municipal offices, the courthouse, the Grace Baptist Church
, two of the three K-6 elementary

  schools, and the high school. If there was one roadway they’d absolutely have to plow to keep the town from suffocating, it would be Longview Avenue.

  Once outdoors I was more confident that I’d be able to get to the game. Although the snow was quite deep, it was fluffy and light, and probably easy to clear away. The flakes were tiny and delicate. This was not going to be anywhere close to a record-setting storm. Except maybe a record for total number of flakes, and that was not a tally I was interested in.

  Our street was untouched, a perfect swath of lovely white powder. Not a single set of tire tracks yet, no sign of plowing, and no footprints. Yet thick as it was, with some drifts nearly waist deep, it was still easy to traverse. I pushed my legs forward and the white mounds parted, just like that. Unlike the wet, heavy, slushy stuff, this would be no problem for a decent plow—unless it continued piling up.

  As I neared Longview Avenue, there were signs of life. A snow blower was noisily clearing the Bank of America parking lot, and a pickup truck with a front bumper plow chugged past, leaving in its wake a freshly cleared pathway, wide and white. A set of fresh footprints had churned up the snow around the bus shelter. That’s where I was headed.

  The tall fiberglass sides of the bus shelter were frosted and opaque. It wasn’t until I got inside that I saw him—the strange old hobo-elf from last summer. He was seated on the cold bench, patiently doing nothing, as though he were expecting me any minute.

  No red bandana or Hawaiian shirt this time—he wasn’t that crazy, I was glad to see. A bulky fur-lined cap with giant earflaps encased his skull like one of those old-time football helmets, before they used face masks. The long black overcoat he wore was meant for a man a foot taller, and fell like drapery across his legs. His mittens were bright pink, the kind a nine-year-old girl might get for Christmas. His feet were concealed beneath the oversized coat, so I couldn’t tell what he was using for shoes, but I hoped they weren’t sandals.

  “Hey kid.” His voice was peppy, almost jovial. You’d think this was still summertime and life was sweet and easy. With his pink-mittened paw, he pointed at the sneakers I had tucked under my arm to keep them dry. “Bet you’re having a great season. Am I right?”

  What could I say? Like my dad, he probably would be happier with a small lie. I nodded.

  “Still shooting lights out?”

  I’d thought about him a few times since the summer. I’d wondered where he went to when winter came on. Did he fly south with the migrating birds? Apparently not.

  I hoped the bus would be coming soon. I was in no mood for an extended conversation about my basketball career. “Yeah,” I finally replied, as I took a seat at the far end of the bus stop bench. “Pretty much.”

  “You got what it takes, kid. I seen your moves. I’m rootin’ for you.”

  By any conventional standards, this fellow was a loser. On the other hand, he was my only fan. And he was right about one thing. I did have what it takes. If only given a chance.

  “Tell me, kid. Where you heading off to in a snowstorm? Wait.” He stroked his chin with his pink hand, pretending to think hard on the question he’d just asked. “Don’t tell me. I know. Bet you’ve got a big game today.”

  Sure, I could’ve told him the truth, but he was happier believing what he wanted to. And I was happier saying nothing.

  With his ridiculous pink fist, he reached out and held it there, waiting. I had no choice. Besides, nobody was watching. We bumped fists.

  “Play hard. Play fair.”

  My dad had used those very words. I guess it sounded true for each of them. Grown-up advice can fall into ruts.

  A few cars were now rolling timidly along Longview Avenue. We sat in silence, me and the elf man. A few minutes later, a rolling tumbleweed of white came billowing into view. At last, the #17 bus.

  The bus slithered to a halt, and the door gasped open. I climbed on board. The strange old elf never moved from his seat. I never asked him where he was going, or why. I regretted that.

  My hunch was that he must’ve been using the chilly bus shelter for exactly that purpose, for shelter.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean to imply that I thought this was the biggest game of the century or anything. It wasn’t the Super Bowl or the World Series or the World Cup or the Final Four. It wasn’t even a routine high school contest. All things considered, it was a pretty small deal. The winners would probably get some chintzy trophy. But any kid who’s played a year or more of Little League, or any organized youth sport for that matter, probably had more of those shiny plastic statues with gold-painted figurines holding or kicking or throwing or shooting or batting a ball than he’d ever need or want.

  Please don’t think I was obsessed with our team winning this championship game. I mean, I wasn’t even on the team. Of course, I wanted us to win. But I wouldn’t be heartbroken or depressed or even halfway sad if it didn’t work out. The reason I was so determined to get to the game, in the face of such extreme weather obstacles, was because I’d told Coach I’d be there. That’s it.

  I understood perfectly that my sideline role as statistician didn’t matter very much, and certainly not in the final game of the season. Whatever potentially useful information I had collected over the course of the season had already been conveyed to the coach, and he was free to use it, or ignore it, as he saw fit. Whatever I did at today’s game, the last of the season…well, it wasn’t really clear what I would do today. If I failed to get there, would Coach even ask, “Where’s EZ?”

  Still, I continued to imagine this fantasy that the team might need me. Let’s face it, that’s the reason I was bringing my sneakers. Did I believe it might realistically come to pass? Of course not. That’s where the word “fantasy” comes from.

  It was just something pleasant to ponder, over and over in my mind, during the long, slow, stop-and-go bus ride all the way to the Longview High gym on the far side of town.

  I arrived at quarter to one, fifteen minutes before game time. The gym was freezing. The two teams were busy doing drills at opposite baskets. There were hardly any spectators. The low turnout had to be a function of the weather. What was more surprising was how few players were out there.

  I counted seven in the green Nelsonville uniforms with white numerals. They were separated into two short lines, shooting and rebounding.

  On our end, in gold and blue, there were only five kids. They were doing the weave-pass-shoot drill that Coach liked because, he said, it got us “moving together as one.” If I were a coach, I would have started off with that drill also.

  Troy was on the court and Rudy, as well as Matt, Rafael, and Leo. I took a seat in the low bleachers, close to the scorer’s table. It took me a minute to get my coat and gloves off. Chunks of snow melted from the treads of my boots and formed a dark puddle around my feet. I slipped out of the boots and stepped into my dry sneakers, although this was not—despite what I had told Mom—required. I opened the ledger to today’s game page.

  The Longview high school gym had been recently renovated. The lights embedded high in the ceiling were bright, and the newly varnished floor gleamed like an outdoor ice rink on a sunny day. The electronic scoreboard was working. Home: 0. Visitors: 0. Time: 11:41 and counting down until tip-off. The plan was to start the game on time.

  Our weave-pass-shoot drill was looking choppy. To be smoothly executed, it required more players than we had out there. This drill was supposed to get us all moving together, in sync, like a well-oiled machine. But being short a few parts, relay passes were botched and players seemed confused about where to go once they were done with the ball. Far from a well-oiled machine, we looked like a rusty clunker with an erratic motor and plenty of dents. What the drill needed was one more athlete.

  Chapter Thirty

  Coach Rutledge broke
away from the half-court drill and walked briskly over to greet me.

  “Glad you could make it, EZ.”

  Coach stood with one foot atop the lower riser. He had a large head for a medium-sized man. I was seated on the second row of risers—my usual perch.

  “We have a problem, EZ, and…”

  He fumbled for the right words, which was unusual. Mom did that a lot—darting her eyes in order to buy a few more seconds before speaking. I figured I knew the thought that Coach was chewing on. I was prepared to tell him, “Yes, Sir!” I was ready, if it turned out that I was needed.

  The Nelsonville coach came barreling our way, frantically waving his hand. He was extremely tall at six feet six and wore sleek, black warm-up slacks unzipped at the ankles and a green Boston Celtics sweatshirt. The Nelsonville coach looked young to be the father of a sixth grader. Possibly he was a professional coach and did not have a son on the team. I’d heard that some sports programs in some communities did that—hired pros to coach the kids. But I would have thought the Nelsonville team would’ve been a whole lot better if they had had a pro for a coach.

  Coach Rutledge cut away from me to meet the Nelsonville coach at courtside. The racket from the bouncing balls and squeaking sneakers on the hardwood made it impossible to hear what they were saying. I could see that they were starting to argue. The Nelsonville coach gave a little kick out with his foot; Coach Rutledge smacked his fist into his open palm. They both, at different times, yanked their heads back like they were prepared to spit. But didn’t.

  The scoreboard clock now read 4:46. The score remained Home: 0, Visitor: 0. Then, to my surprise, the two coaches shook hands, although without any hint of goodwill. They started walking together, side by side, looking very determined, straight—toward me!

  The Nelsonville coach began talking—he had a deep voice, like a nightly news announcer. Initially, that’s all I heard, the rich baritone music of his deep voice. The words, well, they flew right by. But slowly, the words began to sink in, even though they made absolutely no sense.