Swagger Read Free

Clearinghouse and help you get that paperwork done. You can address the manila envelopes in my office during lunch. That I’m not doing for you.”
    I addressed half the envelopes during lunch and the other half after practice the following day. Then, for the next four games, I played the best basketball I’d ever played in my life.

7
    I KNEW THAT AT SOME POINT I’d have to tell my mom and dad about Coach Russell’s DVD and the letters he’d sent out for me, but I kept putting it off. I waited partly because I’d look like a fool if no coach called, but mainly because my dad was so worried about losing his job. I’d hear him complain to my mom about the guy from Cal Berkeley. “I swear to God, Mary, he looks at me as if I were a piece of broken furniture. If he could, he’d put me out with the trash.”
    February was rolling by. Before every practice I’d give Coach Russell a look, but he’d only shake his head. When we were alone, he’d tell me to be patient, but the better I played, the more I ached to hear from some school. There was nothing—no interest. The game on the DVD was good; the letter from Coach Russell was good. My lousy grades were the problem; I knew it, and so did Coach Russell. Why had I been such a lazy dog?
    Then, on the Friday before Presidents’ Day weekend, the door opened during my English class, and I was handed a note telling me to report immediately to the library. Coach Russell was waiting for me by the circulation desk. “Monitor College,” he said, his voice excited. “Ever heard of it?”
    I shook my head.
    â€œNeither have I. It’s in New Hampshire, which is right next to Vermont. Their coach wants to talk to you. Skype.”
    â€œWhen?”
    His face broke into a broad smile. “Right now. Mrs. Johnson, the librarian, is setting up a computer.” Coach Russell put his big hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eye. “Just be yourself, Jonas.”
    Monitor’s coach was Greg Richter, a young black guy with a close-cropped beard and intense eyes. His basketball questions were easy to answer, but I felt like a fish flopping around in the bottom of a boat once he switched to academics.
How were my reading skills? My math skills? Why had I only taken one lab science class? Could I improve my grades?
Drops of sweat formed on my forehead; my ears rang. Finally I leveled with him. “I’ve never tried hard, Mr. Richter. But starting right now, I will. I promise.”
    Silence.
    From three thousand miles away, he looked at me as if he were trying to look into my heart. Finally he spoke. “Thanks very much for your time, Jonas. I’d also like to talk to your parents. How about if I call them on Sunday morning? Say ten o’clock your time?”
    I gave him my home number, remembered to thank him, and then the computer screen went blue. I turned to Coach Russell, who had been watching from off to the side.
    â€œYou did fine,” he said.
    â€œYou think I’ve got a chance, even with my grades?”
    â€œHe wouldn’t have called if your grades were a deal-breaker. Believe me, college coaches are way too busy to waste time.”
    When I returned home that night, my mom was in the kitchen getting my dinner ready. I couldn’t stall any longer, so as she put together a plate of food for me, I told her about Coach Richter and Monitor College.
    I kept my voice low, and I said that most likely nothing would come of it, but as I was speaking, she stopped mashing the potatoes and stared at me, her eyes wide. When I finished, she hugged me and then stepped back, taking my hands in hers. “That’s wonderful, Jonas. Have you told your father?”
    I shook my head. “I’m afraid to.”
    She tilted her head, puzzled. “Why?”
    I shrugged. “You know. The way Dad talks about the college guys from the corporate office. The way the guy from Cal