Swagger Read Free Page A

Berkeley is treating him. He hates them. You know he does.”
    My mom frowned. “Jonas, this is
you
. Nothing could make your dad happier than good things happening to you. Tell him right now.”
    So I did, and he jumped up and pounded me on the back. “You want to hear something strange,” he said. “As I was watching your last game, I thought:
He could play college ball
. I actually considered calling Coach Russell and asking him to get a recruiter out to look at you.” My mom came out then, and she hugged me again. Seeing both of them smile made me glad I’d told them. They hadn’t smiled like this in a long time.
    Eventually, my dad went back to his newspaper and my mom returned to the kitchen. I walked down the hallway to my room, opened my laptop, and logged on to Monitor College’s website.
    The campus was perched high on a hilltop. All the buildings had ivy crawling up their walls. There were photos of students studying in the library, playing Frisbee on the lawn, and drinking coffee in an espresso shop. I could almost imagine myself walking on those tree-lined paths, my backpack crammed with books.

8
    T HE SUNDAY PHONE CALL FROM Coach Richter came at the exact minute he said it would. From the kitchen, I heard my dad say that I was dedicated to basketball, honest, and not a hardhead. Next Mr. Richter talked to my mom. The roles changed then; she asked the questions. She must have liked his answers because her head kept nodding up and down.
    Finally my dad called me to the telephone. So much was whirling around inside me that I had trouble following Coach Richter’s sentences. Still, I did hear the last thing loud and clear. “You’ll be getting a detailed letter from me, so keep an eye on the mail.”
    I hung up, talked to my parents for a while, and then returned to my room. I took out my history book and tried to study, but I couldn’t concentrate.
    When I’d been younger, working at the sand and gravel had seemed exciting. Driving a mixer, sending cement tumbling down a long chute, filling some big hole—what could be better to a ten-year-old? I wasn’t ten anymore, though. Coach Russell had opened my eyes. Work like that would be great for a year or two. But for a lifetime? I thought about my father, about what the work had done to his body, and about how they were treating him now. What would he do if they fired him? He knew cement mixers, but that was all he knew. I didn’t know if I’d like college, but that didn’t really matter. Richter was giving me a chance to change my life. I couldn’t pass up an opportunity like that.
    Â 
    We had a district playoff game, a win-or-go-home game, on Wednesday night against St. Francis in their gym down in Mountain View. The Lancers had lost only twice all year, so we were slated to be the team going home.
    The advantage of being an underdog is that nobody expects anything from you. I figured if I played my game—which was scoring a little and passing a lot—we could hang close through three quarters. If you hang close, anything can happen in the fourth quarter. It would be terrific to tell Coach Richter that I’d led my team to a huge upset.
    What I didn’t anticipate was the intensity of the Lancers’ defense. From the opening tip, St. Francis double-teamed me as soon as I crossed midcourt. I’d pass out of the trap, setting up a four-on-three for the other guys. We should have scored in bunches, but my teammates couldn’t hit anything. Once guys miss a few open shots, they start thinking, and then they miss everything.
    With my teammates struggling, I tried to take over the game. I dribbled too much; I forced up wild shots. Coach Russell called a time-out to settle us, then another one. From ten rows up, I heard my dad yell at me to calm down, but I couldn’t. When the horn sounded, ending the first half, we were down, 32–13.
    We played better in