Travel Team Read Free Page B

always wondered if his son, Ty—the best twelve-year-old basketball player in their town, or any town nearby—was required to call his father Mr. President, or if he could get by with Dad.
    â€œHe still act as if somebody should stop and give him the game ball if he actually remembers your first name?” Richie said.
    â€œSome of the other kids were saying that you don’t have to worry about him blowing his whistle, because somebody already stuck it up his you-know-what.”
    Richie Walker said, “It was the same way when he was your age.” He gave Danny a long look now and said, “He say anything to you?”
    â€œNot until tonight, really, when he called to tell me how sorry he was that I didn’t make it. He said he didn’t want me to find out in a letter.”
    â€œRight,” Richie said.
    â€œThe only other time I actually heard him say anything was when he welcomed us all the first night.”
    â€œHe thinks he’s the mayor.”
    â€œMom says that in his mind, it would be a step down, from his current position as king.”
    â€œThat’s all you ever got out of him? That he was sorry?”
    Danny said, “There was the one other thing, as we were breaking up into groups the first night. He was talking to a couple of the evaluators—you know, the clipboard guys?—and he told them, ‘Remember, I want us to get bigger this year, last year we were too small and we couldn’t even get out of the sectionals.’”
    â€œHe said that he wanted the twelve-year-old travel team from Middletown to get bigger ?”
    Danny nodded.
    â€œWhat,” Richie said, “so we can match up better with the Lakers?”

    Danny told him the rest of it.
    How the travel teams in town still went from fifth grade through eighth, but that seventh grade was still the glamour team in Middletown, in any sport.
    Richie: “So that hasn’t changed.”
    Danny: “You guys were the ones who changed it, remember?”
    Richie: “Nobody ever lets me forget.”
    This year there were thirty kids trying out for twelve spots. The first night, Danny heard one of the moms in the parking lot saying that none of the other age groups had even close to that many boys trying out. Last year, Danny told his dad, they’d only had to cut seven kids when he’d made the sixth-grade team.
    â€œThis is all about the chance to get to the nationals,” Richie said, “and be on television. Parents probably think it’s the peewee basketball version of one of those Idol shows. Or one of those talented-kid deals. Think Dick Vitale or somebody is going to discover their little Bobby as a future all-America.”
    â€œThat’s what happened with you guys,” Danny said.
    â€œYeah, and the town never got over it.”
    His dad didn’t usually like to talk about what he called back-in-the-day things. Or talk about anything else, really. Tonight was different, and Danny didn’t know why. He just knew it was the two of them, sitting here.
    The way Danny had always thought things were supposed to be.
    â€œBack to you,” Richie Walker said.
    Like passing him the ball.
    Okay, Danny said, first night they all did some basic drills, shooting and dribbling and fast breaks and passing and one-on-one defending; they broke up the big guys and little guys as evenly as they could and scrimmaged for the second hour, while the evaluators sat in the gym at Middletown High School, carrying those clipboards.
    Evaluating their butts off.
    Richie said, “How’d you do?”
    â€œI thought I was flying,” Danny said. “I mean, I knew I was going to look better because I had Ty Ross on my team. But when I got home, I told Mom that I didn’t want to get ahead of myself or anything, but I thought I’d made the team.”
    â€œHe’s that good? The Ross boy?”
    â€œBetter than good. He’s someone for