“What’s the bad news?”
“The bad news is that Mr. Murphy is also the basketball coach!”
“Well, good luck,” she said. “Hope you make the team.”
Evan ran past her, his heart pounding.
Mr. Murphy is such a rat, he thought unhappily. He’ll probably keep me off the team because I’m late to practice—even though it’s his fault I’m late!
Evan took a deep breath. No. Stop thinking like that, he scolded himself.
Think positive. I’ve got to think positive.
Sure, I’m not as tall as the other guys. Maybe I’m not as big or as strong. But I’m a good basketball player. And I can make this team.
I can make this team. I know I can!
Having finished his pep talk to himself, Evan pulled open the double gym doors and stepped into the huge, brightly lit gym.
“Think fast!” a voice called.
Evan felt his face explode with pain.
Then everything went black.
When Evan opened his eyes, he found himself staring up at about twenty guys and Mr. Murphy.
He was stretched out flat on his back on the gym floor. His face still hurt. A lot.
He reached a hand up and touched his nose. To his dismay, it felt like a wilted leaf of lettuce.
“You okay, Evan?” Mr. Murphy asked quietly. As the teacher leaned over Evan, the whistle that was on a string around his neck bumped against Evan’s chest.
“Did my face explode?” Evan asked weakly.
Some of the guys snickered. Mr. Murphy glowered at them angrily. Then he turned back to Evan. “Conan hit you in the face with the basketball,” he reported.
“He’s got bad reflexes, Coach,” Evan heard Conan say from somewhere above him. “He should’ve caught the ball. I really thought he’d catch it. But he’s got bad reflexes.”
“I saw the whole thing,” Conan’s friend, a huge hulk of a kid named Biggie Malick, chimed in. “It wasn’t Conan’s fault. Evan should’ve caught the ball. It was a perfect pass.”
Perfect, Evan thought with a sigh. He touched his nose again. This time, it felt like a lump of mashed potatoes. At least it isn’t broken, he thought glumly.
Evan’s basketball tryout went downhill from there.
Mr. Murphy helped him to his feet. “You sure you want to try out?” he asked.
Thanks for the support, Evan thought bitterly.
“I think I can make the team,” he said.
But Conan, Biggie, and the other guys had other ideas.
During the ball-handling tryout, Evan confidently began dribbling across the floor. Halfway to the basket, Biggie bumped him hard—and Conan stole the ball away.
They blocked Evan’s shots. They stole his passes.
They bumped him every time he moved, sending him sprawling to the hardwood floor again and again.
A fast pass from Conan caught Evan in the mouth.
“Oops! Sorry!” Conan yelled.
Biggie laughed like a hyena.
“Defense! I want to see defense!” Mr. Murphy shouted from the sidelines.
Evan lowered himself into a defensive stance. As Conan dribbled the ball toward him, Evan prepared to defend the basket.
Conan drove closer. Closer.
Evan raised both hands to block Conan’s shot.
But to Evan’s surprise, Conan let the ball bounce away. In one swift motion, he grabbed Evan by the waist, leaped high in the air, and stuffed Evan into the basket.
“Three points!” Conan shouted in triumph.
