Athlete vs. Mathlete

Blazers

Tip-off

Seventh-grade basketball started out all wrong, and it only got worse.

"He wants us to try out?" Chris asked.

Unbelievable, I muttered, staring at the sign-up sheet on our new coach’s office door.

Try out for our own team?

Chris, the rest of the guys, and I had been playing together since Cotter Elementary. We were undefeated in sixth grade (if you didn’t count our five losses, which I didn’t because the refs had been out to get us), and we’d been shooting hoops at Sunset Park all summer to stay on top of our game.

Next Wednesday afternoon, Chris said, then pointed at the word as he read it. Tryouts.

I shook my head. This is nuts.

Yeah, but what can we do about it?

Talk to the coach, I said, knocking on his door.

Come in, a deep voice boomed from inside the office.

You coming? I asked Chris, hoping I had backup.

Uh … He took a couple of steps away from me.

I guess that’s a no. I rolled my eyes, turned the knob, and swung the door open.

I only knew three facts about our new coach:

1. He was from North Carolina.

2. He loved to win.

3. He wanted us to try out for our own team.

And when I walked into his office …

4. He was a freakin’ giant.

Seriously, like thirteen feet tall. And it was all muscle.

Before I could say anything, I heard Chris breathing next to me. Whew. I wasn’t facing the beast alone.

Hi, I said to Coach Baxter. It sounded like a squeak, so I cleared my throat and tried again. Hi, Coach.

What can I do for you? he asked, without looking up from the box of books he was unpacking.

I checked out the team photos on the wall behind his desk, the framed newspaper pages with champ headlines, and the shiny trophies on top of his bookcase.

The guy obviously knew what he was doing. But so did we, the Lewis and Clark Middle School Pioneers.

The clock is ticking, Coach Baxter growled.

I cleared my throat again. Uh … it’s about the tryouts.

Coach lined up the books on the middle shelf, from tallest to shortest. Next Wednesday at three.

Yeah. I saw the sign, but I wanted to talk to you about it because—

You can’t make it? Tough break. He reached into the box for more books. It’s Wednesday at three. No exceptions.

Chris elbowed me and whispered, Let’s go.

But I wasn’t finished. "I can make it. I just don’t think I need to."

Coach Baxter finally looked at me, and I wished he hadn’t. His eyes were like death rays. And why is that? he asked, standing up straight and crossing his arms over his chest.

I was way off. He was probably closer to fourteen feet tall.

Because I was on the team last year, and—

It’s a new year, he interrupted.

I know, but Coach Miller—

I’m the new coach.

Yeah, but the Pioneers—

It’s a new team.

Getting a whole sentence out of my mouth would have been awesome. I get that, but—

I don’t think you do, he said, dropping into his chair. What’s your name?

Uh-oh, Chris whispered.

Owen Evans.

Listen, Owen. I’m in charge, and I’ll pick my team the way I want to. Nobody gets a jersey just because they played last year. I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but that’s the way it is. He looked us over. Any questions?

Chris and I both gulped.

Okay, then I’ll see you next Wednesday, ready to work.

Sure. I nodded, and Chris pushed me out the door.

Once we were back in the hallway, I groaned, This totally stinks.

We grabbed our stuff from our lockers, and I saw my brother, Russell, coming our way. He was carrying more books than any other kid in the hallway and his glasses were sliding down his nose, like they always did. He stopped to fix the top book on his stack and ended up dropping the whole pile on the floor.

I can’t believe you guys are related, Chris said, shaking his head.

No one could. We were twins, but nobody ever believed it, even when we said we were fraternal, not identical. Russell and I are totally different. He’s almost five inches taller than I am and has arms like wet spaghetti. Even in his brown cords, his legs look like toothpicks and his crazy curly hair is nothing like mine.

Hey, Russ, I said, picking up a couple of books and handing them to him.

Thanks, Russ said, smiling.

That was another difference between us. Russ never let stuff bug him, and I got mad a couple of times a day, minimum. Mom said I was a short fuse and he was a slow boil. The thing is, my brother never actually boiled over. Like, ever.

He checked his digital watch. I’m late for class. I’ll see you at home, he said, heading for the stairs.

Hey, you! a voice boomed from behind us.

It sounded like a jet flying too low, but instead of ducking, I turned around and saw Coach Baxter waving one arm in the air. It was like watching King Kong take over the hallway, and I was surprised he didn’t have a school bus full of screaming kids in one hand and a freaked-out librarian in the other.

Everyone was looking around, trying to see who he was yelling at.

Tall kid! Coach shouted.

The only one who hadn’t bothered to look was my brother.

Do you mean Russell? I asked, totally confused.

Who’s Russell? he barked at me.

That skinny kid over there, I said, pointing. He’s my twin.

Coach turned to stare at me.

Fraternal, I explained, then shouted, Hey, Russ!

That stopped him. My brother turned around, and I waved him over.

He had to fight the crowd, and when he finally got to us, his face was red and he was out of breath, like the spawning salmon we learned about in science class. Yes?

Coach wants to talk to you, I told him.

He does? When Russ turned to Coach, his eyes bugged out, like he hadn’t noticed there was a giant standing there. Like you couldn’t see the guy from outer space.

You play? Coach asked.

Russell looked as confused as I was. Play what?

Basketball, Coach said.

Chris and I both cracked up.

What’s so funny? Coach snapped.

That shut us up, and he looked at my brother again. I want you to come to tryouts next week.

Russ just stared at him. "Are you talking about basketball tryouts?"

No, ballet, Coach growled.

Russ blinked hard. I’m sorry. I don’t—

"Of course I mean basketball."

Uh … Russell looked at me as if I knew what was happening, but I had no idea.

Russell? Basketball? It had to be a joke.

I think I’m going to need someone your height, Coach said.

My height? Russ asked.

Coach stared into his eyes, like he was trying to figure out if there was something wrong with him. Yes. You’re the tallest kid at this school, and you’d be perfect at center.

Center? Paul played center!

But I’m on the honor roll, Russell said.

And athletes can’t be good students? Coach asked.

No.

Thanks a lot, I muttered.

I disagree, Coach said. And I want to see you there next Wednesday.

But I— Russell started.

Coach lifted a hand in the air to stop him. This isn’t a request, uh … what’s your name again?

Russell Evans. My brother sighed just like he did when Mom got him the wrong periodic-table T-shirt.

Like there was a right one.

Mr. Evans, Coach said, I’ll see you at tryouts next Wednesday.

I watched Coach disappear into his office and wondered if he was totally nuts. My brother was seriously the worst athlete on the planet. He couldn’t even dribble! He tripped over a soccer ball in second grade and broke his arm. He hit himself in the face with his own badminton racket. He was a perfect fit for the library, not the locker room.

Russ frowned. So, I guess I’ll be making a complete fool of myself next Wednesday. Everyone knows I’m smart, not sporty.

Athletic, I groaned. No one says ‘sporty.’

Russell nodded. But you understand what I’m saying, don’t you? Everyone knows you’re the jock and I’m the brains. I’ll feel like a joke if I go.

The fact was, he would be a joke. And the bigger mess he made of tryouts, the more I’d hear about it. Would the guys make fun of me, too, knowing Russ and I shared DNA? Probably. And that was the last thing I wanted to deal with.

I shook my head and an idea popped into it. An awesome idea. Don’t worry about it, Russ. We’ll practice this weekend so you’ll be ready.

Chris was looking at me like I was crazy. That’s a long shot, he whispered.

Cool beans, my brother said, nodding.

No, it’s just cool, Russ.

"Okay, cool." He smiled.

As usual, there was something brown and gooey stuck in his braces.

Look, I said. There’s no way you’ll make the team.

No way, Chris echoed.

Not a chance. Russell laughed.

But I promise to make tryouts as painless as possible. For him and for me.

Thanks, Owen, he said, lifting his hand to give me a high five.

He missed.

Did you get your practice schedule yet? Dad asked me at the dinner table that night.

Nope, I said, shaking my head. We have to make the team before we can practice.

Make the team? Mom asked. You’re already—

The new coach is making us try out.

Wow, Dad said, passing me the chicken. That’s different.

Yeah, different and stupid.

Hmm. Dad raised his eyebrows. That might be the only time I’ve ever heard you use the word ‘stupid’ to describe basketball.

Because it’s totally stupid. I was already on the team!

Maybe your new coach wants to shake things up a little, Dad said.

Coach Baxter wasn’t just shaking things up a little. He was causing a freakin’ earthquake. "Yeah, right. He wants Russell to try out."

Dad was reaching for the rice but he froze. He looked at my twin. Is that true?

I guess, Russ said, through a mouthful of green beans that would probably be stuck in his braces for the next four days.

Well, that’s great news, Dad said, slapping him on the back.

Russ almost choked. I won’t make it, he said.

Who told you that? Dad asked.

Russell looked at me and I shrugged.

Owen? Mom said, all disappointed. That’s not very nice.

I wasn’t trying to be mean, I told her. He won’t, and he’s cool with that. Right, Russ?

Both of my parents looked at my brother, waiting for an answer.

I don’t care, he told them. "Making the basketball team isn’t exactly