Cafeteria Basketball
“It all comes down to this,” I said, announcing the play-by-play. “Ten seconds on the clock, Clifton United trails by two. Irving has the ball at the top of the key.”
Actually, I was standing on a table in the middle of the empty school cafeteria, and the ball was really the crumpled tinfoil wrappers that had contained the last of my Halloween candy. I sized up the garbage can in front of the LINE STARTS HERE sign on the wall by the food-serving area.
“Hurry up, Mason Irving,” Red said.
I’m Mason Irving. That’s what Red calls me. Everyone else calls me Rip.
Red was by the entrance on lookout. He gripped the headphones hooked around his neck with one hand and tapped his leg with the other.
“Irving jab-steps left.” I pretended to dribble. “He slides right, looking to create some space.”
Red and I were allowed to be in the cafeteria in the morning. We had a pass from our teacher, Mr. Acevedo. But I probably wasn’t allowed to be standing on a table playing tinfoil basketball.
Make that definitely wasn’t allowed.
“Hurry up,” Red said again.
Just so you know, I wasn’t going to miss this shot. The new basketball season started right after school, and this was my good-luck, half-court-heave, buzzer-beating basket before the first practice.
No way was I going to miss this shot.
“Five seconds … four,” I counted down. I brushed the dreadlocks off my forehead. “Three … two … from three-point land!”
I baseball-threw the tinfoil, and with my basketball eyes I tracked its flight over the tables.
It landed in the center of the can.
“Boo-yah!” I hammer-fisted the air.
“Bam!” Red cheered.
The Early Pass
You might be wondering why two fifth graders are allowed to be all by themselves in the cafeteria, so let me explain.
Each morning, I meet Red at the end of his driveway, and we walk to Reese Jones Elementary. We cut through the school yard, zigzag through the portables (the second- and third-grade classrooms), and obstacle-course the new playground. We reach the main entrance to RJE just as the building officially opens.
The same thing, every day.
But for the last couple weeks, I’ve been meeting Red ten minutes earlier because he’s now permitted in the building before the other kids. He’s allowed to go up to our classroom, get unpacked, and settle in before everyone else. Since I walk to school with Red, I’m allowed in early, too.
Here’s why:
The first two months of fifth grade were tough for Red. Then again, thanks to all the crazy budget cuts and changes, they were tough for all the kids. There were like ten new teachers, including Mr. Acevedo. There was no longer an assistant principal, and the principal, Ms. Darling, was out of the building more than she was here. For the first time, the fifth graders had to switch classes. We also had to eat lunch with the first and second graders, instead of the fourth graders. Luckily, we still got to sit in the fifth-grade-only booths.
As for Red, he doesn’t do well with changes. They seriously mess with him. That’s why Ms. Yvonne—the special ed teacher—suggested the building pass. Red does a lot better when he gets to places early or on time.
The thing is, the early pass only gets us into RJE. It doesn’t allow us to roam the halls. That’s where Mr. Acevedo comes in. He doesn’t mind us leaving Room 208 so long as we’re back when the other kids arrive.
It’s pretty cool being the only kids in the school and walking past the front doors while everyone else is outside, especially since it’s the beginning of November and getting a little cooler. And it’s beyond pretty cool playing tinfoil hoops in an empty cafeteria.
Text copyright © 2016 Phil Bildner
Pictures copyright © 2016 Tim Probert
