Rivals by Tommy Greenwald (the speed reading book txt) 📗

dad said to Coach Cash, “We’ll do two sessions a week for Austin, and one for Liv. He’s going to need the extra help.”

You would have thought that my dad would have said that in private, but nope. I was standing right there.

Ever since then, Coach Cash has been pretty tough on me.

His favorite word is “again.”

Actually, I take that back.

His favorite word is “AGAIN!”

“AGAIN!” he’d yell, after I’d taken fifty foul shots.

“AGAIN!” he’d yell, after I’d dribbled a basketball in each hand up and down the court a hundred times.

“AGAIN!” he’d yell, after I ran suicide sprints for fifteen minutes.

“AGAIN!” he’d yell, after I ran backward from foul line to foul line ten times.

So I’d do it again, and again, and again, and again. And at first I was happy to do it, because I got a lot better, and I loved the game.

But as I got older, I stopped getting a lot better and started getting only a little better. And before too long, it got to the point where I never wanted to hear the word “again” again.

No such luck.

“AGAIN!”

We’re at the Tompkins Park courts a few days after we beat South. Coach Cash was at the game, and he didn’t like the way I was distributing the ball on the fast break, so he’s making me dribble up and down the court at a dead sprint while he yells, “LEFT! RIGHT! LEFT! RIGHT!” I’m supposed to turn my head in whatever direction he calls, which is how I work on knowing where my teammates are while going at full speed.

“Good,” Coach Cash says, after we’ve been doing this for about ten minutes. “Much better.”

I take that to mean we’re on a break, and I head for the sideline.

“Where ya goin’? We’re not done. AGAIN!”

Finally, after another fifteen minutes and I’m on the verge of collapse, it’s time for a water break. I’m sitting on the bench, sucking major wind, when Coach Cash takes a seat next to me.

“Good work today. You’re getting it. Now listen, I got news.”

For a brief second, I think he’s going to tell me he’s moving somewhere far away, like Australia, and my heart fills with hope.

“I’m starting a new program, and I want you to be a part of it.”

“Awesome!” I say, trying to mean it. “What kind of program?”

“It’s an invitation-only AAU program called Slam Academy, and I’m pulling in some of the best players in the state,” Coach Cash tells me. “We’re going to have a high school team and a junior team. I’d like you to join the juniors.”

I make myself sound as excited as possible. “Wow. That’s so cool. You want me on the team?”

“Of course I want you on the team. You can really play!”

Remember how I said you can’t teach height and speed? Well, it turns out you also can’t teach having a dad who was a college teammate of the guy who’s starting the team.

Coach Cash blows his whistle, which is pretty unnecessary, since we’re the only two people there. “Up and at ’em! Time for some box-out drills! Let’s go!”

I stand under the hoop while he throws up intentionally missed shot after intentionally missed shot, which I attempt to rebound. He pushes me from behind while firing out instructions. “No elbows! Use your butt! Grab the ball with both hands! Keep it up high!”

So I don’t use my elbows, and I use my butt, and I grab the ball with both hands, and I keep it high.

“HIGHER! AGAIN!”

“DON’T FLAIL! AGAIN!”

“EYES DOWNCOURT! AGAIN!”

Every time I do it AGAIN, it feels like I’m messing up more, not less. And then it hits me: I’ve finally reached the point where the more Coach Cash tells me to do something, the worse I get at it.

The good news is, Coach Cash is paid to tell me what to do for only an hour at a time. So today, after the hour is up, he blows his whistle again. “Great work!” he barks, which is kind of funny, since he’s spent the last sixty minutes telling me everything I was doing wrong. “See you Thursday.”

Can’t wait.

We shake hands, he leaves, and I sit there, looking down at the basketball in my hands.

You and I used to be such good friends, I tell the ball. What happened?

My self-pity party is broken up by a voice behind me. “Yo!”

I turn around to see Kevin, Eric, and a few other guys from the team heading my way. I remember that I’d told them to come meet me here for a pickup game.

“Let’s run a few games,” Eric says, as we slap hands.

“I don’t know. I’m pretty sore from my workout.”

Kevin waves me off. “Get out with that,” he says. “Come on, let’s ball.”

“Aight,” I say to Kevin.

He looks at me and raises his eyebrows. “ ‘Aight’?” he repeats. He always calls me out when I talk differently to him, because he’s the one Black kid on our team. He’s totally right, of course.

“I mean yeah, let’s go for it,” I say.

We start the game, and on the first play I crossover Eric and hit a reverse scoop layup.

“All day!” I holler at Eric.

“Last time!” he hollers back.

We play for ninety minutes, and no one yells “AGAIN!” once.

And just like that, I remember why basketball is the greatest game in the world.

ALFIE

My dad was hoping I would be a boy. He was okay with me being a girl, though, because I was their first child, and he probably thought he and my mom were going to have a lot more kids.

But they ended up having zero more kids, so I was it.

Everyone’s heard this type of story before, about the sports-crazed dad who doesn’t have any sons, so he transfers all his sports craziness onto his daughter. In my version of the story, it took only about two minutes in first grade for me to realize I was terrible at sports. It took my dad a little longer, though—about ten minutes.

But here’s