Read Online Dunk Under Pressure by Rich Wallace - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rich Wallace
Tags: Ages 8 & Up
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air conditioner, then stepped outside and gave Dunk a hug.
“Drive carefully,” he said.
“Have a great afternoon. Put on your lotion.”
“I already did.” Dunk set the moose on the passenger seat and clicked on its seat belt. “He’ll keep you company,” he said.
And as he walked back toward the beach, Dunk felt taller somehow. More of a man than when they’d left Hudson City, just a few days before. He could hear the music from the Boardwalk and smell the salt air of the ocean, and the sun on his shoulders was hot and penetrating.
Cars were parked in every available space on these side streets. The beach would be packed with vacationers. Among them were a dozen Hudson City basketball players and their coaches.
Dunk walked faster now. He couldn’t wait to rejoin his teammates. A couple of hours of splashing in the waves. Joking, hollering, feeling the wet sand between their toes. Maybe an ice-cream cone or a milk shake. More sunburn.
Then back to the bus, in their damp shorts and with sand in their shoes. Back up the Parkway. Back to familiar ground.
Back home to Hudson City.
I
C ould anything be harder than this? Donald sat with his back against the gymnasium wall, eyes shut and sweat streaming down his face. His legs hurt. His shoulders ached. His left foot was starting to cramp.
He opened one eye and looked at the clock on the wall: 4:27 P.M. Coach Mills had said practice would end at five. Three minutes of rest and then thirty more minutes of conditioning drills.
There was an inch of water left in his bottle, and he sucked it right down. The water was warm but it quenched his thirst a little. The corner of his mouth stung where the bottle had touched it. He put a finger to his lip. When he pulled it away there was a dot of red. He curled his tongue to that spot and tasted blood.
I’ll live, he thought.
He felt a shoe against his leg—not quite a kick, but a rather hard nudge. Freddy Salinardi was standing there, peering down at him. Freddy was an eighth-grader and one of the team captains. “Let’s go, wimp,” he said. “Nap time is over.”
Donald scrambled to his feet. Freddy called everybody wimps, at least all of the seventh-graders. This was the first day of practice, so the newcomers were getting tested by the veterans. Donald stepped toward the mat. Freddy was already hassling Mario and Kendrick, making them stand up, too.
What a jerk, Donald thought, but he’d never say that out loud.
He had already started to figure things out. Coach worked the wrestlers hard but he was a nice guy, and he certainly seemed to know his stuff about the sport. But he let the eighth-graders push the younger guys around. That seemed to be how he kept order.
They’d learned some basic wrestling moves earlier in the session, but the past half hour had been all about conditioning. Jumping jacks, sit-ups, running in place. Donald knew this sport would be difficult, but he hadn’t envisioned anything like this.
“Line up!” Coach called. “The fun starts now.”
Donald joined the others in a straight line against the wall.
“What now?” asked Mario, tugging on Donald’s arm.
Donald turned and shrugged. Mario was one the few kids here who was shorter than Donald, but he was stockier. His dark curly hair was matted to his forehead with sweat.
“Some new form of torture,” Donald whispered.
Coach was looking over the thirty or so wrestlers, sizing them up with a smug smile. He was young—three years earlier he’d still been wrestling for the college team at Montclair State—and had the build of a solid 140-pounder. “Nobody said this would be easy, right? You new guys are getting a taste of how tough this sport is. You can’t even begin to be a good wrestler until you get into shape. The whole key is conditioning. Without that, you’re nothing.”
Coach pointed to Kendrick, a quiet newcomer to Hudson City who sat next to Donald in English class. “What’s your favorite sport?” he
“Drive carefully,” he said.
“Have a great afternoon. Put on your lotion.”
“I already did.” Dunk set the moose on the passenger seat and clicked on its seat belt. “He’ll keep you company,” he said.
And as he walked back toward the beach, Dunk felt taller somehow. More of a man than when they’d left Hudson City, just a few days before. He could hear the music from the Boardwalk and smell the salt air of the ocean, and the sun on his shoulders was hot and penetrating.
Cars were parked in every available space on these side streets. The beach would be packed with vacationers. Among them were a dozen Hudson City basketball players and their coaches.
Dunk walked faster now. He couldn’t wait to rejoin his teammates. A couple of hours of splashing in the waves. Joking, hollering, feeling the wet sand between their toes. Maybe an ice-cream cone or a milk shake. More sunburn.
Then back to the bus, in their damp shorts and with sand in their shoes. Back up the Parkway. Back to familiar ground.
Back home to Hudson City.
I
C ould anything be harder than this? Donald sat with his back against the gymnasium wall, eyes shut and sweat streaming down his face. His legs hurt. His shoulders ached. His left foot was starting to cramp.
He opened one eye and looked at the clock on the wall: 4:27 P.M. Coach Mills had said practice would end at five. Three minutes of rest and then thirty more minutes of conditioning drills.
There was an inch of water left in his bottle, and he sucked it right down. The water was warm but it quenched his thirst a little. The corner of his mouth stung where the bottle had touched it. He put a finger to his lip. When he pulled it away there was a dot of red. He curled his tongue to that spot and tasted blood.
I’ll live, he thought.
He felt a shoe against his leg—not quite a kick, but a rather hard nudge. Freddy Salinardi was standing there, peering down at him. Freddy was an eighth-grader and one of the team captains. “Let’s go, wimp,” he said. “Nap time is over.”
Donald scrambled to his feet. Freddy called everybody wimps, at least all of the seventh-graders. This was the first day of practice, so the newcomers were getting tested by the veterans. Donald stepped toward the mat. Freddy was already hassling Mario and Kendrick, making them stand up, too.
What a jerk, Donald thought, but he’d never say that out loud.
He had already started to figure things out. Coach worked the wrestlers hard but he was a nice guy, and he certainly seemed to know his stuff about the sport. But he let the eighth-graders push the younger guys around. That seemed to be how he kept order.
They’d learned some basic wrestling moves earlier in the session, but the past half hour had been all about conditioning. Jumping jacks, sit-ups, running in place. Donald knew this sport would be difficult, but he hadn’t envisioned anything like this.
“Line up!” Coach called. “The fun starts now.”
Donald joined the others in a straight line against the wall.
“What now?” asked Mario, tugging on Donald’s arm.
Donald turned and shrugged. Mario was one the few kids here who was shorter than Donald, but he was stockier. His dark curly hair was matted to his forehead with sweat.
“Some new form of torture,” Donald whispered.
Coach was looking over the thirty or so wrestlers, sizing them up with a smug smile. He was young—three years earlier he’d still been wrestling for the college team at Montclair State—and had the build of a solid 140-pounder. “Nobody said this would be easy, right? You new guys are getting a taste of how tough this sport is. You can’t even begin to be a good wrestler until you get into shape. The whole key is conditioning. Without that, you’re nothing.”
Coach pointed to Kendrick, a quiet newcomer to Hudson City who sat next to Donald in English class. “What’s your favorite sport?” he
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