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games of basketball went on around the clock.
    Time was running short. In a mere sixty-one days he would be trying out for the Midwood Varsity. Nothing could be left tochance. He even consulted Dr. Castellano on what foods would be most likely to induce growth. (“Try eating lunch, to start with,” Luis advised.) Barney’s nutritional campaign was supplemented by periodic sessions on the Riis Park chinning bars. He would hang for as long as he could bear it, hoping his body would stretch in the right direction. On the eve of Labor Day 1951, Barney stood up as straight as possible against the white stucco wall of the porch as independent measurements were taken by Harold and Luis.
    The results were spectacular: one tape read six feet and a quarter inch, the other six and three-eighths. He whooped for joy. Laura (who had earlier learned to her great relief that she’d finally stopped growing at five-ten) and Warren (five-four) stood by and clapped.
    “I made it, guys, I made it!” Barney squealed, jumping around the room like a rabbit with a hotfoot.
    “Not quite.” Laura smiled mischievously. “You still have to put the ball through the hoop.”
    Thus, in the year that saw President Truman relieve General MacArthur of his Far East command and Professor Robert Woodward of Harvard synthesize cholesterol and cortisone, Laura Castellano ascended to the presidency of the sophomore class. And Barney Livingston faced his long-dreaded moment—or, to be precise, three minutes—of truth.
    One hundred and eighty seconds was all the time basketball coach Doug Nordlinger needed to distinguish between a live tiger and a dead dog.
    The air in the gym was pungent with fear. The candidates were divided into groups of five (Shirts versus Skins) who would go on court to play against one another for three minutes of scrutiny. Each of the ten aspirants had to show his stuff during the same time limit.
    Two minutes into his trial, Barney had scarcely gotten his hands on the ball. It looked as if all his dreams of glory would go up in sweat.
    Then suddenly a shot was misfired against his own basket. Both he and a taller rival leaped for it. But Barney boxed him out and snatched the ball.
    As he started upcourt, several Shirts made desperate lunges for the ball. But Barney pivoted, dribbling with either hand.
    Another desperate Shirt approached with murder in his eyes. Barney faked left, ran right, and glided by him. With ten secondsto go he was underneath the enemy basket. He wanted to shoot—but common sense dictated that he should pass to a better-placed teammate. He forced himself to toss the ball to a Skin who was in the clear. As the fellow shot—and missed—the buzzer rang.
    It was all over.
    The coach lined up all ten in a row. All fidgeted nervously, as if about to face a firing squad—which, in a sense, they were. Nordlinger’s eyes went left to right, then right to left.
    “Awright, I want these guys to step forward. You—” He indicated a tall, gangly, pimple-faced member of the Shirt contingent.
    “The rest of you fellas, thanks a lot …”
    Barney’s heart sank to his sneakers.
    “… except you. Hey, Curly—didn’t you hear me?”
    Barney, who had been gazing disconsolately at the floor, suddenly looked up. Nordlinger was pointing at him.
    “Yes, sir?” His voice was little more than a croak.
    “That was smart playmaking there, kid. What’s your name?”
    “Barney, sir. Barney Livingston.”
    “Okay, Livingston, you and Sandy go over and sit on the team bench.”
    As Barney stood in motionless astonishment, the coach turned and bellowed, “Next two teams, hustle out there!”
    “C’mon,” said his lanky future teammate. And the two started toward the wooden shrine of the elect.
    “The coach knew your name already,” Barney remarked with curiosity.
    “Yeah.” The beanpole grinned smugly. “When you’re six foot six in Flatbush, a lotta coaches know your name.”
    At five-thirty that afternoon