Read Second-String Center for Free Online Page A

sun already down, the late-afternoon air was very cold.
    “Everybody has an off day,” he said. “Everybody has a great day once in a while, too.”
    “Jared hasn’t had a good day all season,” Fiorelli replied. “Don’t know what’s going on with that boy.”
    The Hornets had won two games the previous week to raise their record to 2-1, but it had been the play of Spencer and Fiorelli that had been decisive, not Jared. Dunk had seen minimal playing time in the win over Memorial and a few minutes of mop-up duty against Bayonne. Today’s scrimmage had been his first significant full-court action in a while.
    Dunk changed the subject, sort of. “I felt good today. As soon as I rejected that shot”—he broke into a grin and turned to face Jason—“whose shot was that now? I can’t remember. That got me into a different zone. Like it almost wasn’t me out there. Just some other guy named Dunk who was a better player than I am.”
    “It’s all about confidence,” Fiorelli said. “You gotta at least think you’re good, or you got no business being out there on the court. After today, you better be thinking you’re good.”
    “Pretty good,” Dunk admitted. He knew he’d taken a major step forward as a player. “We’ll see what happens tomorrow.”
    Lincoln would visit the Hudson City gym the following afternoon. Dunk figured he had earned some playing time.
    They crossed Twelfth Street and Dunk stopped at the corner. “I’m going into the Y to see my aunt,” he said. “You want to come in?”
    “Nah. I got a ton of homework. Catch you later.”
    So Dunk crossed to the other side of the Boulevard and up the steps of the YMCA. Aunt Krystal taught aerobics classes at six and seven thirty on Tuesday nights. It was quarter to six now.
    The Y was an old brick building with a small gym on the main floor and a weight room and lockers below. It was at least as old as the middle school.
    Krystal was in a booth off to the side loading the CD player.
    “Fast music tonight?” Dunk asked.
    “Why? You feel like dancing?” Krystal said.
    “I danced big-time in practice today,” he said. “The basketball dance.”
    “That’s good.” Krystal’s white tank top said BERMUDA, but Dunk didn’t think she’d ever been there. “You’re not taking my class then?”
    “No way.” Dunk shook his head. “I’m beat. And we got a big game tomorrow.”
    “You say that about every game.”
    “That’s because it’s true! I get psyched for every game. Especially after a day like today.”
    “You did good, huh?”
    “Yeah, I did good.”
    Several women had entered the gym and were chatting and stretching before class. Dunk waved to one that he recognized from the classes he’d taken in the fall. All that bouncing and kicking and shaking had worn him out, but it had also raised his endurance level. That was paying off now.
    “So if you aren’t taking the class, then I’m booting you out of here,” Krystal said. “No spectators, remember?”
    “No problem. Just came in to be friendly.”
    “Tell your mom I’ll stop by after school tomorrow night.”
    “You won’t be at the game?”
    “Not on a Wednesday; I’ve got classes all afternoon. Good luck, though. Kick butt.”
    Dunk turned and shot an imaginary basketball toward the hoop. He raised both fists in the air and said, “Yes! Game winner.”
    Back on the street, Dunk walked briskly toward home. A man was walking a golden retriever near St. Joseph’s Church, and Dunk stopped to pet it. He inhaled the great smells as he walked past Villa Roma pizzeria and Jalapeños Mexican restaurant. And he glanced in the windows at Amazing Ray’s, which were already full of Christmas ornaments and snow shovels and ice scrapers.
    And one big thought came to him as he turned the corner onto Fourth Street, better than blocking shots or making baskets or pulling down rebounds. He’d suddenly found some ups today. He’d jumped higher than he’d ever jumped in his