Basketball Disasters

  THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2012 by Claudia Mills

  Jacket art and interior illustrations copyright © 2012 by Guy Francis

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Visit us on the Web! www.randomhouse.com/kids

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at www.randomhouse.com/teachers

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Mills, Claudia.

  Mason Dixon : basketball disasters / by Claudia Mills. — Hardcover ed. p. cm. — (Mason Dixon; #3)

  Summary: Fourth-grader Mason struggles to enjoy playing basketball after his best friend persuades him to join a team, and learns that the dog-hating lady next door is not so bad after all.

  eISBN: 978-0-375-89960-7

  [1. Basketball—Fiction. 2. Sportsmanship—Fiction. 3. Neighbors—Fiction.

  4. Dogs—Fiction. 5. Schools—Fiction.] I. Title. II. Title: Basketball disasters.

  PZ7.M63963Mad 2012

  [Fic]—dc23

  2011014249

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and

  celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  To Ella and Graham Morris

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  On the Plainfield Elementary School playground, Mason Dixon watched from a safe distance as his best friend, Brody Baxter, aimed his basketball at the hoop.

  At least Mason had thought it was a safe distance.

  The ball struck the front of the rim and shot back directly toward Mason’s head.

  “Watch out!” Brody shouted.

  Mason watched, but didn’t exactly watch out. Instead, he stared with horrified fascination as the ball zoomed toward him. Then, a split second before it would have knocked him to the blacktop—“Fourth-Grade Boy Killed on Basketball Court”—he made a saving catch.

  Mason’s golden retriever—named Dog, short for Dog of Greatness—gave an appreciative bark as Mason tossed the basketball back to Brody. Then Dog gave another appreciative bark as Brody caught it. Dog lived at Mason’s house, because Brody’s dad was desperately allergic to all furry pets, but both boys shared Dog and loved him equally.

  “Hey, Mason,” Brody said, practically dancing as he dribbled in place beneath the hoop. “You’re good! You have quick reflexes!”

  Well, yes, sometimes a person’s reflexes became surprisingly good when the person was facing impending death-by-basketball.

  “Come on, Mason, shoot some with me. Dog, you can come and shoot some, too.”

  Dog wagged his tail at the sound of his name. Besides, Dog loved playing with a ball, any ball. Despite having only three legs, Dog thought that retrieving balls, or sticks—or any tossed object—was life’s greatest joy.

  This was one way in which Mason and Dog were different.

  “Did I tell you I talked to my parents?” Brody asked. “I told them I want to try basketball at the YMCA for a season.”

  Mason would have guessed this without Brody telling him anything. Of course, Brody would want to try basketball. Brody was interested in trying everything. He was finishing up a short soccer season right now; he’d play baseball in the spring. Why not play basketball, too?

  That was one way in which Mason and Brody were different.

  It was almost evening, on a mid-October Friday, and the Plainfield Elementary playground was deserted, except for Mason, Brody, and Dog. Neither boy had a basketball hoop on his garage, so this was the perfect place for playing basketball.

  If any place was a perfect place for playing basketball.

  Mason edged slowly onto the court. Brody took a few more dribbles, and then shot again, and missed again.

  “Get the rebound!” Brody called to Mason.

  Mason managed to stumble after the ball and grab it before it rolled off into the long grass at the edge of the blacktop. He knew the basic idea of how to play basketball, from playing it for a few weeks each year in P.E., but he had never been good at it, or good at any sport, for that matter.

  “Now shoot!”

  Without bothering to take careful aim, Mason tossed the ball in the general direction of the hoop.

  “You’re not even trying,” Brody scolded. He tossed the ball back to Mason.

  This time Mason studied the distance to the hoop before releasing the ball. His eyes widened with disbelief as, without even grazing the rim, the ball sailed neatly through the hoop and into Brody’s waiting hands.

  Brody cheered. Mason continued to stare at the hoop.

  “Besides, you’re tall,” Brody said as he hugged the ball to his chest. “You’d be good at basketball because you’re tall.”

  People often said that to Mason, that he’d be good at basketball because he was tall. They seemed to be forgetting that basketball involved a few other things besides height, such as skill in shooting, passing, dribbling, and guarding. Little things like that.

  “I know I’m short,” Brody said as he began dribbling the ball in slow circles around Mason, “but that can be an advantage in basketball.”

  Mason didn’t say it, but he couldn’t help thinking: Then why are so many professional basketball players seven feet tall?

  “A short guy can dart in and out, and the tall guys won’t even know what’s coming at them.”

  Brody assumed a crouching position, as if to block an opponent’s shot.

  “But you know the real reason why I’m going to be good at basketball?” Brody asked Mason.

  Mason knew Brody wasn’t really bragging. Brody was just so in love with the idea of playing basketball for the first time, and being good at it, great at it, that his enthusiasm bubbled out of him like happy steam from a singing teakettle.

  “Why?” Mason asked, because Brody was clearly expecting him to.

  “Because I have hustle,” Brody said. “I do. I have hustle.”

  Something Mason decidedly didn’t have. And never would have.

  “Look,” Brody said as he shot again. This time the ball teetered on the rim and then dropped in. “If you sign up for the team with me, then I’ll have a ride to all the practices and the games if I need one.”

  “What about your parents? Why can’t they drive you?”

  “They told me I’m already doing too many sports this year, and Cammie and Cara are playing basketball, too, and it’s their only sport this year, and so they get priority. That’s what they said.”

  Mason let Brody bounce-pass the ball to him, and he took another shot. This time he felt a strange satisfaction in missing, as if his wide shot proved Brody wrong about Mason’s supposedly great potential as a tall player with quick reflexes.

  “Um, Brody?” Mason apparently needed to remind him. “I’m not what you w
ould call a sports person.”

  “That’s like what you said when we got Dog, remember? That you weren’t a pet person? And now you love Dog.”

  Mason tried to hide his scowl. He hated being reminded that he had agreed to adopt Dog a few months ago only because of Brody’s begging and pleading.

  “And then you said you didn’t want to be in the Plainfield Platters, remember? You said you weren’t a singing person?”

  The Platters were the fourth- and fifth-grade choir at Mason and Brody’s school. Mason had joined it this year, against his will, and he had to admit that it hadn’t been terrible so far. He and Brody had even sung a solo together at the last concert.

  Brody went on. “Mason, I really think my parents mean it this time, that I have too many activities and they’re not going to drive me to this one.”

  Mason cast about for another way Brody could get his rides. “Does Sheng want to play basketball? Or Julio? Or Alastair?”

  Sheng was Brody’s second-best friend. Julio was Brody’s third-best friend. Alastair was Brody’s fourth-best friend.

  Brody shook his head for each name. “Either they’re already on another team, or they don’t want to play basketball.”

  “But I don’t want to play basketball, either!”

  Somehow Mason had already lost the battle.

  “Believe me,” Brody said happily, “this is going to be great!”

  Mason sighed.

  * * *

  At breakfast the next morning, Mason knew that he would have to tell his parents that they needed to sign him up for basketball; Brody had said that if they were going to enroll for the fall season, they needed to register right away.

  Mason didn’t think he could stand to hear how happy this was going to make his mother, who was always after him to try some supposedly wonderful new thing: to eat a food like sushi instead of macaroni and cheese, to wear something other than solid-colored T-shirts and brown socks.

  She had been the one who had most wanted him to get a pet.

  She had been the one who had most wanted him to join the Platters.

  And just the other day, she had been after him to do a team sport. She had read in one of her parenting magazines that kids who didn’t do a team sport by age ten never ended up doing a team sport for the rest of their lives. She had acted as if this was a terrible thing.

  Mason took the first spoonful of his plain Cheerios and milk. He looked over at his mother, who had just fixed herself a plate of scrambled veggies and tofu, and at his father, who was busy doing a sudoku puzzle in the morning paper. Mason’s dad was very bad at sudoku puzzles, but he had read a magazine article that said it was important to use all the different parts of your brain on a regular basis so that you wouldn’t lose mental functioning as you aged. Mason thought both of his parents got too many ideas from magazines.

  Given that his dad was only forty, Mason didn’t think he needed to worry about warding off senility quite yet. Still, his dad squinted down at the puzzle, scowling at the little boxes in their little rows.

  “I thought for sure a nine went here,” he said sadly, using his pencil eraser for the twentieth time in five minutes.

  “Um, Mom and Dad?” Mason said. He hated to interrupt them, but it was now or never. He tried to keep his tone light and casual. “I was thinking that I might go out for basketball this year.”

  His father laid down his pencil.

  His mother set down her fork.

  Oh, Mason, that’s wonderful! Oh, Mason, we’re so proud of you!

  His mother found her voice first. “But, Mason.”

  But, Mason?

  “You’ve always said you’re not a sports person.”

  If there was anything irritating, it was hearing quotes from your previous self.

  “Sometimes people change” was all that Mason said in reply.

  “But—basketball? Dan, isn’t that a very physical sport?”

  Mason’s dad still looked stunned. Finally he said, “At least you’re tall. That’s something.”

  “And I have quick reflexes,” Mason added.

  Something his parents definitely didn’t seem to have.

  “I suppose you could try it,” his mother said slowly. “Is Brody willing to try it with you?”

  Mason wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of knowing that Brody was the one who had talked him into it.

  “I think so,” he said. He reached down to rub Dog’s silky head. Dog didn’t seem to find it strange that Mason was going to play a sport. “I mean, yeah, he is.”

  His mother looked somewhat relieved.

  But then: “Basketball,” she said in bewilderment.

  “Basketball,” his dad echoed, gazing down at his puzzle. “Wait—it’s an eight.” He wrote 8 down in the square where he had just erased 9.

  “I think we need to sign up for it today,” Mason said. For good measure, he added with false heartiness, “Believe me, this is going to be great!”

  His parents stared at each other in silent disbelief.

  Mason’s parents drove Mason and Brody to the county YMCA that afternoon to drop off their registration forms for the six-game late-fall basketball season.

  “I know we could do it online,” Mason’s mother said. “But if everybody does everything online, there won’t be any jobs left for actual human beings.”

  The actual human being sitting at the information desk at the Y was a teenage boy who was chewing gum. Mason knew his mother disapproved of gum chewing in public, so he wondered if she was sorry that she had chosen to support a job for this particular actual human being.

  “Now, the boys will be on the same fourth-grade team, won’t they?” she asked. Mason’s dad had already placed the registration forms on the desk and looked ready to go.

  “If you put that on the form,” the boy said. He wore a name tag that gave his name as Jonah.

  “We did. And do you know who their coach will be? They’ve never played basketball before.” She lowered her voice, but Mason could still hear her perfectly: “This is my son’s first experience with a team sport, so I want to make sure he gets a coach who is, you know, positive. And encouraging.”

  Jonah shrugged and shifted his gum from one cheek to the other. “Usually one of the parents does it. Or sometimes a guy who likes coaching.”

  “But do the coaches have experience?” Mason’s mom pursued. “Or training of some kind?” She shot Mason’s father a worried look.

  Jonah shrugged again. Mason could tell that his mother thought that this actual human being was a disappointment.

  As they turned onto Mason’s street on the way home, Mason saw a small moving van parked in front of the house next door—not in front of Brody’s house, which was next door to Mason’s house on one side, but in front of the other house, next door on the other side.

  “I wonder if Mr. Taylor is moving,” Mason’s mother said. “He didn’t mention anything to us about it, and I haven’t seen a for-sale sign.”

  Mason knew Mr. Taylor only as a middle-aged, rather stout, balding man who came outside occasionally to mow his lawn or take in the newspaper.

  “Maybe somebody’s moving in who has a kid our age!” Brody sounded excited.

  Mason didn’t say anything, but he didn’t want any new kids on their street. Brody had lots of other friends, and Mason had other friends, too, mainly a girl at school named Nora. But it would make things complicated to have another kid right next door, coming over whenever he and Brody were outside with Dog, wanting to take part in all their games.

  Mr. Taylor appeared in his yard.

  “Are you moving, Jerry?” Mason’s mother called over to him.

  “No,” he called back. “My mother is coming to live with me. We’re moving in some of her furniture so she’ll feel more at home.”

  As Mason’s dad opened the door of their house, Dog came bounding out to greet them, trying to lick both Mason’s and Brody’s faces at the same time, while barking his wel
coming bark and wagging his welcoming tail.

  Mr. Taylor came up the front walk and said something to Mason’s father that Mason couldn’t hear.

  “Oh, we understand completely!” Mason’s dad said. “I’ll speak to the boys about it. I’m sure it won’t be a problem.”

  Speak to the boys about what?

  When Mr. Taylor had gone back to his yard to supervise the movers, Mason’s dad said to Mason and Brody, “Mr. Taylor said his mother—Mrs. Taylor—doesn’t like dogs. So be sure to keep Dog under control when she’s out in the yard, okay?”

  “Sure,” Brody said.

  “Sure,” Mason said.

  He wasn’t worried. He didn’t particularly like dogs himself, just Dog. Nobody could not like Dog.

  “Do you think our team is going to have a name?” Brody asked as the two boys sprawled out on the floor of Mason’s family room, with Dog sandwiched between them. “We could call ourselves the Fighting Bulldogs. Do you think that’s a good name?”

  “Maybe,” Mason said.

  But Mason didn’t like bulldogs: he only liked golden retrievers—one particular golden retriever. And he didn’t like fighting dogs: Dog was completely sweet and friendly. And finally, Mason didn’t think he was going to be much of a fighting bulldog himself.

  This is going to be great! Brody had told Mason.

  This is going to be great! Mason had told his parents.

  Why did Mason have the feeling that it was going to be disastrous instead?

  2

  “Good morning, team!” Coach Joe greeted all the students in Mason’s fourth-grade class on the Monday after Mason had signed his life away to the YMCA.

  Coach Joe was not Mason’s basketball coach. Coach Joe was Mason’s fourth-grade teacher. That’s what he wanted kids to call him: Coach Joe. Mason had been suspicious at first. Coach Joe loved sports—obviously!—and he talked about sports all the time. Mason suspected that Coach Joe thought it would be a tragedy to grow up without taking part in a team sport.

  Still, as a teacher, Coach Joe was positive and encouraging—the very qualities Mason’s mother had requested in a basketball coach for Mason. All the kids liked him.