notes from the drawing table: this is a bit of a revsion of the original. My doc expired so I had to upload all over again.

After Nicks failure at disco dancing, the only place I see for him is back on the basketball team. The idea for Bill trying out comes straight from the DVD commentaries. Either Paul or Judd.

I would place this story a couple of days after Lindsay has returned to town (which is the next chapter) Around the 3rd week of July 1981 . . . DTaC


Life at the Top

2. Courtin' the Coach

He missed it – it killed him to admit and it surprised him how much, but he really missed playing organized basketball. The occasional pickup game or goofing around with Ken and Daniel at the playground was not the same. As he sat on the curb across from the park on this hot Michigan afternoon watching Coach Fredericks and Bill Haverchuk playing a game of 'HORSE', there was nothing he wanted to do more than go over and join in. Every time he'd passed by this summer, Nick had seen the Coach and the 'Kid' there practicing, shooting around or if there were enough guys, playing half or full court games. It seems like the Coach had taken this kid on as his own personal training project. From what he could tell, Haverchuk was getting pretty good, too. Nick had seen the gangly kid around the school and was pretty sure he was a friend of Lindsay's little brother, but he couldn't remember seeing him play basketball at McKinley. He'd watched a few freshman games last year and was sure he'd never seen Haverchuk on the team. Watching the tenacious underclassman running around the outdoor court awakened his old, competitive feelings and made him want to play so badly.

Since being kicked off the team after getting caught with a bag of marijuana in school right before his sophomore season, Nick figured he was finished as a McKinley high athlete. From then on, he'd poured his heart – and his money – into his monster drum kit, which he'd honestly believed could be his future, and into smoking pot. Two years later the drums were gone, sold by his hard-assed father and entering his last summer as a high school student, Nick realized the drums, the weed and the insane disco dancing faze were all just distractions and empty pursuits. He wasn't good at any of them. The only thing he was ever good at was playing basketball. He wanted to be part of that again, to be part of something that he could excel at and to be part of something where he was not looked at as a six-foot four-inch embarrassment. This was his last chance. No way he'd be playing basketball in college, if he even made it into one, and he certainly wouldn't be playing if he had to join Army. That was an unimaginable fate he hoped to avoid no matter the cost – even if it meant hanging out with his freak friends less and studying more. With Sara's help, he just knew he could maintain a 'C' average during his final year in high school. The Army was the last place he wanted to end up and the 'C' grade point average was the key. If not, his father would be shipping him off to boot camp the day after graduation. Both of his brothers, Alex and Chris, who were two and three years older than Nick, were in the Air Force, just like their father. Both had 'partied' in high school but somehow it had never gotten in the way of maintaining good grades. Nick couldn't imagine why anyone would join the armed forces voluntarily. His brothers insisted it was a great way to get money for college. Money or not, military service was definitely not for him.

Summoning his courage and trying to forget the look of anger and disappointment that burned in Coach Frederick's face on that afternoon nearly two years ago when they banished him, a promising sophomore, from the team, Nick decided today was the day. Although the Coach had barely spoken two words to him since then, Nick knew the only way he stood a chance of playing again was by convincing him that he was serious and more importantly, that he was clean. He hadn't smoked pot in nearly three months and had no intention of ever starting again.

Gulping down the rest of his Faygo orange, the lanky seventeen year old stood up and placed the empty soda can upright on the pavement. He carefully balanced on it via his right foot then leaned and tapped the side of the can lightly with his finger. It gave way and crushed down, accordion-like, in to a perfect, metal hockey puck. With a quick kick, he scored the can in the sewer opening across the street.

"Andopolis scores! Now let me go score my starting job back, damn it." He muttered defiantly.

Grabbing his basketball out of the open trunk of his car, the teen made his way purposefully across the street towards the basketball court and his only hope of salvation. As he approached the short row of bleachers, he tensed up, suddenly unsure of how to proceed. He thought about what his Father, a man of few words, had always told him and his brothers; "A real man faces a difficult situation with courage and conviction. You look at a man eye-to-eye and say what you need to say." Armed with his old man's intensity and steely determination . . . Nick chickened out and slunk down to the basket at the far end of the court.

For the next half-an-hour, he shot around, worked on his version of the 'sky-hook' and even dunked a few times. Occasionally he snuck a glance across the center court line to see if the Coach was paying him any attention. Nothing. His opportunity finally came when a loose basketball came bounding his way and he heard – "Andopolis . . . little help." With a lunge, he snatched the ball before it went bouncing out in to the grass. Instead of throwing it back, he casually dribbled down to almost the top of the key at the Coach's end. It was his favorite spot to shoot from on the court. Nick casually tossed up a twenty-foot shot – a shot that rose from his outstretched hand in a beautiful arc and headed for a perfect swish – a swish that Nick was sure guaranteed his gold-plated invitation to rejoin and save the terrible McKinley High Varsity basketball squad – a swish that would end his two year exile to the wasteland of 'Freakdom' and irrelevance –

~CLANK~

The ball hit off the front of the rim; ricocheted high then bounced twice off the cement – right in to the hands of Coach Fredericks.

"You're fat, Andopolis."

"What? No I'm not, Coach."

"Look at you. How much do you weigh, chunky"? The burly coach challenged, approaching.

"I don't know. Maybe one-ninety."

"Fat chance, tubby! You must be at least two-twenty."

"C'mon, Coach! No way." Nick replied with a disbelieving smile to what he imagined was lighthearted ribbing. "Maybe this is what the coach has been waiting for? Me to ask him if I can play again."

"Hey Haverchuk," the Coach said, looking at the leanly muscular fifteen-year old. "How tall are you and how much do you weigh"?

"I'm six-one, one-sixty, Coach."

"Go stand next to Andopolis."

Bill gave the Coach a dubious stare, not at all sure why he was involved in this discussion, as he walked over and stood next to the taller boy.

"Now, Andopolis – look at you and look at Haverchuk here. He's an athlete and you – well, you're just an out-of-shape, could-have-been." The look on Coach Frederick's face was sour and serious.

It stung. Nick didn't care about the comments about his weight – he knew he was in terrible shape compared to when he was on the team. Then he'd been a lean, athletic one hundred eighty-five pounds. The 'could-have-been' comment really hurt. He didn't remember Coach Fredericks being this mean. He'd always been hard on the basketball players and demanded they work hard, play hard, get in and stay in the best shape possible. Especially the big men like him. It seemed so unnecessary to out and out insult him like that.

"What are you doing down here anyway, Andopolis? Waiting for your pot-dealer to come by"? Now he just looked angry and mean.

That was it. Nick had had it. If Coach wanted a fight, he'd give it to him. He wanted back on the team but it was obvious that the Coach had other ideas so he figured he had nothing to lose.

"You know what Coach," Nick began; ready to unload nearly two years of frustration. "Your team sucks! What did you win – four games last year? You must be the worst coach in the league! Your team can't play defense. They never keep their hands up when they play zone. They have no discipline. They don't hustle. Did anyone on your team even win one loose ball? Nobody can hit a jump shot – they can barely make a layup. And you know what else, Coach? Manning sucks! He's the worst big man in the league. He sucks in the low post. You might-as-well make this guy your starting center," he slapped Bill on the shoulder, "he's already better than Manning."

Coach Fredericks just stood there with a stunned expression. Bill Haverchuk kicked at his shoes, wishing he could walk away.

It was Nick who turned to walk away but not before defending his recent, pot-free lifestyle.

"If you don't want me on the team, that's fine. But – I'm clean, Coach. I haven't touched pot in months. More than three as a matter of fact, so don't accuse me if you don't know. I'm done with all of that."

Satisfied that he'd made his point, the sometimes-hotheaded Nick headed back to his end of the court with the intention of gathering up his basketball and heading home. At least, somewhere far away from this park and his unforgiving, ex-coach.

"Hey, Nick."

Nick, surprised to hear the Coach using his first name, whirled around eyes wild, prepared for another fight.

"Are you serious, Nick? Do you really want to play"?

"Hell yes, Coach – I'd love to play again"! Nick answered, disarmed but instantly enthusiastic.

"Are you serious about being done with the dope and all of that, too"?

"Yeah, I'm very serious about that, too. No more."

"I can order drug tests, Nick so don't –"

"Coach, you don't need to do that. I mean it. No more drugs."

Tossing the ball to Bill, Coach Fredericks approached his former player and put his muscular arm around the suddenly giddy Nick's shoulder.

"Nick – first of all – I can't promise you anything, I –"

"I know Co –"

"Andopolis! Shut your trap and let me talk. You had your say." The Coach said with a smile and a playful squeeze around the neck before letting go and facing the taller kid.

"I'm going to have to talk to Rosso. He'll probably have to talk to the superintendent and get the ok from him. What about your Father? Will he agree to let you play"?

"You know what Coach, I think he will. He used to love watching me play. I think it was the last time he was actually proud of me. I think it will make him happy to see me doing something . . . more 'establishment'."

"You're going to have to keep your grades at a 'C' or better. Do you think you can do that"?

"I gotta do that or my Father's going to make me join the Army! No way I'm joining the Army. Sara is going to help me stay . . . focused. It's senior year anyway – my classes should be pretty easy."

"Don't be a knucklehead, Nick. You go to class. You do your homework and assignments – no matter what the classes are. I'm not going to go to bat for you then have you screw me over, ok? You'll have the entire first semester to prove yourself or it'll be no go on playing, alright"?

"Sure Coach – I promise." Nick said it with all the conviction and good intentions he could muster.

The smiling Coach stuck out his hand, which the happy Nick shook vigorously.

"I hope this is 'welcome back' Nick."

"Alright! Awesome! I can't wait. Can I have my old number back"?

"Slow down, Nick. First things first. You ask your old man permission and let me know. I want something in writing. Better yet, I want to meet with him in person so I know there are no shenanigans. Got it"?

"Got it, Coach."

The two men released their grip, both looking forward to a brighter and more successful Varsity basketball season at McKinley High. Again, Nick was ready to walk away but the Coach stopped him with a question.

"And Nick . . . do you really think I'm the worst coach in the league"?

"Oh . . . nah Coach. I just said that because I was so mad."

"What about all that other stuff? You noticed all that? You seem to know a lot about a team you claimed to not care about."

"Well, I did watch a lot of the games from the end, next to the bleachers. You couldn't see me from the bench. I went to some of the away games too. Those were . . . brutal."

Coach Fredericks shook his head. "Brutal is right. I just don't understand why those guys wouldn't hustle. Or keep their goddamned hands up in the zone no matter how many times I told them! I'm glad some of those clowns graduated. A couple of the JV kids look really promising." Forgotten in the one-on-one conversation, Bill Haverchuk accepted the Coach's glance with a mix of pride and embarrassment. He hadn't even made the JV team or even decided if he was really going to try out. The Varsity was out of the question as far as the self-identified geek was concerned.

"You are right about something else too, Nick."

"What's that Coach"?

"Manning sucks."

"Coach. I was just kind of –"

"Don't bullshit a bullshitter, Nick. You meant it; you know it and you were right. And he's not even a good kid. He's a little asshole, that's what he is. If I had anyone else, he'd never play unless was garbage time."

"Wow, Coach. Harsh."

"I'll tell you what, Nick. You make good on all your promises, you'll get all Manning's minutes and more. I promise you that. It's all up to you."

"Thanks, Coach. I'll talk to my Dad tonight and I promise I won't let you down."

"Great, Nick. You don't know how much I want this to all work out. I can't take another year like last year."

"Me neither, Coach. Me neither."

"So, who's hungry," the Coach asked, looking back and forth between his former and hopefully, his future star players and looking much more forward to the basketball season then he was twenty minutes ago.

"I'm hungry," Bill, chimed in. "Let's get pizza," he added, hopefully.

"You in, Nick? It's on me."

"Nah, Coach, I can't. I'm supposed to meet Sara in a little while for lunch. She said she's making me something special. I really gotta get going. See you guys. Thanks, Coach."

Nick walked over to the sideline and scooped up his basketball, feeling buoyant and joyous. He wanted back on the team and Coach wanted him back on the team. This couldn't have worked out any better. He couldn't wait to tell Sara and he knew his father would agree. He just had to.

"Hey Nick."

The happy soon-to-be Varsity athlete looked up court to see the Coach looking his way again.

"You know I can't put you guys through any official drills or practices until the school year starts – but as of Friday night, I'm going to start opening the school gym for pickup games – informal scrimmages and such. I'm hoping that all my returning players and from the Varsity and the JV will come by and get in a little work before the semester starts. You think you can make it"?

"Sure. I can make it. What time"?

"Seven to Nine."

"You got it Coach. I'll be there."

"And, Nick – I was right about one thing – you are fat. You had better plan on losing twenty pounds by the time the season starts. I don't want you to look like you're carrying a piano up and down the court. Maybe pizza isn't the best thing for you right now, anyway. I hope Sally is making a nice salad for you."

Nick laughed and waved loosely as he started off the court.

"It's Sara, Coach. I'll see you Friday night at seven."

Coach Fredericks turned, snatched the ball out of Bill's hands and launched a two-handed set shot from where they were standing at half-court.

"Ugly shot Coach," Bills said as the ball arched gracefully towards the backboard. To his surprise, the hasty half-court shot hit nothing but net.

"Two points, Fredericks"! The elated Coach shouted. "That, young man, is how we used to do it back in the sixties"!

"Basketball must have been an ugly game back then, Coach." Bill replied with a beaming gap-toothed smile.

"Not as ugly as you, Haverchuk," the Coach jabbed in return. "Now go get that ball. Let's get some pizza. And a beer. I'm celebrating."

"Can I get a beer, too"?

"Hell no, you knucklehead. Your Mother would kill me. Let's get off this court and go eat. It's hot-as-hell out here."


under the table: If you like it (or hate it) or just have an opinion, please review. All reviews read with a smile.

By the waY: that little trick Nick pulled with the soda can used to be possible when cans were much stronger. Really. DTaC