Stealing the Game Read online

  ALSO BY KAREEM ABDUL-JABBAR

  AND RAYMOND OBSTFELD

  Streetball Crew Book One: Sasquatch in the Paint

  Text copyright © 2015 by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Raymond Obstfeld

  Illustrations copyright © 2015 by Evan Hughes

  Cover art © 2015 by Evan Hughes

  Cover design by Tanya Ross-Hughes

  All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

  ISBN 978-1-4231-9041-7

  Visit www.DisneyBooks.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Also by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Raymond Obstfeld

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Busted!

  FOUR DAYS EARLIER…

  “They Look Like Criminals”

  Game Over

  Hot Tempers and Cold Icees

  The Return of Golden Boy

  Home Is Where the Secrets Are Kept

  My 3 Dark Secrets

  Golden Boy Vs. Bronze Boy

  My Family’s No. 1 Dark Secret

  ? Saves the World

  THREE DAYS EARLIER…

  Riddle Me This

  The Bulldog Mystery

  The Nose Knows

  Great Expectations

  The Favor

  TWO DAYS EARLIER…

  The Ambush

  Hamster Basketball

  Showdown

  Locker Room Casanovas

  Make It Rain

  When Is a Hole Not a Hole?

  Some Serious Ball

  Meet Your Undertakers

  Who Ya Gonna Call? Coast Busters!

  There’s Fouling and There’s Fouling!

  Even His Secrets Have Secrets

  PRESENT…

  Thanks for Being a Criminal

  ONE DAY EARLIER…

  Something I’d Never Seen Before

  When Archie Met She-Hulk

  My Life of Crime Begins

  Caught?

  Honor Among Thieves

  Really? More Lies?

  How Would Your Parents React?

  The Bro Code

  Midweek Terror

  Savior Sibling—Again

  My Life of Crime, Part Two

  PRESENT

  Cops “R” Us

  Do You Know What Color Your Orange Is?

  Something to Show You

  Blindfold Basketball

  Rematch of Vengeance!

  Revenge Ball

  Who Is the Real Criminal Mastermind?

  The Confessions of Jax Richards, Undercover Cop

  Mom and Dad Are Gonna Faint

  My Brilliant Checklist of Clues

  The Talking Cure

  Praise for Streetball Crew Book One: Sasquatch in the Paint

  About the Authors

  This book is dedicated to the game

  and all of us who love it.

  —K. A-J.

  To my own Street Crew: Loretta, Max, and Harper.

  The best team ever.

  —R. O.

  BUSTED!

  THE police officer entered my eighth-grade algebra class, without looking at any of us, and whispered into Ms. Kaiser’s ear. She was standing at the whiteboard, her back to the class, halfway through an equation that I didn’t understand and probably still wouldn’t understand when I took tomorrow’s quiz. Ms. Kaiser looked surprised at whatever the officer had said.

  Then she turned slowly toward the class and pointed at me.

  My heart banged against my ribs and my swollen nose ached even more.

  The officer glared at me. He was tall and thin and his uniform looked a little too big, like he’d recently lost a lot of weight. Maybe he hadn’t gotten a new uniform yet because he was afraid he’d gain the weight back. Maybe he couldn’t afford a new uniform because he was putting his kids through college. I couldn’t believe I was even thinking about all that at a time like this.

  The officer crooked his finger for me to follow him.

  As I stood up, Clay Yothers in the desk behind me whispered excitedly, “Dude, what’s the cop want?”

  “Is this about what happened to your face?” Simon Zuckerman asked. His eyes were big as softballs. “Is this an arrest?”

  I shrugged as if I didn’t know.

  But I did know.

  “He’s got pepper spray,” Tina Yu said, pointing at the officer’s belt full of crime-fighting goodies.

  “Forget the pepper spray,” Clay said, “he’s packing a gun! Dude, what did you do?”

  Tina was trying to sneak her phone out of her purse so she could take a photo. If she did, it would be posted on Facebook by the time I reached the door. I gave her a sharp look and she slid her hand away from her phone.

  Ms. Kaiser looked flustered, her cheeks bright red. She started tugging on her blouse and skirt as if the officer had come in here accusing her of being sloppily dressed. This was only her second year of teaching, and I guess this was the first time she’d had the cops haul one of her students out of class. It was probably the first time this had ever happened at Orangetree Middle School. This was the kind of school with banners for excellence and PTA mothers who planned fund-raisers for new computers and students who belonged to several clubs and teams at once. All the walls were painted in sunshine yellow, I guess to remind us of our bright futures.

  As I walked toward the door, I could hear my classmates whispering, but my blood was pounding so loudly in my ears their words just sounded like boiling water.

  When the officer and I left the classroom, Ms. Kaiser’s dry marker squeaked against the whiteboard. “Okay, friends, let’s examine the variable y….”

  She’d never called us friends before. This whole thing must have shaken Ms. Kaiser, made her think she was back teaching elementary school.

  Friends. Like we were all best buds. Maybe teachers figured that if they said it enough times, we’d all think it was true. All five hundred of us, linking arms and skipping down Main Street to a Katy Perry song.

  “Chris Richards,” the officer said with a sour face, like my name tasted bad. “What happened to your face?”

  I touched my swollen nose, which was still tender. I knew the purple bruising under my eyes gave me a haunted look.

  “Do you know why I’m here?” he said accusingly.

  His question made me think of the last thing Ms. Kaiser had said. Let’s examine the variable y. Only in my head it came out: Let’s examine the variable why.

  Why I’m here.

  FOUR DAYS EARLIER…

  “THEY LOOK LIKE CRIMINALS”

  “YOU guys cheated!” Zach Fallon accused, angrily kicking the basketball off the court.

  “Hey, don’t kick it,” Eric Trebeck said. “You’ll break the valve.”

  “I’m just sick of them cheating!” Zach said.

  “We don’t have to cheat to beat you,” Roger said with a snort. “All we got to do is show up.”

  Weston, Roger’s teammate, chuckled and high-fived him.

  “You stacked the teams,” Zach persisted. He looked for support from his defeated teammates, Eric and Daniel Hood. “Right, guys?”

  Daniel was hunched over, hands on his knees, wheezing like a ball pump, trying to catch his breath.

  Eric nodded. “You guys do have all the shooters, Roger.”

  Daniel, unable to talk while sucking in air, raised a thumbs-up to show he agreed.

  Zach added, “And yo
u all play on the school team. We just play here.”

  Here was Palisades Park, the perfectly groomed park surrounded by perfectly groomed homes. The park had tennis courts, three baseball fields, soccer fields, and a playground covered with a giant orange tarp to keep the sun off the little kiddies. The neighborhoods were so perfect that they attracted families of all nationalities. We had a large Asian population—mostly Vietnamese—and lots of Latinos. On weekends, the soccer field had cricket players from the numerous Indian and Pakistani families in the area.

  “Fine.” Roger sighed. “Let’s mix up the teams. What do you think, Chris?”

  I agreed with Zach that Roger had deliberately stacked the teams. We’d crushed them 15–2 in less than ten minutes. It would be even worse if we played them again. Daniel would need an oxygen mask and a team of paramedics on standby.

  “I’ll swap with Daniel,” I said. I walked over and stood next to Zach and Eric.

  Zach smiled triumphantly. “Yeah, I’m good with that.”

  Daniel shrugged and went to stand with Roger and Weston. He was six inches shorter than them and twenty pounds heavier. He looked like half a vending machine. He probably shouldn’t even be playing, but his dad had promised him a hundred bucks if he lost ten pounds in six weeks, so here he was.

  Roger frowned, clearly unhappy with the decision. “Why don’t we just shoot for teams? That’s fair.”

  Of course it wasn’t fair. Because Roger, Weston, and I were the better shooters, the three of us would probably end up on the same team again. But Roger didn’t care about fair or even having good games. He wanted to win. That was fine when we were playing for the school, but when playing pickup games at Palisades Park, it was ridiculous.

  I retrieved the basketball from where it had landed on the grass. When I looked up, I saw two guys in their early twenties sitting on one of the stone benches in the distance, near the snack stand. They were munching on popcorn and drinking blue Icees, staring right at us, like they were in a movie theater and we were the show. I couldn’t make out their faces, but one had his short blond hair combed straight up into a fauxhawk. The other wore a black hoodie with the hood up, and dark wraparound sunglasses.

  But what struck me was that the guy in the hood had a rolling suitcase standing next to him. Who walks around the park with a suitcase?

  “Stranger danger,” Weston said, nodding at the two guys. He grinned. “Maybe we should call the cops.”

  “And tell them what?” Zach asked.

  “I dunno. They look like criminals. Who wears a hood when it’s eighty degrees out? And what’s up with the suitcase?”

  “Maybe he’s selling stolen iPhones or something,” Daniel said.

  I handed the ball to Roger. “Your outs.”

  Usually we’d shoot from the three-point line for possession, but I knew this would stop Roger’s complaining about the teams. Instead, he’d take it as a direct challenge.

  He grabbed the ball from me with a glare. “Ball in,” he growled, and he fired a pass to Weston. Weston quickly spun and banked a five-footer off the backboard.

  “I wasn’t ready,” Zach whined. “I thought we were still talking about those guys.”

  I couldn’t help but look up the slope at the two guys on the bench. Blond Fauxhawk was laughing and throwing popcorn at Hoodie, who seemed to be scowling down at us.

  “One to zip,” I said. “Let’s play ball.”

  GAME OVER

  “KA-CHING!” Weston crowed as he sank another bank shot over Zach’s head. He raised two fists high in the air. “Kneel and worship your basketball king, puny mortals!”

  “Big deal,” Zach said. “Your arms are like a foot longer than mine. You’ve got ape arms.”

  “Yeah, but I’m an ape who can score. I’m money, baby!” Weston’s nickname on the team was Money Man, because he could hit the bank shot so often. Whenever he scored, someone would yell, “Money Man just made another bank deposit!” Or the short version: “Ka-ching!”

  Daniel, who was already breathing hard only five minutes into the game, stood with the ball at the top of the key, panting. “What’s—” Deep breath. “What’s the score?”

  “Ten to four,” Roger said, grinning at me. “Guess we didn’t need you after all, Chris.”

  “Guess not,” I said.

  Even though he was acting like a jerk, Roger wasn’t a bad guy. He was big in every way: six feet tall and a hundred and eighty pounds. He wasn’t quick on the court—his nickname was Slo-Mo—but there was no one better at setting a pick-and-roll. When players banged into his brick-wall pick, they were dazed just long enough for him to roll toward the basket for the pass. By the time the groggy kid remembered his name and what century it was, Slo-Mo was already steamrolling into his layup. And no one near the basket wanted to take a charge from Roger, no matter how many free throws they got.

  “Ball in,” Daniel said, and he tossed the ball to Weston. Zach, determined not to be humiliated again (Weston had already hit six bank shots over him), was doing some sort of crazy defense dance that involved jumping around and waving his arms like someone on a desert island trying to flag down a passing ship.

  “Are you in training for the rodeo?” Weston joked. “’Cuz you’re riding me like I’m a bull.”

  “It’s called defense, dude,” Zach said, still jumping and waving. It might have looked weird, but it was effective. Weston tried to find an opening to turn and shoot his bank shot, but Zach was hopping around like he was on a pogo stick.

  “Get off me, Zach,” Weston said in frustration.

  “I’m not touching you,” Zach said. I could hear the delight in his voice at knowing he’d rattled Money Man.

  Weston passed the ball to Roger, who tried to use his fifty-pound advantage to back me toward the basket. But I’d been guarding Roger in practice for a couple years now, and I knew how to handle him. The secret wasn’t in holding my ground. He was too big for that to work. Instead, I’d keep jabbing a hand around him, to swat at the ball. Left, then right, then left, then left again. This scared him, because I’d stolen the ball from him so often before. Usually, he’d just stop dribbling and hug the ball to his chest until he could pass it.

  That’s what he did now.

  Except Zach was still doing jumping jacks all around Weston, making it impossible for Roger to pass the ball to him. And, just as Weston cut around Zach for the pass, I slid between Roger and Weston with my arms up, making it impossible for Roger to pass to Weston. So Roger did exactly what I’d wanted him to do.

  He passed to Daniel.

  Daniel was surprised, because Roger and Weston had pretty much cut him out of all the plays, just passing to each other and shooting. They let him bring the ball in just to keep him from complaining.

  Daniel held the ball, confused about what to do next. So he shot it from the three-point line. The ball fell short of the basket by a foot. I dashed around Roger, snagged the ball out of the air, and fired it to Eric, who was waiting on the three-point line as I’d told him to. Daniel, still stunned by his wild missed shot, finally ran over to guard Eric. But I’d also cut to the three-point line far ahead of Slo-Mo. Eric threw me the ball and I quickly shot the three. The ball rattled against the rim a couple times before dropping through for two points. (Yeah, I know it’s weird that we call the shot a three when you only get two points, but we like to use the same terms as the pros.)

  “Six to ten,” I said.

  We ran variations of that play two more times, with me shooting the three and scoring twice. That put us tied at tens.

  Roger was getting a little tired from my full press on him. And Weston’s frustration at Zach’s crazy defense made him force a couple of shots that bounced off the backboard and then off the rim.

  We were able to take advantage of that lapse for me to score a reverse layup and for Eric to beat Daniel to the hoop for another layup. Then, when Weston left Zach to double-team me so I couldn’t take another three-pointer, I bounce-pass
ed to Zach, who sank a baby jumper. The score: 13–10.

  Like the good players they were, Roger and Weston adjusted. Roger didn’t get flustered anymore when I tried to steal the ball. Weston directed Daniel to just stand in one spot about eight feet to the side of the basket, then used the stationary Daniel as a screen to fire off his bank shot. He did this three times in a row, tying the score.

  “Thirteen all,” Roger announced loudly, trying to intimidate us. But I could hear the nervousness in his voice. He’d never expected the score to be this close.

  In the neighboring court I saw Tad arrive. That’s not his real name, just what I call him. It stands for Tiny Asian Dude. Tad was really old and skinny and shuffled when he walked. He neatly folded his jacket and laid it on the grass. He was bald except for a couple scribbles of white hair on top of his head. He wore beige pants and a white shirt with black suspenders. He also wore old man sandals that had more leather than open space, like the ribs of a whale. He carried (he never dribbled) his ancient, beat-up basketball to the free throw line and began shooting.

  He was terrible. When I first saw him about a year ago, I thought he was going to be some b-ball Zen master, making every basket blindfolded. Instead, he hardly ever made a basket. And even though he was out here nearly as often as me, he never got any better.

  “Hey, Mr. Miyagi!” Weston hollered, and waved.

  Roger laughed.

  Weston called him that because he looked a little like the teacher in the original Karate Kid movie. And also because Weston was the jokester of our team and had to say or do something funny every fifteen minutes or he’d probably faint.

  Tad turned, smiled, and waved back.

  “C’mon, let’s play,” I said, before Weston felt the need to say anything else.

  Thing is, sometimes I felt like I had more in common with Tad than with these guys I was playing with, a few of whom I’d known most of my life. Tad comes down here every day to shoot baskets. He has to know that the kids who watch him are making fun of him. But he keeps coming and shooting and smiling. He’s not thinking about winning, or about playing high school varsity so he can get a scholarship, or anything except tossing the ball toward the hoop. He just loves doing it. That’s how I feel most of the time. Or want to, anyway.