Falling Short: Chapters 14–37

Most of my shots fall short and slam against the garage door. The rest ricochet off either the backboard or the front of the rim, which of course doesn’t get you a point.

Still, I can’t give up. Muggsy would never do that. Online, people called Muggsy pesty and feisty.

Then she reaches for a fork and stabs one of the unsuspecting mounds of mashed potatoes.

Your amá and I aren’t always going to be around to take care of you. You need to be your own man. Take care of your obligations.

“Why do I always have to play the villain?” Amá argues.
There it is. The bickering has started.

Isaac sighs before digging into his hamper and pulling out a T-shirt, which he crumples into a tight ball. “No, not really,” he says, shooting the makeshift ball at a miniature hoop over his door.

Spend time with Marco and avoid alimony and child support.
Dude actually chose to write a check.

“It hurts—” The words come out in a raspy whisper.

Both the pants and shirt were Christmas presents I got in the mail from one of my many aunts in Mexico. They’ve been sitting in my closet for months with all their tags still intact.

Amá reaches for her coffee, simultaneously wiping away her tears.

My newfound swag continues way after Marco and I go our separate ways to our classes, which are cut a bit short today because of modified schedule, meaning we go to all our classes on account of teachers needing to meet or something.

I grab my No. 2 pencil, but the tip Marco worked so hard to sharpen has broken off. I scour the room for a sharpener.

I warned her plenty of times that I didn’t like to be tickled. Punching her in the nose was a total reflex.

With my record, I’ll probably be facing a suspension, maybe worse.

Fortunately, he’s having us do a virtual frog dissection on school iPads, which, at the very least, gets the other kids to stop talking about what happened.

Only, I can tell by the way he’s missing every shot that his parents’ arguing is bothering him.
It’s kind of ironic though, you know, that he tells me about it.

“I’m pretty sure it’s simply an acute contusion, but I’m going to have you get some X-rays. Just in case.”

Acute. It’s an interesting word because there is nothing “cute” about getting hurt.

No fracture. Still, Dr. Osburn gives me a finger splint to wear.

He’s like super squeamish—actually fainted the last two times he lost a tooth.

When Amá and I pull into the cul-de-sac, we spot Marco on our driveway...practicing his shooting?

“Nice! That guy was amazing! He had some crazy handles.”
Marco’s eyebrows scrunch up close, something he usually does while struggling to write code.
“It means he can dribble really well,” I clarify for him.

“I’ve watched a bunch of highlights of him online. He has this mantra”—he holds up his hands like he’s spreading out a banner—‘“always believe.’ It’s going to be my mantra too.”

I peek down at my finger. It’s so black and blue and swollen that it’s starting to look like a pregnant grub worm.

He claps really hard, which only motivates me even more.

I think about all the shots I made from the free-throw line, about my defensive stance and my improved footwork.

I think about the math pages I have yet to solve, the sports figure I need to research, and the science article I need to read and annotate, which is probably why the back of my neck tightens, and the front of my head feels like someone just plopped a huge weight inside.

I log in to Math Conservatory and start my online questions.

“Well, for what it’s worth, that problem you solved...I couldn’t solve it myself—totally gave up. Guess I didn’t have your determination.”

“So just leave me alone.”
Usually, something like that would cause Marco to completely deflate. And yet, the insensitiveness of my comment doesn’t faze him.

“Marco, I would like to congratulate you. Not just for solving the problem, but for your perseverance.”

I read this one article where an interviewer asked him why he insisted on taking every final shot. Kobe admitted that it seemed a bit arrogant, but then he explained how he’d worked harder than anyone else on the court for that same moment. Win or fail, he had put in the work to deserve that shot.

After last night, my legs feel heavy, sluggish. All I want to do is lie down on the locker room bench and take a quick nap.

“He got hurt and won’t be able to play this year. But he’s here to help out any way he can. He’s going to be a huge asset to us this season.”

“I’m sorry too,” I say, offering him a fist bump. “Grudges are for dummies, right?”