Pivot Move: Pivot Series, #1

By Chris Boucher

At 14, Boyd's life goes the way of his hair—down the drain. His father leaves and Boyd's curly brown mop follows. Now he wants out, too.

Things seem to improve when he starts playing basketball. His unusual interest in the inspirational sayings of Friedrich Nietzsche is kindled further when he decides his new coach actually represents them. 

Boyd tries his hardest to win his coach and teammates over, but his misguided attempts alienate more people than they impress. Then he blows the big game.

What's his next move? Running off to his dad's? Or can he find another way to pivot?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613094372

Book preview

One

Mother drops me off , and all of a sudden, it's just me and the YMCA’s mirrored front doors. I guess it wasn’t bad enough that she signed me up for a basketball league I want no part of—so she had to go and make it even worse by dropping me off way past the start of the tryouts.

I watch as the reflection of her little Kia spins away, followed by the sound of her wipers skidding across the dry windshield. It’s only spitting out, but Mother had the wipers on two settings too high the whole way over. More often than not, it was wiper against windshield, rubber against window, with no water in between. She’s clueless when it comes to stuff like that.

Like someone who looks like me needs any extra attention! It’s an easy excuse for everyone to stop and stare. Yeah, people notice when a bald kid joins the party. Well, technically speaking, I have alopecia, when your body rejects your hair like Tacko Fall blocking a shot clear off the court. Keep that trash outta here, boy!

My hair started falling out in patches after I turned thirteen, and now it's all gone. I look like the kid in The Scream. And sometimes I feel like screaming, too, when I think about how losing my hair wasn’t even the worst thing that happened to me last year.

The brochure Mother gave me about the league says the whole point is to help kids develop character...whatever that means. They say it’s not about winning, which is hard to believe because just about everything with adults is about winning.

Like the divorce. Mother said she was doing what was best for me. But all she really wanted to do was win custody. She did what she had to do and took home the trophy—me. Well, congratulations, Mother! Hope you’re proud of yourself! I’ll keep my dome freshly polished for you!

I better keep it nice and shiny if I want to see my dad this summer. After he lost me and his house, he moved up to New Hampshire to live free or die. If I want to get up there to see him, I have to be a good boy, and I’m in enough trouble as it is.

The Y door opens and some manorexic-looking dude rushes past me. A whoosh of air follows him and kicks up a dust cloud around me so high I can taste the road salt from the steps. I guess that’s the cherry on the sundae! Might as well get it over with then. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?

I pull my hoodie up and over my head and slip through the glass doors. This time it’s my reflection that flashes past me. I step inside a dark and narrow corridor, and the only sound I can hear is the dull thud of a basketball pounding the floor up around the bend.

As I get closer, the sound of the ball hitting the floor starts to remind me of a big bass drum, and as soon as I feel that, I find a rhyme to match it. I’m not looking to get locked up in the crazy house or anything, so I just rap to myself in my head, but somehow I can still hear it:

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

YEAH! BOYEE is in the house!

Boyee huh? Who dat?

You don’t know Boyee?

Well you’re about to find out!

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

I’m about to drop this,

You can’t stop this!

Don’t take it personal, this ain’t no dis

I just don’t miss!

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

Ankle breaker cross-over

Step back thrr-eee!

You can’t touch me

I’m about to be free!

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

Boyee huh? You some show!

What’s this, Halloween?

No, ain’t no special time of year

Just my everyday nightmare.

I follow the signs down the long hallway and step into the boys’ locker room to put my stuff away. It feels like a dungeon inside. A bunch of lights are missing from the ceiling, a string of puddles covers the floor, and narrow rows of lockers divide the room into tiny little compartments. I’m about ready for a flame-breathing dragon to come at me.

Some kids are hanging in the second row, so I walk past them even deeper into the gloom. One of them says something I don’t quite catch, and as I try to put it together, I forget to watch where I’m going and step through one of the wet spots. The sole of my sneaker sticks to the floor, and when I go to peel it off, it makes a ridiculous slurping sound. The kids’ laughter is clear enough...it echoes through the room.

I find an open locker in the corner of the last row and stuff my backpack inside. My hoodie can stay on for now. I shut the locker then stand there staring at the closed door, pretending to memorize the locker number in case anyone comes by. But I’m really trying to decide on my next move.

There’s a slow drip-drip-drip coming from what has to be a bathroom behind me and I realize I could always sit in a stall and wait the kids out, like I sometimes do at school when I have time to kill. It’s not exactly the best option if someone comes looking for you, because it can become a trap. I don’t stick my head in water bubblers any more for the same reason. The last time I did that, some joker came up from behind me, gave me a little push, and I got a shower I didn’t need. It doesn’t take much of an imagination to know what might happen if these kids decide to play hide and seek and find me sitting on the bowl.

Two

Lucky for me, the kids laugh their way out of the locker room, too, so it’s obvious the coast is clear.

I walk across the hall and onto the courts. A single kid is doing ball handling drills under the basket closest to me, but other than that, the place is dead. He tries to wave me over, probably wants to play one-on-one or something, but I’m not in the mood to go up against some rando kid. I ignore him and go to the other side instead.

Too bad it’s not as easy to escape the weird smell of the place. It’s like burning rubber, and I can’t figure out why, until I walk past a bin of cheap rubber basketballs at midcourt. The fact that they’re brand new only makes the smell worse. Good thing I brought my own ball. It’s old and as bald as I am, but at least it has a nice, broken-in feel to it.

I pass a closed door in the corner and peek through a slit in the window to see a bunch of fat guys sitting around a table. They’re pretty loud, and I’m guessing the controversy has something to do with the tryouts. It actually might be entertaining to listen to, but I’m not about to call any extra attention to myself. Maybe I lucked out and missed the whole thing!

I put in my earbuds and start shooting free throws as the heavy bass kicks in at the beginning of Jumpsuit. That’s right, Twenty One Pilots are my boys. My first attempt is way too strong, and the ball caroms hard off the back rim and flies past me. I hurry to get it, but I’m sure the kid on the other side and some of the coaches in their little room saw the whole thing, which bothers me because I’m way better than that.

Not that I’ve played organized hoops before. My dad always said the adults who run kids’ sports always ruin things, so he never signed me up for anything. But he taught me how to shoot, and I’ve perfected my technique on the rusty old hoop in our backyard. My field goal percentage is close to 60%, my free throw percentage almost 90%. I’m no mathlete, but when you have time to take 100 shots, it’s easy to figure your percentage.

Mother was right about one thing: I love to hoop. I don’t know why, but a basketball just feels good in my hands. When I spread my fingertips across the grooves of the ball, I feel like I have control. I’m all about doing work, knocking down jumpers, drilling free throws, driving to the hoop past imaginary opponents and finishing strong.

That doesn’t mean I need to play in some crappy Y league. You know I’m gonna be way behind everybody else, kids who’ve been doing skills and drills for years, especially when it comes to some of the technical stuff. It’d be like dropping someone from outer space into an English class and asking them to diagram sentences or something.

That brochure went on and on about how the sport of basketball was invented on the other side of Massachusetts by some doctor who was looking for a way to keep the neighborhood kids busy over the winter. They act like he’s a genius, but I think he just got lucky. Think about it. When they first started playing hoops, they used an actual basket with an actual bottom! So every time someone scored, he had to go for a ladder, drag it over, climb up, and get the ball out of the basket. It wasn’t exactly a fast-paced game. I bet he burned way more calories going up and down the ladder than the actual kids he designed the game for. So I don’t see how a league like this, no doubt run by a bunch of dumbasses like that, is gonna help me.

Right on cue, the door opens and the fat guys start to squeeze out of the little room. They look like clowns stepping out of a tiny car, one after another after another, except most of them have turned their smiles upside down into big-time frowns. These guys have to be the coaches. The last one out meets my eye. A tall, skinny guy, he obviously needs some of what the other coaches are eating. Never mind coffees. They look like they run on doughnuts.

I try to ignore the guy, turning away and going back to shooting, when all of a sudden he appears right in front of me. And stays there. He looks like a gym teacher on the first day of school—black Adidas track pants, matching white polo buttoned all the way up, gleaming silver whistle hanging around his neck, all topped off with a fresh buzz cut.

Annoyed, I drop my hoodie and pop my earbuds out to stop the music, at one of my favorite parts, near the end where Tyler Joseph goes from a whisper to a scream. At least I’ll get to watch the shame appear on the guy’s face for making me uncover my cue ball.

He gives me a big smile instead. Nice earbuds! I didn't know you were listening to music. I figured you were ignoring me.

Sorry, I say, wishing I could go back to doing both.

Hey, no problem, the guy says, locking eyes with me. He’s probably had some kind of sensitivity training about being around people like me, but I know from experience that even professionals can only hold out for so long before their eyes wander. It has to be killing him right now.

I saw you shooting on my way over. You’ve got great form, that’s for sure. You ever think of signing up for the league here?

I...think I did.

You think? If you don’t know, who does?

It sounds like he’s trying to be funny but I’m not feeling it.

Well, my mom signed me up, but she dropped me off late. So, I think, because I have no way to know.

I instantly regret my attitude when I remember Mother asked me to check in with the guy who runs the show. Late or not, I’m supposed to get myself on a team so I have something constructive to do. I’m in enough trouble as it is for spending so much time on Superman Online. I liked Superman when I was a kid, but that’s what it was, kid stuff. Then I met a guy on the site who told me the real story behind it, some old German philosopher named Friedrich Nietzsche, and his theory about how to be superhuman. It’s pretty much the key to everything.

Uh, are you the youth director? I ask.

No, that’s Don—he’s still in the office over there. So, how old are you anyway?

I’m fourteen.

You wouldn’t be Boyd...Kindle, would you?

Yeah, that’s me.

No way! I just drafted you. A huge, Grinch-like smile appears on his face, like when the Grinch got that wonderful, awful idea, and his smile kept going and going. We’re the Blazers. I’m Sean. You can call me Coach.

Kids call me Boy. My real name is Boyd, and as you can imagine, my alopecia has earned me plenty of nicknames. Baby Boy was always a big one, but since my dad left, Mama’s Boy has been the go-to. It’s funny because a Mama’s Boy is about the last thing I’ll ever be. At least kids shorten it to Boy, dragging out the Y to pronounce it BOYEE, obviously.

My man, he says, apparently not sure whether to use my real name or nickname, and extends his hand for a thumb-lock bro shake. Never mind joining his team, I guess I just joined his cool guy club, too. I just picked you blind, just going by your height. I figured you’d help us on the boards, but I didn’t know anything about that sweet touch of yours. We’re gonna make the most of both, believe me.

I take his hand and look up at him. It’s times like this I realize I don’t exactly stand up straight so I pull my shoulders and head back to look him in the eye. I can’t. He still has several inches on me, which is unusual, because I’m really tall for my age. I look down on most adults.

There’s no way you would have fallen to me if the other coaches had seen you, he says, looking back at the clown door. I took some heat about drafting you as it is. Everyone was mad because I took a six-footer off the registration list instead of one of the kids who showed up today. But there’s no rule against it—it’s not like I told you to skip the tryouts!

It almost seems like he’s talking to himself so I just stand there and say nothing. I don’t want to be rude and interrupt him or anything!

But why bore you with this stuff! he says. "You up for a quick game of one-on-one? I didn’t see you try out, so I don’t