Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10 The announcer's voice echoed all around the gym. "Welcome back from halftime," the very grown-up-sounding voice said. Actually, it wasn't really a grown-up. It was Sammy Perez, a fifth-grader who was trying very hard to sound like the announcer for the New York Knicks. "We have a tight score here in our yearly game," he said. "PS 87 has won the title two years in a row. Will we three-peat? PS 91 doesn't think so. They want to take the trophy back with them to their school." "Get it done, ninety-one," the crowd chanted. "Get it done, ninety-one." "They're on the way to doing it," Sammy said. "PS 91 is in the lead with a score of 24 points." From the bleachers, moms and dads,

brothers, sisters, and grandparents waved PS 91's purple flags. "But let's not count out our very own PS 87," he said. With that, our side of the gym cheered so loud, it made the walls shake. "We're close behind with 22 points, led by our top scorer, Heather Payne." Everyone in the bleachers stomped their feet. I jumped up on the bench and raised both my arms over my head, and shouted at the top of my lungs. "Eighty-seven, we're the champs!" I yelled. Okay, so it wasn't as good a chant as the other team had, but they didn't have my Zipzer spirit. I could see my family in the stands. My mom and dad were waving a flag with our school colors, blue and white. My grandfather, Papa Pete, was wearing his only all-blue sweat suit. Usually he wears his red one and looks like a giant strawberry. Today he looked like a giant blueberry.

I wish they could see me play, but that's never going to happen, I thought to myself as I waved to my family. I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. It was not a friendly tap. "Henry, this bench is not for standing on," Ms. Adolf snapped. "Your job is to sit down and watch the game." "My real job is to be the Secret Weapon," I told her. "There you go again, talking nonsense." With that, Ms. Adolf blew her whistle so loud that it felt like my ears were flapping back and forth like an elephant's.

I sat down on the bench in between Kim Paulson and Luke Whitman. Kim was cheering for Frankie, who was dribbling down the court. When a tall girl from the PS 91 team tried to steal the ball from him, he spun around, did a behind-the-back dribble, and got by her. "Shoot it, Frankie!" I yelled. He did. And he made the basket. It was now a tie game. "Whoa," Sammy Perez said into the microphone. "Frankie Townsend ties it up!" But then, PS 91 answered right back. They had this player named Griffin. I don't know if that was his first name or his last, but he sure could shoot. He made three baskets in a row when Nick McKelty was supposed to be guarding him. No surprise there. Griffin was fast as a cheetah, and McKelty was slow as a water buffalo. McKelty got so frustrated that he poked one of

his scaly elbows right into Griffin's side. The referee noticed and blew his whistle. "Hey," he shouted at McKelty. "I saw that! No rough stuff." "I didn't do anything," McKelty shouted back. "You must have been looking in the wrong direction." "I'm looking at you," the referee said. "And I saw you elbow that player. You can't do that on my court. So now I'm going to watch you walk

off this court and take a seat on the bench. You're out of the game." "Fine!" McKelty snapped at him. "I didn't want to play, anyway." McKelty stomped over to the bench and pushed Luke Whitman aside. He was sweating so much that when he sat down, he splashed all over me. "Hank," Ashley called from the court. "This is your chance. Tell Ms. Adolf to put you in the game." I jumped up off the bench. "I can go in for McKelty," I told Ms. Adolf. "I'm ready." "So is Luke Whitman," she said. "Luke, you're in." Luke ran onto the court. As soon as the referee blew his whistle, Ashley passed Luke the ball. He caught it with one hand, because as always, his other hand was busy picking his nose. That kid has a major snot problem.