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Informationen zum Autor LJ Alonge has played pick-up basketball in Oakland, Los Angeles, New York, Kenya, South Africa and Australia. Basketball's always helped him learn about his community, settle conflicts, and make friends from all walks of life. He's never intimidated by the guy wearing a headband and arm sleeve; those guys usually aren't very good. As a kid, he dreamed of dunking from the free throw line. Now, his favorite thing to do is make bank shots. Don't forget to call "bank!" Klappentext An action-packed basketball series from author LJ Alonge set on the courts of Oakland, CA. Frank's not great at staying out of trouble. He's also not great at driving cars. After his joyride ends in a crash, he's stuck with a court-appointed Community Mentor for the summer. But it's not too bad. Officer Appleby's all right. And if anyone can handle a basketball team, a police officer, and a new girl on the horizon, it's Frank Torres.CHAPTER 1: PARADISE I’m sprinting up the sideline when I catch an outlet pass from Janae. Homegirl likes to throw passes that make your palms sting, the kind that leave a mark. I stop at the top of the key to look around the court. Life Lesson #553: When you’re vertically challenged, you’ve got to think your way to the rim. In front of me is a Foot Locker All-Star, a guy with a neon headband and neon arm-sleeve and a pair of shoes that would take me a whole summer of hustling to cop. He spits in his hands and slaps the dusty concrete. He swipes angrily at the ball. Sure thing, buddy. The funny thing is, a different me would’ve paid him a visit after the game and “borrowed” his sneakers. I set my feet, twisting my shoes until I can hear the gravel crunch. I flip some stray hair out of my eyes. I jab step left and crossover right and he’s toast, instantly in my rearview, nothing left of him but a whiff of Old Spice. The crowd starts spazzing, each ooh and ahhh and órale like a piece of Pop Secret. Later I might feel a little bad for the kid, getting embarrassed like that. But right now it’s all business. I’m at home close to the rim, with all the trees, so when some big guy starts waving his branches, I squeeze an underhand pass to Justin, who’s waiting in his sweet spot under the rim. Justin lays it in off the backboard baby-soft. Ball game. We win so much it’s no big deal anymore. Forget the sweaty hugs, the jumping up and down, the yelling. That’s amateur stuff you do when you think you’re going to lose. That was the beginning of the summer, when we were just happy to lose by less than thirty, when we didn’t even have jerseys. It ain’t like that anymore. Now we show up and kick ass. Now we scare teams into staying home. Last week we had two games canceled because every kid on the other team conveniently had a sick abuela to take care of. “Some weird flu going around,” they all lied. We haven’t lost in forever, and after every game we shake hands, real cool, like we knew we were going to win all along. Justin and I got a special handshake. It’s hard to explain but it takes a full minute to finish and includes a part where we pretend to turn Super Saiyan. “I couldn’t even see you when I made that pass,” I tell him. “That’s crazy,” he says, smirking. “How do you pat yourself on the back with such short arms?” I try to surprise him with a punch in the shoulder, but he shrugs it off and puts me in a headlock. I’m pinned against his chest, inhaling armpit fumes. Part of his jersey ends up in my mouth and I swallow a bunch of vinegary sweat. His biceps press against my throat. He’s got a little meat on his bones now, I’ll give him that. There was a time when he wouldn’t even have dreamed of putting his hands on me. But now that he’s got a girlfriend he’s all grown up, real tough. I’m happy for him, I really am, but that doesn’t stop me from winding up for a couple of kidney shots. ...
