I should've suspected something.

The other guys whooped and dribbled around me, slapping balls out of each other's hands and charging in for layups at both ends of the court. Layups that mostly bounced wide of the basket.

For somebody like me, growing up in a basketball-loving family in a basketball-crazed town, you'd think I'd be screeching around the gym, too. You'd think I'd be rebounding every shot and sinking three-pointers from the lobby.

You'd think.

I just stood there on the free-throw line, in the shadow of that big orange sign above the scoreboard, clutching a basketball tight to my chest. Outside, a wild October wind whipped through town, rattling the windows high above the bleachers in the gym. The very air felt like change. Like anything could happen.

You know the kid who kicks the ball out of bounds when he dribbles? The kid whose jump shots look like bounce passes? The kid who spends most of the game skidding across the floor on his face? That's me. Last summer my own grandmother beat me in a game of H-O-R-S-E.

I studied that orange sign and tried to imagine what it felt like to be six-foot-nine with a gym full of fans cheering and chanting my name. Kirby. Kir-by. KIR-BY!

"Hey, Kirby, if you're just going to stand there like a jockstrap, give us the ball."

Russell Wiles and Eddie Poggemeyer thundered past.

"And get out of the way."

I pried the basketball from my chest and thumped it on the floor. I eyed the basket and thumped again. I lined up the ball, flexed my knees, and shot, flicking my wrist like Brett McGrew.

The ball hit the rim and bounced straight back. About knocked me over.

My cousin Bragger chased it into the bleachers.

"Your aim's good," he said, "but you need a little more arc." He curled one hand up over his head, then down, demonstrating arc. "You get that, Kirby, you'll be a starter."

"Right."

"Seriously."

"They have this rule, Bragger. To be a starter, you actually have to be on the team. And I'm not going out for basketball, remember?"

"That's what you keep saying." He twirled the ball in his hands. "Who holds the NBA record for most points in a single game?"

"You already know."

"I forgot."

I rolled my eyes. "Wilt Chamberlain. One hundred points against the Knicks. March 2, 1962."

"How many rebounds did Brett McGrew pull down in the NCAA championship game his senior year?"

"Twenty-four," I said. "Why?"

He shrugged. "You love basketball, Kirby."

"I can't play basketball, Bragger. And I don't need an after-school athletics program to prove it."

He shrugged again. "Can't be a hero if you're afraid of looking stupid."

"No problem then, because I don't want to be a hero."

"Sure you do, Kirby. Everybody does. Down deep inside, everybody wants to be a hero."

"Not me."

Bragger twirled the ball again. "Guess it's up to me to lead the team to victory."

He dribbled in place, charged the basket, and shot. Airball. Bragger didn't care. He ran after it, snagged it as it rolled into the wrestling mats, and lobbed it up over the backboard to me.

I let it bounce right past. Because that's when I heard the growl. Deep, low, and gurgling, like a water heater about to blow. I knew that growl. It was Coach Armstrong. Coach "Iron Man" Mike Armstrong. Our new gym teacher. Favorite saying: "Practice till you puke." Favorite aroma: sweat. Favorite hobby: watching me run extra laps because I couldn't climb a rope