The Million Dollar Shot: Chapters 1–8

As the designated shooter, I wasn’t allowed to touch the ball until the end. The shooter’s job in this drill is to move without the ball and try to get open so one of your teammates can pass it to you.

I heard the guys snickering as we filed into the locker room. Mr. lanucci slapped me on the back and said, “Nice try, Eddie. You’ll sink it next time.”

I was shooting and sulking when this African-American girl I’d never seen before walked over.

Casually, Annie sank a shot from the top of the key as if it were a layup.

With Annie, we would start talking about something like soccer and the next minute we’d be talking about rowdy soccer fans in Europe.

It was probably the wrong thing to say. But the words spilled out of my mouth and I couldn’t put them back in. Ty flushed and bunched up his fist like he was going to slug me.

Our trailer is tiny, even for a trailer, so Mom and I were bumping into each other as we rushed around trying to brush our teeth, dress, and eat breakfast. I wasn’t complaining, but Mom kept saying this is no place for civilized people to live.

“Hey, are you and me goin’ out?” I blurted as the bus pulled out of the trailer park.
“You and Z,” she corrected.

Mom still has the letter she got from Mr. Finkle:
Dear Mrs. Rebecca Ball:
Thank you for your recent snack food submission.

She hadn’t read the newsletter. I told her about the Million Dollar Shot Contest Finkle Foods was sponsoring.
“Come on,” she scoffed. “Nobody really wins those things.”

I don’t think there’s any meat in a Finkle, but she won’t eat them anyway because of all the chemicals and preservatives.

I was about to start another poem when Annie noticed some tiny letters at the bottom of the newsletter:
Contest is void where prohibited.
Employees, their families, and associates of Finkle Foods are ineligible.

I was about to start another poem when Annie noticed some tiny letters at the bottom of the newsletter:
Contest is void where prohibited.
Employees, their families, and associates of Finkle Foods are ineligible.

“What are you two doing home so early?” I asked.
“We got downsized,” Mom replied.

Once I started bawling, that set Annie off. She buried her head in her dad’s shoulder and the two of us were crying like babies.

“Oh yeah?” I said defensively. “Well, if you think you’re so smart, let’s see you come up with something better.”

She handed me the pad. This is what it said:
How could the Pilgrims e’er be contented,
When savory Finkles had not been invented?

It took a moment or two for it to sink in.
“You mean...” I finally stammered.
“You’re the winner, Eddie! You get to take the million dollar shot!..."

“You know,” the guy continued, “just about every poem we received was one of those dreadful rap poems. But yours was so simple, so dignified, and so American. And yet, it sounded almost...British.”

“Come in, Mr. Stokely,’’ Mom said, quickly putting stuff away so the trailer would look more presentable.

I sat in the rickety chair and put up a shot. The ball didn’t even make it halfway to the rim.

"...What are you gonna look at as you shoot?”
“The rim?” I said tentatively.

“What went wrong?”
“I got cocky. I goofed off. Didn’t show up for classes. Didn’t run my laps. Got lazy. I was so sure they were gonna draft me, I was out spending the bonus money I didn’t have yet when I should have been practicing. Then I didn’t get drafted. I coulda been with the Lakers. Instead I wound up with...Finkle.”

The next day after school, I begged Annie to go to the gym to help me practice. Reluctantly, she agreed.

“Well!” Annie said, a big smile on her face. “What’s gotten into you? I like your new work ethic!”
“Your dad is a very good coach,” I replied.