Ellen Hartman - The Long Shot

She trotted down the driveway and across the grass, into Henry’s yard. Inside the garage she spotted a bin of sports equipment and grabbed a basketball from the top.

Just then, her mom, Carole, opened the front door. She was wearing a red silk suit—which meant this must be one of her volunteer days. After retiring from her law practice several years ago, Carole kept herself busy with a full volunteer schedule. She and Henry walked down the steps and watched as Julia dribbled and shot the basketball at the hoop their dad had installed over the garage for Geoff’s seventh birthday.

The ball missed the basket, falling far short. Julia grabbed it again and tried for a layup, but she was too far under the basket and she missed once more. The ball hit the rim and dropped fast, banging her on the head. Her mom’s quiet “Oh, dear” made Julia feel foolish and compounded her irritation.

“Come on!” she said as she kicked the ball away from her feet. “You’re round. The hoop is round. Why won’t you just go in?”

“Maybe because you’re a terrible basketball player, Coach Bradley.”

“Henry, don’t tease your sister,” Carole said.

Julia rubbed her head as her brother dug the ball out from under the bushes and sent it back to her with an easy bounce pass.

“The school district cut all the sports today,” she said. “Austerity budget.”

“I’m so sorry,” her mom said.

Julia shot the ball a third time, and it hit high on the backboard before bouncing back toward her. “Not to worry. I made a little bet with the principal so he’ll get the boosters to pay for the season.”

Henry whistled. “Of course you did. Let me guess. He taunted you.”

“Laughed at me.”

“That’s straight out of my playbook circa fifth grade. A little mocking laughter and you’ll take any dare.”

“Julia—”

“I know, Mom. It was dumb and I shouldn’t lose my temper. I’m planning to work on that after I turn thirty-five.” Which gave her three more years to knock heads with Ty. Maybe she’d get him trained to her will before she had to give up her temper.

Henry caught the ball when she passed it to him. He tossed it and it swished through the net.

Julia eyed him thoughtfully. He was about six foot, and for a thirty-four-year-old guy with a desk job, he was in great shape.

“Want to be my assistant coach?” she asked. “The position is up for grabs, and all you have to do is whip my girls into shape so they make the state tournament.”

“That’s your bet?” Even her mom’s professional-grade optimism in her children’s skills was shaken.

“If I can find the right assistant, we’ll make it.” She fist-bumped Henry’s shoulder, reminding him that he was her big brother and she had total faith in him. “Some generous, kind person who’s manly and macho and good at sports.”

He moved a few inches away. “That shot was a fluke,” he protested.

“Maybe not. Maybe God really did send a miracle to help me win this bet. Shoot again and we’ll see.”

Henry picked up the ball and squinted at the basket. “This is not a bet, Julia. We haven’t agreed to terms.”

He shot and the ball slid easily through the hoop.

“Another fluke.” He looked panicked. “Mom, you heard me say it wasn’t a bet.”

Carole said, “Your sister wouldn’t trap you like that.”

“She made me donate one hundred dollars to her uniform fund last year after she held her breath longer than me underwater at the beach.” He kicked the side of Julia’s shoe. “Geoff and I know she cheated.”

“That accusation was never proven.”

Julia settled on the bottom step of the porch, her mom two steps above her and Henry next to her.

“You don’t have time to coach this semester anyway,” Carole said. She turned to Julia. “Your brother is leading a seminar at the library about estate planning and charitable gifts. We’re hoping to secure some new gifts to shore up our funding.”

Julia sniffed. “He sucks at basketball anyway.”

“No one else on the faculty wants to help?” Henry asked.

“I’ve reached out to people in the past, but everyone is pulled so thin.”

“What about a parent from the team?” her mom inquired. “Or an aunt or uncle or something?”

“I asked last year and didn’t get any interest. I can probably find someone who’d be a warm body at practice, but I need an expert—a real basketball genius. With no budget, this expert also really has to be an angel.”

Henry stretched out his legs. “If you were working at a college, you’d go after the alumni. What about that famous guy from Milton who went to the pros?”

“Deacon Fallon?” Julia said. “The boosters turned the trophy case at school into a shrine to him after he graduated.”

Deacon was her first, most public failure as a guidance counselor. He was a senior during her first year at Milton and had flat out refused to follow her advice to get a college education. His situation had been both painfully complicated—two dead parents, a younger brother in foster care, bad test scores and borderline grades—and desperately simple—an incredible gift for shooting the ball through the hoop and a league full of men willing to make him a millionaire if he’d put on their uniform and play.

“You sure dream big, Henry,” she said. “There’s no way he’d do it, and besides, I wouldn’t know how to start asking him for help. What? Just call him up and invite him to coach?”

“Or maybe he’d donate money so you could hire someone. For our donors, we look at their existing relationship with the school. Does he come back? Does Fallon give money? Is he already doing stuff for the boys’ team?”

“As far as I know, he turns down all their invites. He sends a check once a year but he earmarks it for the general athletic fund, so it gets split among all the sports.”

A brief silence followed.

“That doesn’t sound promising,” her mom said.

“‘Not promising’ is putting it nicely. It also doesn’t sound as if Deacon is your miracle.” Henry stood and grabbed the rolled awnings. “I’m taking these to the garage. Be right back.”

Julia scuffed the toe of her black pump in the grass. “Rubbing Deacon Fallon, or even just his check, in Ty’s face would have been so satisfying.”

Their mother scooted down one step so they were sitting side by side. “How much of this bet is about the team and how much is about you hating your principal?”

Julia winced. Their mom knew her too well. “The bet is personal, but the girls deserve a team. Win or lose, at least I got them one last season.”

“And what have you gotten?”

“To do my job.”

“You’re a guidance counselor, not a coach.”

“My job is helping kids. Guiding them. Connecting them with resources for them to find out what they need to succeed. I spend so much of my time tracking standardized test scores, fiddling with the district scheduling software and filing all the paperwork I generate. Every year I drown a little deeper in administrative stuff. The team is where I do real work, you know?”

“Things certainly have changed since your dad was working in the schools.”

“Did he ever think about quitting? Doing something different?”

Her mom stroked her hair. “You’re not your dad, Julia.”

“That’s for sure.” Her father had died when she was ten and at the funeral so many people told stories of how he’d influenced their lives that she decided right then to be a guidance counselor. But it felt so futile most of the time. One of the students her dad had counseled recently endowed an addition to the Jericho High School library in her dad’s name. She wasn’t looking for that kind of acknowledgment. She just wanted to help the kids.