Hoops by Walter Dean Myers (English) Paperback Book

Publisher Description

We are delighted to be reissuing this popular basketball title by two-time Newbery Honor award winner and first Printz award winner Walter Dean Myers. Walter Dean Myers's books are successful in both the school and library market as well as in trade. Reissued with new cover art and new back matter content- Q&A with the author, Q&A with John Ballard, the first chapter of Myers's novel, On A Clear Day (Fall 2014), and an excerpt from 145th Street.By the groundbreaking author of the award-winning Monster-a visionary who influenced and inspired a generation-this fast-paced and poignant story reveals the fierce underworld of sports.All eyes are on seventeen-year-old Lonnie Jackson while he practices with his team for a city-wide basketball Tournament of Champions. His coach, Cal, knows Lonnie has what it takes to be aprobasketballplayer, but warns him about giving in to the pressure. Cal knows because he, too, once had the chance-but sold out.As thetournament nears, Lonnie learns that some heavy bettors want Cal to keep him on the bench so that the team will lose the championship. As the last seconds of the game tick away, Lonnie and Cal must make a decision. Are they willing to blow the chance of a lifetime?An ALA-YALSA Best Book for Young AdultsAWARDS FOR WALTER DEAN MYERS-New York Times Bestselling Author3-Time National Book Award FinalistMichael L. Printz Award5 Coretta Scott King Awards2 Newbery HonorsNational Ambassador for Young People's Literature (2012-2013)Margaret A. Edwards Award for Lifetime AchievementChildren's Literature Legacy Award

Excerpt from Book

One of the things my father used to say was how his days were piling up on him. When I told him I didn''t know what that meant, he said one day I would. "Right now," he said, "you got your days filled up with playing and going to school. Then after a while you gonna start dreaming about this and that, and you gonna lay your days out in front of yourself like an imaginary road. That''s what I did." "Then what happened?" I asked. "Then they started piling up on me," he said. He looked away and didn''t say anything else, and I knew the conversation was over. When he looked away like that, there wasn''t any use to keep on talking. After he split, I stayed around the house a lot. I did most of the things I was supposed to do, like making the school scene and helping out around the house. I got a little job at the Grant, a little run-down hotel, when I got to be sixteen. That was really okay. I could earn a few bucks, and I could crash there when my moms got on my back too much. By my senior year she was on my back just about all the time, too. Something had come up between us that put an edge on everything we did. It wasn''t anything I could really lay out and say, "Hey, there it is," as much as it was a feeling. I''d be sitting in the kitchen eating and she''d come in and make some remark about how late I was staying out or something, and I just wouldn''t want to hear it. So I''d finish eating as soon as I could and then bust over to the Grant to spend the night there and cool out. When I thought about it, I knew it wasn''t so much that I had changed, or even that she had changed, but the situation was different than it had been, and we couldn''t talk about it. When I was younger, I used to tell myself I was going to do this or do that and I believed it. Now I didn''t know. For a long time Moms hung on to that old stuff, about me going to college and making something of myself. When I would lay in bed at the Grant, waiting for the next day to roll around, I was also waiting for something to happen, something to change my life. It was like I was running in a marathon and suddenly forgot where the finish line was. But I knew I still had a place to get to, even if I couldn''t see it, and I knew I was scared to stop running. All along, though, I had my game. My game was my fame, and I knew it was together. From the first time I played basketball in grade school I was good. I was good, but I was short then. Some of the older guys used to call me runt. "You got a sweet game for a kid, runt," they''d say. I was always on the court practicing, trying to get my game more together. I used to imagine being the shortest guy in the NBA and scoring the winning basket in the championship. Then, when I got to be fifteen, I started to grow. When my seventeenth birthday came around, I was six three. Now, my game was sweet when I was short, but when I got taller, it was really nice. I played ball just about every day for about three years straight until near the end of my senior year. Then, all of a sudden, I began to go through a whole lot of changes. I was feeling okay, but I just didn''t want to do anything. I''d sit around and try to decide what I wanted to do, and that would take an hour or so, and then, when I decided what I wanted to do, I still might not do it because I just didn''t seem to have the energy. Then, to top things off, sometimes if I did really break out into a hustle and do something, it would get messed up. I wasn''t sure it was me or if things just weren''t going my way. The Scotch is a good example of what I mean. I had had some words with my moms after I had left a tea bag in the sink. "What''s the matter?" she said with her hands on her hips. "Your arm so bad off you can''t reach over there and put the tea bag in the garbage?" I didn''t say nothing. "You know that tea bag is going to leave a stain and you''re not going to clean it." "I''ll put it in the garbage," I said. "Oh, no, Mr. Jackson," she said in this high voice. "Please let your servant do it." Then she snatched up the tea bag and put it in the garbage. "So why didn''t you just do that in the first place?" I asked. "Why didn''t I do that in the first place?" She bent over from the waist and looked up at me. "Who do you think I am, boy? I''m your mother, not your servant!" I listened to that until she got tired of running it; then I split on over to the Grant. I couldn''t believe all that flap over a tea bag. I was pretty mad by the time 1 got to the hotel. I got the keys and went up into one of the empty rooms on the third floor and just sat in the window. I looked over towards the liquor store to see if I could see the clock. I couldn''t, and I started to turn away. But something wasn''t right. "When I looked again, I could see the guy that ran the store standing close up against the shelves, and the clerk was standing right next to him. It looked like there were two other guys in there, too. One of them was a guy who delivered liquor to the store, and the other guy I didn''t recognize, but I saw he had his hand in his jacket pocket. That''s when I realized the store was being held up. Now the truck with the booze to be delivered is outside in the street and the driver is inside being stuck up, which gave me an idea. I busted down the stairs and into the street. I look into the liquor store, and I see that the guy with his hand in his pocket and a third guy I hadn''t seen from the window are making everybody go into the back. I go over to the truck, open the back, and there''s a case of Johnnie Walker close enough to grab. I look around to see if anybody is checking me out, but the only people on the block are some kids. I cop the case of Scotch and hightail it back into the Grant and up to my room. I figure I can get at least five dollars a bottle for the Scotch, and there are twelve bottles to a case. I''m feeling pretty good about the whole thing by the time I get the case under the bed. I go back to the window. There''s this young brother up on the truck, and I figure he''s going to cop, too. But instead of copping a case of something like I did, he takes a padlock off the truck and throws it to another kid. This kid runs up to the liquor store and puts the padlock on the door. One of the guys inside the store sees what is going on and runs over to the door, but it''s too late. The kid has locked them all inside. Then about four or five other kids start unloading the truck. Mean

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