By the final week of September, Fergus had discovered that joining the basketball team didn’t make ordinary school any more interesting.
Mr Sinclair had been talking about fractions for what felt like several hours, although the clock on the classroom wall insisted only thirty-five minutes had passed.
Fergus sat near the middle of the room with his exercise book open and his pencil moving whenever necessary, determined to honour the agreement he had made with his parents even if mathematics currently occupied a distant second place in his thoughts.
Wallace Memorial’s first basketball game was tomorrow.
That knowledge had followed him through every lesson since arriving at school that morning.
He thought about it while reading in English, thought about it during mathematics, and almost missed a question in science because he had been wondering whether Coach McKenzie would actually put him on the court.
“Robertson.” Fergus looked up immediately.
Mr Sinclair stood at the front of the classroom with his arms folded.
“Since the window appears to be providing a more interesting education than I am, perhaps you’d like to give us the answer to question six.” Several students laughed quietly.
Fergus looked down at his page and found the question.
Fortunately, he had completed it before his attention wandered.
“Three-fifths.” Mr Sinclair glanced towards the board before giving a reluctant nod.
“Correct.
Perhaps you can continue performing the remarkable feat of thinking about two things at once.” Arthur, sitting two rows away, covered his mouth to hide a laugh.
Fergus waited until Mr Sinclair turned back towards the board before giving him a rude gesture beneath the desk.
That only made Arthur laugh harder.
The lesson eventually ended, releasing Fergus into a corridor crowded with students moving between classrooms.
Arthur caught up with him almost immediately, while William joined them near the stairs.
“Three-fifths,” Arthur said solemnly.
“Incredible performance under pressure.” Fergus adjusted his bag.
“At least I knew the answer.” “I knew it as well.” “You weren’t asked.” “Exactly.
Perfect record.” William shook his head as they headed towards their next lesson.
“You’re both going to get detention before the season even starts.” The mention of the season immediately redirected the conversation.
“Do you reckon we’re actually good?” Fergus asked.
Arthur looked offended by the question.
“I’m on the team, so obviously.” “I mean compared with everyone else.” That was something Fergus had been wondering about increasingly as the first game approached.
He knew how Wallace Memorial’s players compared with one another after several weeks of training, but he had almost no idea how good the other schools were.
Last year he hadn’t made the team and had paid little attention to the actual competition after being rejected.
Following results would only have reminded him that other boys were playing while he wasn’t.
William had considerably more experience.
“Hard to know,” he said.
“Killigan played some of these schools last year, but not all of them.
Teams change a lot at this age anyway.
Half the good players move up a year group, and suddenly someone who was rubbish gets taller.” Arthur glanced upwards towards him.
“Speaking from experience?” William ignored him.
“There are definitely a few strong schools.
St Cuthbert’s are usually decent, and Boroughmuir were good last year.
I think they finished near the top.” “Who won?” Fergus asked.
“Don’t remember.” Arthur stared at him.
“You can remember the score of a random Cavaliers game from three years ago but not who won the league you actually played in?” “NBA results matter more.” “To you.” “To civilisation.” Their argument carried them most of the way to class.
School continued in much the same fashion for the remainder of the day.
Fergus did his work, spoke with friends whenever teachers allowed it and found himself checking the clock more frequently than usual.
Basketball had become such a large part of his routine that it was sometimes easy to forget most students at Wallace Memorial barely cared about the under-thirteen team.
Tomorrow’s opening game occupied Fergus’s thoughts almost constantly, yet for the majority of his classmates it was simply another school sports fixture.
That changed slightly during lunch.
Word had spread that the season was beginning, and several boys Fergus recognised from tryouts asked who Wallace Memorial was playing first.
Others wanted to know whether Jaime was still the best player or whether the two newcomers from Killigan were any good.
Arthur naturally answered every question as though he had already been appointed team spokesman, while William occasionally corrected the more exaggerated parts of his account.
Fergus mostly listened.
It was strange being included in those conversations.
A year earlier, basketball season had been something happening around him.
He could play at lunch, practise by himself and imagine someday becoming good enough, but when Wallace Memorial played another school, Fergus was simply another student.
Tomorrow he would wear the uniform.
The thought remained exciting no matter how many times it occurred to him.
Their final training session before the opener took place that afternoon, although McKenzie kept it noticeably lighter than usual.
There were no extended suicides or exhausting conditioning circuits.
Instead, the team worked through shooting, defensive rotations, inbound plays and the basic half-court sets McKenzie had introduced over the previous weeks.
Form Shooter hadn’t transformed Fergus’s jumper during the short time he had possessed it, but McKenzie had stopped correcting his mechanics quite as frequently.
His range remained limited, and his actual accuracy varied from session to session, yet his open attempts were beginning to resemble one another.
Fergus considered that progress even if it hadn’t earned him permission to start firing jumpers whenever he wanted.
Near the end of training, McKenzie blew his whistle and directed everyone towards the bench.
“Sit down.
We’re going through the competition before you leave.” The thirteen players gathered around him, some sitting while others remained standing behind the bench.
McKenzie placed his clipboard on his knee and waited until the last conversation stopped.
“Sixteen schools this year, including us.
You play every other school once, which gives us fifteen league games.
No return fixtures, so if you have a terrible night against someone, you don’t get another chance to fix it.” Fergus knew the basic format, but hearing McKenzie explain it made the season suddenly feel more concrete.
Fifteen games.
After spending most of his life playing basketball without anything meaningful attached to the result, fifteen didn’t sound like many.
McKenzie continued.
“Once everyone has played their fifteen, the top eight qualify for the Edinburgh Secondary School Basketball Cup.
From there it’s knockout basketball.
Quarter-final, semi-final, final.
Lose, and your tournament is finished.” Arthur raised a hand.
“Where did Wallace finish last year?” McKenzie’s expression soured slightly.
“Tenth.” Nobody spoke for a moment.
“We went seven and eight,” Merrick added from beside him.
“Still had a chance going into the last couple of games, but we lost both.” Fergus looked towards the captain.
Merrick rarely spoke about the previous season unless somebody asked him directly, but his expression suggested he remembered those final losses rather well.
McKenzie nodded.
“We weren’t terrible last year, despite what some of you might assume from missing the Cup.
We were inconsistent.
We’d play well against a strong side one week and then spend the next game throwing the ball away against somebody we should’ve competed with.
Seven wins wasn’t enough, and we spent the knockout tournament watching from home.” Finn leaned forward with his elbows against his knees.
“How many wins normally gets you in?” “It changes.
Eight might do it in some years, nine usually gives you a much better chance, but I’m not interested in spending March calculating tiebreakers and hoping somebody else loses.” Jaime smiled faintly.
“So win ten.” McKenzie looked towards him.
“Win fifteen if you’re offering.” A few players laughed.
The coach allowed it for a moment before continuing.
“The point is that every game matters.
You don’t get a seven-game series to prove you’re better than someone.
If you turn up half asleep tomorrow and lose by two, that loss stays beside our name for the rest of the season.” That silenced them again.
Fergus liked the format.
There was something simple about it.
Wallace Memorial had fifteen opportunities to prove they belonged among the better schools in Edinburgh, and by the end of those games the table would decide whether their season continued into the Cup.
“What are we aiming for?” William asked.
McKenzie looked around the group.
“Top eight is the minimum.” Merrick nodded immediately.
“We missed it last year,” McKenzie continued.
“I’m not interested in doing that again.
We’ve got returning players who should be better, we’ve added some useful pieces, and I think this group has enough talent to play knockout basketball.
Whether you actually get there depends on what you do over the next fifteen games.” Fergus wondered whether he counted among the useful pieces.
McKenzie’s eyes briefly passed across him, but there was no indication either way.
“Tomorrow we start at home against Dalry Academy.
They finished below us last season, which means absolutely nothing once the ball goes up.
I don’t want anybody walking into this gym thinking we’ve already won because of what happened a year ago.” He turned towards the established starters.
“Reid, Finn, Douglas, Campbell, Fletcher.
You’re starting.” Nobody appeared surprised.
Arthur tried to hide his satisfaction and failed completely.
McKenzie then looked towards the remaining eight players.
“The rest of you need to stay ready.
I don’t substitute according to some lovely little schedule where everybody gets equal minutes.
If I need size, I’ll use size.
If I need shooting, I’ll use shooting.
If someone isn’t defending, I’ll find somebody who will.” Fergus felt his attention sharpen at the final sentence.
That was his opening.
McKenzie had already told him that defence could earn him minutes, and nothing during the previous weeks had changed that assessment.
Fergus wasn’t going to replace Arthur as the team’s primary ball handler, and nobody needed him taking Finn’s shots.
His route onto the court was much narrower.
Defend whoever McKenzie put in front of him.
Run.
Don’t make stupid mistakes.
Finish the simple chances.
For once, Fergus didn’t feel embarrassed by the simplicity of his role.
Practice ended shortly afterwards.
Arthur and William walked part of the way home with Fergus, and conversation inevitably returned to tomorrow’s game.
“I’m scoring twenty,” Arthur announced.
William laughed.
“You realise McKenzie can bench you, right?” “Why would he bench his best player?” “Jaime might stab you before halftime if you call yourself that in front of him.” Arthur considered the possibility.
“Good point.
I’ll wait until after I score twenty.” Fergus smiled as they crossed the road.
“Have you ever actually scored twenty in a proper game?” Arthur became suspiciously quiet.
William immediately noticed.
“That’s a no.” “I’ve been close.” “How close?” “That’s not important.” “Ten?” “More than ten.” “Twelve?” Arthur shoved him lightly.
“Go away.” Their argument continued until the route separated them, leaving Fergus to walk the final stretch alone.
He expected the System to appear at some point.
The first official game of his life seemed exactly like the sort of event that might trigger a mission, yet nothing happened.
There was no notification promising Hooper Coins for scoring a certain number of points or a random skill for helping Wallace Memorial win.
Fergus was strangely relieved.
Tomorrow already mattered without the System giving him another reason.
At home, Diane made sure his uniform was ready while Hamish checked the information sheet twice to confirm the game time.
Both intended to attend if work allowed it, although Diane warned that there was always a chance the hospital could interfere with her plans.
Angus had already decided Wallace Memorial were going to win despite knowing absolutely nothing about Dalry Academy.
Fergus completed his homework before touching a basketball.
That required more discipline than any conditioning drill McKenzie had given him.
Later that evening, he spent a short period outside working through simple stationary dribbles before coming inside and going through the shooting motion Form Shooter had begun teaching him.
There was no frantic last-minute training session and no attempt to squeeze an entire summer’s improvement into the final evening.
Fergus had done the work he could do.
By nine o’clock, he was in bed.
Sleep proved harder.
Fergus stared towards the ceiling and thought about the fifteen-game season ahead.
Somewhere across Edinburgh were fifteen other school teams beginning with exactly the same record Wallace Memorial possessed.
0 – 0.
Some would eventually separate themselves near the top of the table, while others would fall away.
Eight would earn the opportunity to compete for the Edinburgh Secondary School Basketball Cup, and eight would finish their seasons after the league schedule.
Last year, Wallace Memorial had been one of the eight left out.
This year, McKenzie expected something different.
Fergus did too.
He wasn’t thinking about the NBA as he eventually closed his eyes, nor was he wondering what his career might look like years from now.
For once, the enormous dream that had driven him for so long had shrunk into something much closer and more immediate.
Tomorrow, Fergus Robertson was going to put on a Wallace Memorial uniform and sit on the bench for the first game of the season.
Then he was going to wait for Coach McKenzie to call his name.