By Thursday afternoon, Fergus had discovered that twenty press-ups were considerably more difficult when every one of them had to be done properly.
On Tuesday night, after returning home from his conversation with McKenzie, he had cleared enough space beside his bed to begin immediately.
The squats had been easy enough, while the lunges had produced an unexpected burning through his thighs by the final few repetitions, but the press-ups had exposed him rather quickly.
The first ten had gone smoothly.
By fifteen, his arms had begun trembling, and somewhere around eighteen he had caught himself shortening the distance towards the floor because his body had apparently decided that cheating by a few inches was preferable to admitting weakness.
He had finished all twenty, rested, and resisted the temptation to immediately attempt another set.
Wednesday had been much the same, and Fergus was quietly proud that he hadn’t increased the number simply because twenty sounded unimpressive.
McKenzie had been unusually clear about that.
Twenty proper repetitions were worth more than fifty terrible ones, and there was no prize for exhausting himself when he already had basketball training several times each week.
Diane had enthusiastically agreed when Fergus told her what McKenzie recommended, although her approval had come with another reminder about eating properly and sleeping enough.
By Thursday, his chest and upper arms carried a faint soreness that made him want to test them whenever he moved, which was why he was rubbing the back of his left arm while sitting on the lowest row of the gym’s small bleachers before practice.
“You keep doing that,” Callum Fraser observed from beside him.
Fergus lowered his hand and insisted he didn’t, only for Callum to point out that he’d watched him do it four times since sitting down.
Admitting his arms were sore from twenty press-ups earned Fergus a look that he immediately interpreted as judgement, although Callum claimed he’d said nothing.
That was technically true, but the slight movement at the corner of his mouth said enough, and Fergus found himself defending the fact that they had been proper press-ups before Callum could even make the joke.
They still had several minutes before practice began, and most of the team had already drifted into the gym.
Arthur and William were shooting at the opposite basket while Finn and Jaime disputed whether Finn’s latest attempt had clipped the side of the backboard.
Merrick had yet to arrive, leaving Callum with no immediate reason to join the big men around the paint, so he remained beside Fergus with a basketball trapped between his trainers.
Fergus knew Callum in the strange, incomplete way he knew several of his teammates.
They had spent hours in the same gym, guarded each other in drills and sat on the same bench during games, yet most of their conversations had lasted less than a minute.
Callum was a first-year, although nobody looking at them side by side would have guessed they were the same age.
He was several inches taller than Fergus and had a naturally sturdier build, which had immediately placed him among Wallace’s interior players.
He wasn’t as broad or experienced as Merrick and lacked William’s versatility, leaving most of his game minutes dependent upon McKenzie needing to rest his starting centre.
Fergus had never heard him complain about that role, but he had noticed that Callum watched games with the same restless attention as every other reserve waiting to hear his name.
Callum eventually shifted the conversation towards the league table Merrick had posted in the team group chat the previous night.
Arthur had subsequently reposted it, Jaime had sent another copy for reasons nobody understood, and Arthur had somehow decided everyone needed to see it again before school that morning.
Callum had apparently solved the problem by muting him.
“Third looks good, though,” Callum said, rocking the basketball beneath one foot.
“Tied third,” Fergus corrected.
Callum turned slowly towards him.
“You know, you sounded exactly like McKenzie there.” Fergus couldn’t really argue with that, especially because the distinction had been the first thing he’d noticed himself.
Wallace’s 2 – 1 record looked excellent compared with where the team had spent much of the previous season, but the table was crowded immediately beneath the two unbeaten schools.
St Francis and Boroughmuir were both 3 – 0, while Wallace shared the next record with St Cuthbert’s, George Watson’s, Portobello, Leith and Craigmount.
Six schools had won two of their opening three games, meaning third place and eighth place were separated by little more than whatever tiebreakers the league happened to apply.
Callum was considerably less interested in ruining the pleasure of seeing Wallace near the top.
“We’re still in a Cup place.
That’s what matters.” “After three games.” “There he is again.
Coach Robertson.” Fergus laughed and took the basketball when Callum rolled it towards him.
“I’m just saying one loss could move us down loads.” “And one win could keep us up there.
Liberton are one and two, aren’t they?” “Yeah.
Thirteenth.” Callum raised an eyebrow.
“You memorised the table?” “No.” “You knew exactly where they were.” “Because we’re playing them tomorrow.” “Right.” Callum paused before adding, “Still weird.” Fergus ignored him and bounced the ball lightly between his hands.
He knew very little about Liberton beyond the record and what he’d heard in passing from the returning players.
They had won one of their opening three games, which put them among the group below Wallace rather than at the bottom with the two winless schools.
Callum wondered whether they were actually any good, and when Fergus admitted he had no idea, he seemed genuinely disappointed that the teammate who voluntarily did basketball drills before school hadn’t somehow conducted private scouting.
“Arthur told you about that, didn’t he?” “Arthur tells everyone everything.” “I’m going to kill him.” “Get in line.” The easy conversation continued until Callum mentioned that beating Liberton would put Wallace at 3 – 1.
There was more enthusiasm in his voice than Fergus expected from someone who rarely talked about the standings, and when Fergus asked whether he cared that much about reaching the Cup, Callum gave him a puzzled look as though the answer should have been obvious.
“Of course I do.
I just don’t play enough to spend all day talking about it.” That made Fergus hesitate.
Callum didn’t sound bitter, but there was enough truth behind the words to make the difference between their situations obvious.
Both were newcomers to the team, and both had begun the season on the bench, yet Fergus’s defensive ability had already earned him meaningful minutes.
He had played late against Dalry and had been on the floor for the final possession against St Cuthbert’s.
Callum’s opportunities were narrower because Merrick occupied his natural position, while William could slide inside whenever McKenzie wanted a smaller, quicker lineup.
When Fergus tried arguing that McKenzie only played him because he wanted defence, Callum dryly replied that McKenzie only played him when he wanted someone tall, which was apparently his specialist basketball skill.
“Could be worse,” Fergus said.
“At least being tall is useful.” “Easy for you to say.
Your role involves actually doing things.” “Standing near the basket is doing something.” Callum stared at him for a moment before nodding solemnly.
“Thank you, Robertson.
You’ve completely changed how I see basketball.” Fergus was still laughing when McKenzie’s whistle sounded across the gym and ordered everyone onto the baseline.
Callum rose beside him, glanced towards the court and remarked that apparently his role had now expanded to include running as well.
Practice moved quickly enough that Fergus had little opportunity to think about anything else.
McKenzie opened with conditioning but kept the volume lower than Tuesday, clearly conscious that they had an away game the following evening.
Short sprint sets led into transition drills, then defensive work, and Fergus quickly discovered that adding his small strength routine at home wasn’t entirely free.
His legs weren’t truly tired from twenty squats and lunges, but there was enough lingering heaviness to remind him that every extra piece of training still had to fit around basketball rather than simply being piled on top of everything else.
Screen navigation appeared again without becoming the centrepiece of his session.
That alone showed Fergus how much had changed over the previous week.
McKenzie no longer stopped every few possessions to adjust his angle or tell him he’d recognised the screener too late.
Fergus was seeing actions earlier now, noticing when the ball-handler subtly slowed to allow a teammate into position and adjusting before the screen became unavoidable.
Merrick still caught him once.
Fergus recognised the screen but misjudged how much space he needed to slip over the top.
Merrick’s shoulder caught him firmly enough to halt his momentum, and Finn curled towards the middle before Fergus could recover.
McKenzie merely called, “Too late, Robertson,” while Finn knocked down the resulting jumper.
Fergus didn’t need a longer explanation.
Pick Dodger had improved his understanding, but it hadn’t changed the underlying reality that Merrick was considerably heavier than him.
The solution wasn’t to somehow withstand a clean collision; it was to stop allowing one.
On the next similar action Fergus moved earlier, he brushed past Merrick rather than striking him squarely and remained attached closely enough that Finn was forced to give the ball up.
McKenzie said nothing that time, which Fergus had learned could be its own form of approval.
After nearly forty minutes, the whistle brought everyone towards the sideline.
Fergus joined the semicircle around McKenzie with sweat darkening the back of his shirt, while Callum settled beside him and rested his forearms against his knees.
McKenzie waited for the last few conversations to disappear before turning towards the whiteboard.
“Tomorrow we’re at Liberton High.
They’re one and two, and before anybody starts getting comfortable because you’ve seen the table, understand something.
I’m not going to stand here and pretend Liberton are St Francis.
They’re not.
We should go there expecting to win.
There’s a difference between expecting to win and believing the win belongs to you before the ball goes up.” That immediately captured Fergus’s attention.
McKenzie rarely spoke so directly about Wallace being better than an opponent, but there was no arrogance in the way he said it.
It sounded more like a responsibility.
“We’re away.
It’s their gym, their crowd and their routines.
Fine.
None of those things are an excuse for losing to a team below us when we’re trying to qualify for the knockout tournament.
If we’re serious about finishing in the top eight, these are the games we have to take care of.” McKenzie turned towards the whiteboard and wrote St Francis and Boroughmuir at the top with their matching 3 – 0 records.
Wallace came beneath them at 2 – 1, but instead of continuing downward he wrote St Cuthbert’s, George Watson’s, Portobello, Leith and Craigmount alongside Wallace, giving each the same record.
Seeing the standings reduced to those eight names made the situation look different.
Finn pointed out that Wallace were still third, which earned an immediate shake of McKenzie’s head.
“We’re tied with five teams behind two unbeaten ones.
We’ve played three games.
Nobody in this gym has qualified for anything.” He tapped Wallace’s name with the marker.
“If Liberton beat us tomorrow, they’re two and two, and we’re two and two.
Depending on the other results, suddenly we’re sitting in the middle of a group fighting over the same few places.
That’s how quickly this changes.” Fergus glanced briefly towards Callum, remembering their conversation only minutes earlier.
Third place had looked reassuring on a table.
Written beside five identical records, it looked considerably less secure.
McKenzie continued without raising his voice.
“You don’t reach the knockout tournament by only caring when St Francis are on the other side or when there’s some six-foot kid everyone wants to talk about.
You qualify by winning enough games over fifteen weeks.
Last year this team finished seven and eight because we left ourselves needing results at the end.
We lost games earlier in the season that we were capable of winning, then spent the last couple of weeks worrying about what everyone else needed to do.” The returning players became noticeably quieter.
Jaime’s expression tightened, while Merrick stared at the board with his arms folded.
Fergus hadn’t been part of Wallace’s previous season, but he knew the outline well enough.
They had entered their final two games with qualification still possible, lost both and finished tenth.
“I don’t want calculations in week fifteen,” McKenzie said.
“I don’t want us hoping another school loses because we couldn’t handle our own business.
Win the games we’re capable of winning and the table will take care of itself.
Tomorrow is one of those games.” There was no dramatic response from the team, but Fergus felt the difference in how he thought about Friday.
St Francis had carried obvious importance because they were champions.
St Cuthbert’s had become personal once Edric appeared and the game turned into a fight that lasted until the final five seconds.
Liberton offered none of that.
There was no intimidating reputation, no particular rival and no player everyone had spent the week discussing.
Perhaps that was McKenzie’s point.
The games without extra excitement counted exactly the same.
McKenzie wiped part of the board and shifted into the practical preparation.
Liberton preferred a slower half-court game, weren’t especially big and relied heavily on their guards getting downhill.
Their strongest trait was apparently persistence around the glass; they sent bodies after missed shots and frequently earned second possessions because opponents relaxed after forcing the first miss.
“So tomorrow isn’t about doing anything clever,” McKenzie explained as he sketched the basic spacing Liberton preferred.
“Stay in front of the ball, help when you’re supposed to help and finish the possession with the rebound.
Offensively, move it.
If I see four people standing around while one of you spends fifteen seconds trying to prove you can beat your man, you’re coming to sit beside me.” His eyes drifted towards Jaime.
He noticed immediately.
“Why are you looking at me?” The laughter that followed briefly broke the seriousness, although McKenzie merely claimed there was no particular reason before sending them back onto the floor.
The remainder of practice was built around exactly what he’d described.
Wallace worked on containing penetration without collapsing unnecessarily towards the ball, with weak-side defenders dropping only far enough to discourage the drive before recovering to their assignments.
Fergus spent several possessions matched against Arthur, whose speed continued to make him one of the hardest players on the roster to contain.
Arthur beat him cleanly once and was forced sideways twice before trying to cross back towards the middle on their fourth possession.
The ball travelled slightly farther from Arthur’s body during the crossover than he intended.
Fergus recognised the opportunity immediately.
Cookie Thief didn’t make his arm move or somehow place the ball in his hands.
What it provided was a clearer understanding of the brief instant when an opponent actively dribbling had allowed the ball to become vulnerable.
Arthur’s hand had left it, the bounce was exposed, and Fergus had enough position to attack without lunging wildly out of his stance.
He reached and caught the ball with his fingertips.
It skipped away from Arthur, but not far enough.
Arthur recovered before Fergus could secure possession, protected the ball with his body and reset the possession while giving Fergus an annoyed look.
“Nearly,” he muttered.
Fergus settled back into his stance rather than answering.
The play hadn’t become a steal simply because he’d recognised the right moment.
His timing had been good enough to disrupt the dribble but not good enough to win possession, and Arthur immediately adjusted by keeping the ball tighter whenever Fergus came within reach.
That, Fergus suspected, was going to be another part of learning the skill.
Opponents adapted too.
Callum received a longer stretch during the final scrimmage when McKenzie rested Merrick, and Fergus found himself paying more attention after their earlier conversation.
Callum wasn’t spectacular, but he understood what McKenzie wanted from him.
He set solid screens, occupied space around the paint and didn’t chase the ball unnecessarily.
More importantly for the Liberton preparation, he secured two defensive rebounds within three possessions.
On the second, William forced Jaime into an awkward jumper, and Callum established position before the ball reached the rim, keeping Merrick behind him and collecting the rebound firmly with both hands.
“Good, Fraser!
Finish the possession!” McKenzie shouted.
Callum immediately found Arthur with the outlet pass and started running the floor.
As Fergus moved alongside him, their eyes met briefly, and Callum couldn’t hide his grin.
Apparently, standing near the basket did involve doing something.
McKenzie stopped the final scrimmage several times whenever Wallace became careless.
Finn threw a lazy pass that would have been intercepted in a game.
Jaime held the ball too long on another possession.
Fergus made his own mistake when he abandoned the corner to help William against a drive that William already had under control, leaving Arthur open for an easy kick-out jumper.
“Why’d you leave him?” McKenzie asked.
Fergus admitted he’d thought William needed help, only for McKenzie to gesture towards William and ask whether he actually had.
William shook his head, and McKenzie sent everyone back into position with a reminder that trusting teammates was part of defence.
Helping when nobody needed help simply created a different problem.
Fergus stayed home on the next possession.
Practice finally ended shortly after five.
McKenzie gathered everyone once more to confirm the arrangements for Friday, including when they needed to arrive at Wallace, what time the team bus would leave and the fact that anybody arriving after that time could discover for themselves how little sympathy a departing bus possessed.
As the group headed towards the changing rooms, Callum fell into step beside Fergus and nodded towards the whiteboard, where Wallace’s name still sat among the crowded collection of 2 – 1 teams.
“We’re tied third,” Callum said.
Fergus looked at him, recognising his own earlier correction being thrown back at him.
“With five other teams.” Callum sighed.
“And there he is again.” Fergus laughed as they continued towards the changing rooms.
The standings were still something worth feeling good about.
Wallace had won two of its first three games, including a difficult one against St Cuthbert’s, and sat inside the eight places that would eventually advance to the knockout tournament.
But Fergus understood the table differently now.
Their position wasn’t something they possessed.
It was something they had to keep earning every Friday.
Tomorrow there would be no defending champions waiting for them and no Giant of Killigan standing beneath the basket.
Liberton were 1 – 2, playing at home and sitting several places below Wallace.
On paper, Wallace were supposed to beat them.
McKenzie hadn’t tried to pretend otherwise.
What he had made equally clear was that being supposed to win meant nothing unless Wallace actually did it.
Fifteen league games gave them only fifteen opportunities to build the record they needed.
A dramatic win at the buzzer counted once.
A comfortable win counted once.
Beating a championship contender counted once, and beating a struggling team counted once.
If Wallace wanted to be playing when the knockout tournament arrived, they couldn’t afford to decide that only the exciting games mattered.
Friday was another chance to move forward.
They needed to take care of business.