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-12- Passing Drills

Hannah "Birdie" Morrison

I shove open the door to the gym, the guys practice has already been going on for about a half an hour but I wanted to get a couple more laps in around the track after my own practice. I drop my gym bag by the bleachers and wave to my dad as he stands on the side of the court, his whistle in his mouth. He waves me over.

I watch as he blows the whistle, the line of guys sprinting across the width of the court, shoes squealing against the boards as they reach the black line on the other side before hurtling themselves back to where they started. I'm not surprised that Holt beats everyone. I am however surprised that he beats everyone else by several seconds.

"He's fast." I comment as I stand beside my dad.

"He flies." He says to me in admiration before shouting at the guys. "What's the matter with all of you? Why do I have one guy that none of you can catch?! Run faster! Again!"

I notice that Holt is staring down at the ground, his body ridged as my dad yells. But as soon as the whistle blows, he's gone. Just a blur.

"AGAIN!" My dad shouts.

All the guys are fatiguing, they're complaining. I can hear them mumble, some of them slow to a run as they reach the far side before turning back around. But Holt is still sprinting like his life depends on it.

"Get some water, grab a partner and a ball." My dad orders.

My dad and I stand side by side, watching with curiosity. All the guys take their time, doing what my dad has asked. They talk to one another, no doubt complaining. Ian especially takes his time, dragging his feet as he slumbers over to where the water bottles were all discarded by the bleachers. But not Holt, he still moves like they haven't just done round after round of sprints. He picks up a ball and stands on the black line, head down, chest heaving.

"Get moving!" My dad bellows.

My eyes are still studying Holt and I see him jump. Another minute passes and everyone is still milling about, drinking their waters, not listening. A couple of guys take up position on the line by Holt, partnering up with each other. Holt remains just as he has been.

"Anyone not on the line is going to be doing a mile after practice!" My dad shouts.

It's effective, everyone but Ian is on the line in seconds. He's wiping his head off with a towel, tossing it on the ground as he locates who his partner is. He's taking so long, the only one left is Holt.

I hear him muttered,"great".

Ian hasn't taken a liking to Holt ever since the day I invited him to play with us and Holt kept leaving Ian in the dust. Ian's a great player, one of the best on my Dad's team, but he's arrogant. And he's got nothing on Holt.

"Ian, I'll make it two miles just for you!" My dad tells him.

He grumbles something inaudible, glaring at Holt who is still staring at the ground.

"Passing drills, full court, jog the sides. Go!"

Holt's already moving, the ball like an extension of his hand as he starts running down the court. He tips his head, looking for Ian, who's barely jogging, several feet behind where he should be.

I can tell Ian's driving my dad nuts today.

"The bench is calling your name Ian!" My dad shouts.

And finally Ian shoots forward, not wanting to spend the season benched. My dad usually ends up threatening him with it quite often. He's had to follow through on the threat once or twice also, pulling him from some major games last season. I'm not sure who threw a bigger fit, Ian or his dad.

Holt sends the ball flying across the court, perfectly into Ian's hands. Ian takes a couple steps and launches it. If he has tried to send it to Holt, he has terrible aim, which I know is not true.

"Knock it off Ian!" My dad scolds.

Holt runs after the ball, bringing it and himself back to the line he was on before passing it one last time to Ian. Another set of guys take off, doing the same drill but cooperating. Ian walks back, Holt jogs.

"Keep an eye on these idiots would ya? I'll be right back." My dad says, heading out of the gym without waiting for me to answer.

I watch another pair start, passing the ball with force back and forth as they run. But my eyes keep wanting to drift to Holt. He stands with his head down as he waits for his turn again. I've decided that I like Holt, what little I know of him. He's quiet and reserved and I've noticed he has some quirks but he seems kind and he's a hell of a player.