"Who are we playing on Friday, Mr. O?" Rosie asked.
"The Rockford Rockets," my dad replied.
"Are they any good?" asked Wil.
"If we play the way we're capable of, we can play with anyone," he said.
"Yeah, I know," mumbled Wil, who didn't take his response as a straight answer. "But can we beat them?"
"Sure we can," Mr. Harris said. "It's going to take a big effort by everyone."

I don't know why Wil insisted on getting any inside information. She knew the scoop on Rockford. We all did.

"Girls, we just wanted to talk you through a couple things on defense," Mr. Harris said. "The best player for Rockford is a stocky power forward."

"Sheila?" Angel gasped. It all came back to her like a bad dream. But it wasn't a dream. It was a flashback of something real.

Penny and I went to watch Angel play against Sheila's team in a softball game at Rockford Park a year ago in June. With the score tied in the bottom of the seventh, a batter nailed a shot into the outfield and Angel made a dash for home plate. Just as she rounded third base, everyone in the ballpark gasped in fear. The center fielder's throw was right on. And Sheila, the catcher, who had planted her thick body on home plate, grinned devilishly with ball in hand. Penny and I screamed "Stop!" But Angel had her mind made up. Her courageous attempt to slide turned into a ugly spill with legs and arms flying all over the place. Although no bones were broken, Angel was shaken up for a couple days. She always claimed that her body had never fully recovered.

"Oh no," Angel mumbled. "Not Sheila."

At five-feet 10-inches, and an unknown official weight, we considered Sheila a team wrecking ball. She plowed people over on her way to the basket.

"Wil," Mr. Harris said seriously, "she's your assignment for the game."

I turned to Wil expecting sheer panic. When a smile crept onto her face, I shook my head in amazement. Of all things to do in this potentially disastrous situation, Wil was blushing. She was simply bursting with pride. Guarding Sheila was no small task. But to Wil, the ultimate team player, it meant everything.

The strategy was simple. All the other players on the floor, except Anita, would have to help out Wil by doing all they could to prevent Sheila from touching the ball. It only made sense to keep Anita, our scoring center, as far away from Sheila as possible.

"Everyone understand?" my dad asked, and we all nodded our heads.

The coaches divided us into four-on-four teams. Kevin jumped down from the stage to be the eighth player. In the middle of our scrimmage, some boys walked into the gym. I only recognized Mike, Marvin, and Beef. Beef, who just finished the seventh grade, was short for Beef Potato. We never knew his real name. The rumor was that his older brother named him Beef for his hearty appetite. Then somebody made up the last name of Potato, and it stuck. After a while, everybody had so much fun calling him Beef Potato, we didn't care what his real name was. And neither did he.

The boys squirmed around in the bleachers. After about five minutes, they lost all patience. The open basket in front of them was too enticing. One by one they crept onto the floor and started shooting.

"Hold it!" my dad yelled. "This isn't open gym. What are you guys doing here?"

"We've got practice," Beef said.

"At what time?" my dad asked.

"Eight-thirty."

"Who's your coach?"

The gym door opened. Beef pointed to the man standing in the doorway.

"What's the problem?" the man asked.

"We've got the gym until nine," my dad said.

"I didn't think the girls would..." the man began.

His voice trailed off. There was no need to finish. We knew what he was going to say. The surprised look on his face was because we–the girls–were still in the gym playing hard and serious basketball.

I clicked my tongue, Wil rolled her eyes, and Angel scoffed.

"Here we go again," mumbled Penny.

I turned to my father. His face was scarlet. Mr. Harris calmly grabbed his arm, and whispered something. My father took a deep breath and regained his composure.

"Let's work something out," Mr. Harris said.

My jaw dropped. Are you crazy? Kick 'em out!

"If the boys are here early, that's fine with us," Mr. Harris went on. "But they have to scrimmage against us to stay."

"Who says we wanna play them?" I shouted.

The man raised his eyebrow at me.

Mr. Harris ignored me so I turned to my father. His eyes told me to relax. Why? I glanced around looking for a logical explanation. When I counted our seven players, I figured it out. We needed bodies.

I glanced back to the boys' coach. He paused, almost as if he was not sure if Mr. Harris was serious, and then turned to his team. "It's up to you guys."

Some boys half-smiled, and others just shrugged. Beef finally spoke up. "We'll play," he said surely, as if the others were crazy to even think of refusing.

"Get five together, and we'll bring the ball down in a second," Mr. Harris said. He hustled across half court to our end of the floor.

"All right," Mr. Harris called out enthusiastically. Then he looked over his shoulder at the boys shooting at the other end. "Wil, Penny, Molly, Anita and Rosie: you're in. We're going to play Beef as if he were Sheila."

All eyes turned to Beef. I imagined him with a wig on. Penny must have too. She chuckled, and then Angel burst out laughing.

"They do kind of look alike," Angel joked as we threw our hands in the huddle.

"Let's show 'em now," Mr. Harris said seriously, and the laughter subsided. The determined look on his face said it all. It was more than just a scrimmage.

At each position, we were overmatched by both skill and athleticism, except for Penny. She could do anything she wanted. The rest of us ran around aimlessly. It seemed every move, every pass, every shot was such an effort. The boys took advantage of every mistake. After they ran off a series of steals and easy baskets, we started bickering.

"Get open," I said.

"I am," Wil shot back. "Try making a good pass."

"Who's got him?" Angel snapped after Mike scored again.

"I don't!" Anita snapped.

"Time out!" my dad hollered.

We jogged shamefully over to the side.

"Girls, settle down," he said. "You're putting too much pressure on youselves. Relax. And rely on each other a bit more."

"Don't stand still. And you're standing too close together. Spread out," Mr. Harris reeled off. "Move without the ball. And make good passes."

"You're a much better team then they are," my dad added. I gazed past our huddle, and saw the boys laughing and joking at the other end of the floor. Frustration spread through me. I turned to Penny and could see the daggers in her eyes.

"Let's play," she said firmly and she reached out and slapped my hand. We marched back onto the court and called out our match-ups. Penny picked off a steal and scored a lay-up at the other end. Wil pulled down a rebound over Beef, and I hit a jumpshot on our next possession. We smoothly and confidently popped the ball around on offense. And on defense, we double-teamed Beef, just as we had planned against Sheila.

"Help out on Sheila," I yelled once by mistake. "Oops. I mean Beef."

When Penny made the same name mistake, Beef bricked a lay-up and then fumbled a pass.

"Come on, Beef!" he yelled to himself.

Mr. Harris blew the whistle.

"That's it," he called out. "Nice job kids."

Although there was no official score, I knew that we had lost. I walked off to the water fountain, unable to look my teammates in the eye.

Mr. Harris thanked the boys for scrimmaging against us. "You're welcome here every night at 8:30 if you agree to play like you did tonight," he offered. "What do ya say, guys?" he asked.

All the boys nodded their heads in agreement. It struck me then that maybe the only point that mattered in the last half-hour was the one we proved.

"O.K., Mr. H," Beef lamented, "but no more calling me Sheila." Mr. Harris laughed, and I apologized to Beef.

The boys' coach said as he approached my father and Mr. Harris at center circle. "Those girls aren't that bad," he said.

My dad looked him right in the eyes said, "You mean, those players aren't that bad."

A chill shot up my spine. That said it all. We walked off the floor and left the speechless man behind.