As a pastor in the RPCNA, Bob Hemphill has served in Shawnee, Kan., Selma, Ala., Westminster, Colo., and is now church planting in Laramie, Wyo. He has developed and begun publishing a series of books, aimed primarily at boys ages 7-14, in which he relates the lively adventures of Chip Robbins and his friends, and the hero of the series, Windmill Pete. The books aim to teach Christian concepts and build character as readers observe Chip’s experiences.

The five books thus far published in the series are: #3 Nine Lives, #4 Six and Zero, #5 Meet Windmill Pete, #6 Cut from the Team and #8 Free Fall Down Federal Hill. These are available from Crown & Covenant Publications. Other books in the series are forthcoming.

Excerpted below, Cut from the Team tells of some of the difficulties Chip Robbins faces during his first year in junior high. One of those difficulties, recorded in chapters 5 and 6 of the book, is his not making the seventh grade basketball team.

Basketball Tryouts

As the days became colder and the leaves fell from the trees, I began to anticipate basketball season. The guys who would be going out for the team all played in the courtyard at lunchtime, so I began to scrutinize my competition.

There was Sleepy Foster with his beautiful jump shot. Windmill Peter was almost six feet tall, but played like a guard. Donnie Cochran was five foot ten and had his fade away jumper. Tommy Church had learned all he knew from Tray Bognar, our town’s sports legend. These four had been the best on last year’s elementary school teams. They were shoo-ins for making the team. They were undoubtedly the best ball players in seventh grade, perhaps the best in any seventh grade in the country.

After them came a bunch of us who were pretty equal in our abilities. Dusty was a natural athlete like his brother, Butch, who played on the high school team. Lamar was a great driver. Chihuahua could handle the ball like he owned it. Spider, even though awkward, was taller than Windmill, and the coaches would probably pick him just because of his height. Junior Cosse was tall and heavy, like a tackle on a football team—which he was, but he had great hands and a soft touch. Bruce Rogers was another big guy, who had played on Tommy Church’s Central team last year. He had been their top rebounder. Mosquito was right up there in the running too. And there were many other kids from various elementary schools who could play good basketball.

I knew it was going to be tough to make the team this year, since only ten boys would be picked, but I was not afraid. Next to playing pro basketball, my second greatest dream was to wear the blue and white of Downing Junior High School.

Tryouts were on the first Thursday in November. There must have been fifty kids out on the gym floor, all dressed in white shorts and T-shirts. There were only four balls available, so I couldn’t even get a rebound to practice my shot as we warmed up.

Coach Frazier was the seventh grade coach, but Coach Wilcox, the ninth grade coach, was also there to watch us. After we had warmed up, they called us over to the sidelines, sat us down on the bleachers to explain how they would proceed.

“This afternoon we are going to watch you perform several basketball skills,” announced Coach Frazier. “You will be doing layups, dribbling, shooting and passing. Then we’ll have a scrimmage. After this afternoon’s tryouts, we will choose ten of you for our seventh grade team. If you come to the gym tomorrow after school, you will find a list posted on the door of Mr. Wilcox’s office. The names of those who made the team will be on it. Any questions?” There were none.

“Then let’s get started,” Mr. Frazier said.

As he had said, we began with layups. We formed two lines at each basket. One was the shooting line, and the other was for rebounding. The rebounders retrieved the ball and passed it to the next player in the shooting line.

On my first layup, the boy passing me the ball threw it too low. I had to break my stride, and that caused me to miss my shot. I groaned as I returned to the passing line, because Mr. Frazier had been watching.

Next we formed several lines and went through dribbling drills. I did pretty well at that, especially when they told us to use our left hands. I had broken my arm in sixth grade (which you probably already read about in my book Six and Zero) and had learned to dribble with my left hand nearly as well as with my right. While the other boys were losing control of the ball, I scooted up and down the court without any hesitation. However, every time it was my turn, neither Coach Frazier nor Coach Wilcox was watching.

Once while we were waiting in line for our turn, Coach Wilcox came up to Dusty, patted him on the back, and asked, “How is Butch doing?”

“He’s doing OK, Mr. Wilcox,” Dusty replied.

“That’s good,” said the coach. “I sure enjoyed working with your brother. He was one of the best players I’ve ever coached. If you are half as good as he was, you’ll be an asset to this team.”

Then he smiled and walked on. And I wondered, how could I compete with Dusty? Coach Wilcox already knew him. I didn’t have a big brother to clear the way before me. Coach Wilcox didn’t know me from Adam.

Next came the passing drills. Like dribbling, that was one of my strengths; but again, every time I did something well, the coaches were not looking, and every time I messed up, their eyes seemed to be watching me.

Then it came time to practice our shooting. First we shot short, bank shots, then free throws, then shots from the corner, and finally three pointers.

I am not an exceptionally good shooter, so I missed as many as I made. Of course the coaches were watching closely.

You should have seen their mouths open wide in surprise when Sleepy shot his jumper from the three-point range. They watched his perfect follow-through and the way the ball swished through the net, never even grazing the rim. Their heads nodded in approval.

I saw them jot down a note as Donnie Cochran demonstrated his turnaround fadeaway, the one he’d used to burn us so many times last year.

I could see them eyeing Spider carefully.

“How tall are you?” Coach Frazier asked.

“Six foot two,” was Spider’s reply. Mr. Frazier shook his head in amazement. I wished I could stretch myself several inches to be as tall as Spider.

But the one person who impressed them most was Windmill Pete. Windmill, whose real name is Bill Bannerman, had just moved to town last spring. Windmill is a superb athlete. We learned that the first time we met him.

He had come to the baseball field. At first Joe McDonald wasn’t going to let him play, but because there weren’t enough kids, he had to. Windmill hit a home run off Joe, which led to a fight and a whole lot more, which you can read about in my book Meet Windmill Pete. After that, Windmill and I became good friends.

All summer long, I played basketball with him at Mr. Fleming’s court. He was so smooth! He didn’t miss anything from inside the paint. He could make the long shot too. He used his height very well, controlling the boards in almost every game he played.

When it came time for scrimmaging, the coaches divided us up into teams and ran us in and out every two minutes. That was hardly long enough for me to show them what I could do. There was a boy on my team who hogged the ball. He dribbled all the way up the court, never passed to anyone else and took dumb shots every time. How could the coaches see what I could do if I never touched the ball?

As I showered after the tryouts, I wondered whether they would choose me. They hadn’t seen much, they didn’t know me, and there were lots of other good kids, but I was still confident. I was a special kind of player. Hadn’t most of the guys on the courtyard at lunchtime said that? They thought I was one of the best seventh graders in the school. So what if I hadn’t started on last year’s elementary team. I had a broken arm then. So what if the junior high combined four schools. I had improved a great deal, playing with Windmill all summer. Well, tomorrow I’d find out what the coaches thought.

Look and See

School really dragged on Friday. By afternoon, I found that my stomach was churning with nervous energy. I hardly even talked to Kendra in math class. I was daydreaming about basketball when Mr. Kanzinski suddenly called on me. I didn’t even know what he had asked. After I stammered and stuttered for a moment, he called on someone else. Try as I might, I could not concentrate on anything but basketball all day long.

When the final bell rang and I had gone to my homeroom and picked up my books and coat, I raced to the gym. As I approached the coaches’ office, I saw other boys crowded in front of the door, scanning the list which was taped on the glass. I pushed my way through the crowd to where I could get a good look and began to read the names.

Leonard Foster, Lamar Small, Bill Bannerman, Donald Cochran, James Cosse, Todd Harrison, David Parker , Perry Latimer, Tommy Church, Bruce Rogers

My name was not there. I read the list again to be sure I hadn’t missed it. I even read it a third time. No, I was not on the list. I had not made the team.

I turned around. A mist was beginning to form in my eyes. I fought back the tears. There was Windmill behind me.

“Did you make it, Chip?” he inquired.

“No,” I said, “but you did.”

“No kidding? Thanks. Uh—I’m sorry.” He said all this as he tried to push forward through the crowd to get a look for himself.

I forced my way back out from among the students. As I did, I saw Chihuahua coming. He had not made the team either. I could see Dusty and Mosquito approaching. They both had made it.

Suddenly, I did not want to see or talk to anyone. As fast as I could, I headed for the exit door. As I pushed out into the air, the bright sun hit my eyes and the cool November air struck my face. I blinked for a second, and then the tears began to flow. I didn’t want anyone to see me, so instead of heading for the bus, I ran up the block past the side of the school, crossed the street and sprinted away.

After running for two blocks, I slowed to a walk, but I couldn’t stop crying. It hurt so much! I had been cut from the team. I wouldn’t be able to play for Downing Junior High. All year I’d waited for basketball season to arrive. That had made the rest of the junior high experience bearable. Now all I’d be able to do was play for fifteen minutes in the courtyard at lunchtime and at Flemings’ after school, like I’d always done.

All those stupid guys, like Mosquito, who was the senator’s son, and Dusty, who had a dumb brother making it easy for him, and awkward Spider, who just made it because he was tall, all of them were, were, were—I didn’t know what to say. I was just angry.

I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want Mom and Dad, Betsy and Peewee to see me cry. I didn’t want to tell them that I had not made the team.

I’d been walking so fast that I had already come to the corner of Brook Avenue. Across the street was the cemetery. When I really need to think, that’s where I always go. I walk among the old tombstones, through the soft grass, listening to the quiet sounds, and I try to sort out my feelings. All of us need a quiet place where we can get away from the crazy crowd and think. Even Jesus in the Bible often went to the mountains or to a garden to pray and meditate. That’s what I needed right then.

When the light changed, I crossed the street, and instead of turning left on Brook and heading for my house, I went through the enormous, iron gate into the cemetery (see map). Once I was away from the traffic, I found the cemetery to be as quiet as always. No one was around, no joggers, no walkers and nobody who had come to mourn their dead and place flowers on a grave. It was a time and place reserved for a boy whose heart was broken. Once away from everyone and everything, I really began to bawl. I’m glad nobody saw me. In fact, I’m embarrassed right now as I tell you. I cried and cried. I felt like my whole world had come to an end.

If you have ever lost something you loved, or had a girlfriend tell you she doesn’t like you anymore, or not made the basketball team or the baseball team, or had your best pet die, you have some idea of how I felt. And although I am glad no one saw me crying, I think that I really needed to do that.

When you cry, I mean really cry, it helps you get rid of all the pent-up emotion you have inside you. In the end, it is soothing, and you feel a whole lot better, which is what happened to me. I’m sure that’s why God designed crying and gave us tears. Sometimes you just need to let them flow. I sure did that day in the cemetery.

Finally, after I had pretty well cried myself out—and that’s the way it was, there weren’t any more tears left to come out—finally, I wiped my face with my sleeve and looked around at the tombstones where I was walking.

I hadn’t really noticed where I’d been going. I was nearly to the far corner of the cemetery where there was the hole under the wall (see map). That was the hole which only the members of our gang knew about. It was the hole through which we had climbed many a time, including the day that we discovered the tree shack in the woods. It was the one through which we’d climbed the night we all sneaked out of our houses and secretly met in the cemetery to go investigate the old Harrison house where we found Mosquito’s grandfather injured in his cellar.

As I looked around at the tombstones, I saw one that I had never seen before. I walked over to look more closely. It was so unique that I’m surprised I had never noticed it.

It was a sculpture in the shape of a man seated on a chair. He had a forlorn look on his face. He was holding a little girl on his lap, a little girl about the age of my sister, Betsy.

The father’s chin leaned down against the top of his daughter’s head. There was sadness in his eyes, which the sculptor had been able to capture and portray, a sadness in his own eyes, even as he tried to comfort his little girl. Something was lost; something was missing; something had gone wrong. At the foot of the tombstone in large chiseled letters was only one word: “MOTHER.”

As I looked at that gravestone with all the sorrow that was etched in the sculpture, my sorrow over not making the team paled considerably. How sad that father and his daughter must have been. Not making the team surely wasn’t the end of the world. It did not compare to their sadness in losing their wife and mother.

After gazing at the stone for a long time, I finally turned my eyes toward the sky and prayed, “God, I really wanted to make the team. I don’t know why you didn’t let Mr. Wilcox and Mr. Frazier pick me. Please help me to make it next year. I pray it in Jesus’ name, Amen.” Something I can’t explain happened to me in my cemetery on that crisp, cool November afternoon. I don’t know if it was because of the tears I let flow or the tombstone I saw or the prayer I prayed, but something changed inside of me. I went into the cemetery devastated with sadness; I came out determined not to let this setback ruin me and determined to make next year’s team.

I decided right then and there that I would practice every day, good weather or bad. I would improve every aspect of my game, my dribbling, my passing, my shooting and my defense. I would not quit! I would not give up! I would not stop! And next year—next year, Mr. Wilcox and Mr. Frazier would take notice of me. They would take notice of Joseph Robbins. They would pick me. My name would appear on the door of the office. Next year, next year, I would make the team!