Lay-ups and Long Shots Read Online Free PDF

sides.
    Deep within me, I could feel what Sammy must have felt, the majesty of those moments as he sailed toward the shore. He was free. Free from his handicap, from his crutches, from all the limitations he endured on land.
    I felt ashamed of my own laziness, of the boundaries I’d carved out for myself just because I couldn’t hang from a bar or because my hips were bigger than those of the other girls.
    I turned to Chris. “Get up.”
    He looked at me puzzled, but obeyed. I grabbed his surfboard and began flopping in the sand, running toward the water with my brother behind me. I knew I’d never look as graceful as Sammy had, but I didn’t care. “Surf’s up!” I yelled as I threw the board into the water and headed toward the horizon.

Jamie McEwan

    Jamie McEwan lives in Connecticut with his wife, the celebrated Sandra Boynton, and their four children. He is the author of six books for children, including the Scrubs series for Darby Creek (
Willy the Scrub
,
Whitewater Scrubs
,
Rufus the Scrub Does
Not
Wear a Tutu
, and
Scrubs Forever
).
    Although Jamie was mediocre at best on the usual school teams—football, soccer, baseball—he was lucky enough to discover a couple of more compatible sports. Captain of his high school and college wrestling teams, Jamie was also a two-time Olympian in whitewater canoe slalom, winning a bronze medal in singles in 1972 and returning twenty years later to place fourth with doubles partner Lecky Haller. He has paddled the rivers of seventeen different countries around the world. And only once did he lose his shorts.

Red Shorts, White Water
    by
    Jamie McEwan

    First of all, to help you understand this story better, I want to describe the shorts.
    Not that there was anything terribly special about the shorts. They were my dad’s old soccer shorts, red, with double white stripes down the sides and a white
M
on one thigh. He had worn them back when he was a college soccer star. The red was pretty faded, and they had lost their string, and the elastic was a little stretched out, and they were big on me. But I liked them. My dad had played varsity games in those shorts. He had scored goals. I thought it was kind of cool to wear those baggy old things around.
    I hadn’t started the day wearing them. I was hanging around the house on this summer Saturday morning in jeans and a T-shirt when the phone rang. It was my friend, Justin Hardy. Justin was a quiet guy, two grades ahead of me, who spent most of his free time playing his Les Paul guitar. But we did have one thing in common.
    “Hey, Ted,” said Justin, “you know that rain yesterday?”
    “Yeah?” I hadn’t been outside yet. I looked out the window at yesterday’s clouds being blown to pieces. Bright blue sky showed through the gaps.
    “It brought the Pagan way up,” said Justin.
    “Oh, yeah?”
    “You want to run it?”
    “Maybe.” I had kayaked the Pagan River before, and I knew it would be fun. But I was feeling lazy. And I also knew it was a long walk from the road to get to the good part—a long walk if you were lugging a kayak, that is.
    “Come on, Ted,” said Justin. “Jodie’s in. And my cousin wants to watch us do it. You met her—Melissa. She’s never seen us kayak.”
    I remembered Melissa, all right: my height, brown hair, brown eyes, nice smile.
    “Uh . . . yeah. Sure, why not?”
    Nobody kayaks in jeans. I changed into those shorts I told you about, grabbed my paddle and helmet and life jacket and sprayskirt, and dragged my boat from the garage onto the lawn. I was waiting there when Justin and Melissa and our friend Jodie drove up.
    The Pagan River was running browner and higher than I’d ever seen it. I was a little nervous at first, especially since I didn’t have exactly the right boat for it. The only kayaks we had were what they call “play boats,” made for river surfing and doing tricks. They look more like big plastic potato chips than like kayaks—potato chips with bubbles in the