Training Camp

by Kobe Bryant

  “Guys?” he whispered. “Guys? Is anyone there?”

  His voice echoed through the gym, searching under the bleachers and through the locker rooms before returning to him with the same question. Rain hugged the ball without thinking. How could everyone have left so suddenly? And what was that draft? It snuck into his bones.

  You wanted this.

  “Who’s there?” he shouted, whirling around.

  Questions pounded through his head, though Rain didn’t want to acknowledge them: Why did he leave me? What did I do?

  “Stop it!”

  Rain turned for the front doors, but they too were gone. He was trapped in Fairwood.

  “Let me out!”

  Are you ready for the road?

  Rain started to panic. His heart was beating so loud, it echoed in the rafters.

  “Peño?” he said. “John? Mama! Let me out!”

  The walls seemed to close in. Impassable. A prison.

  “Help me!” Rain screamed.

  He suddenly had the distinct sense that something was watching him, and he whirled around and realized it was a someone. Rolabi was there, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “What is this—” Rain started.

  “Hmm,” Rolabi said. “Interesting. That will be all today. I will see you here tomorrow.”

  With that, the team reappeared, all of them looking queasy. Rolabi closed his medicine bag and started for the doors, which swung open to greet him with another gust of frozen wind.

  “What time?” Peño asked, rubbing a trembling hand over his head.

  The doors slammed shut, and Peño chased after him.

  “Do we keep the balls?” he shouted, pushing the doors open again. “What . . . Professor?”

  Rolabi was already gone.

  RAIN SAT ON the curb in the corner of Fairwood’s parking lot where two crumbling wooden fences met beneath an ancient, gnarled oak. He had come early that morning, but he’d been hesitant to go inside. He just sat there unnoticed as Peño and Lab went in, and then Vin and A-Wall. No one checked the corner, and the branches of the oak hung down like curtains even if they did. It was one of the last living trees in the Bottom. He’d always loved it, though he had no idea how it continued to grow.

  The Bottom used to be greener, according to Rain’s grandma. But the rest of Dren clogged the Bottom with factories until its air was choked, its soil poison. The trees had mostly died out in the inner city, and there were no gardens, no grass. Garbage clogged the rivers. Litter surrounded Rain’s shoes even now. The air was thick with the smell of rot.

  Some days, Rain felt like he was trash too. He knew the wealthier parts of Dren dumped everything they didn’t want here, including people. His mom worked as a server in an old diner and struggled to keep the house. His younger brother was in school, flunking mostly, his prospects dire. His grandma lived alone nearby in a run-down nursing home infested with roaches. They were all discarded. All lost . . . his dad most of all. Only ball could bring them back.

  And, of course, that was waiting inside. He stood up and eased one of the front doors of the gym open, his breath catching in his throat. He was ready to bolt if the gym was empty.

  But a few of the guys were already shooting around, and Rain relaxed, trying to look casual in case anyone had spotted him. You were just tired, he told himself for the hundredth time.

  It’s easy to get tired of lying.

  Rain stiffened at the sound of the deep voice that had haunted him yesterday. It sounded an awful lot like Rolabi’s. He looked around, but he was alone at the doorway.

  “Yo, Rain!” Peño called, tucking the ball under his arm. “What you doing, bro?”

  Rain forced a smile. “Nothing, man. What up?”

  “Working on my game,” Peño said. “Even perfection needs practice.”

  Rain snorted. Lab was shooting around next to Peño, yawning as usual, while Vin and A-Wall played one-on-one beside them. At the far end of the court, Twig and Reggie were quietly working on their free throws. Devon sat alone on the home bench, lacing up his sneakers.

  Everything seemed normal enough, so Rain plunked onto the bench beside Devon. He was exhausted. He’d slept terribly, waking every hour with a vision of an empty gym. He had enough nightmares already, or bad memories, or whatever they were. He didn’t need more.

  Rain stretched his calves out and sighed as the bench wobbled precariously.

  It was embarrassing to host games in Fairwood. The visiting teams constantly made fun of the Badgers—especially the ones from the nicer regions of Dren. The kids from Argen were the worst: they called them the West Bottom Broke Boys. Teams always visited the Bottom; it was illegal for Bottom residents to leave the region. Apparently, the government was afraid they wouldn’t go back. Basketball was one of the few exceptions, but only for national championships, scholarships, or a job in the professional league. No team from the Bottom had ever made the nationals. Fewer than ten had gotten a scholarship. Two had played in the Dren Basketball League . . . and neither had been close to a star. But Rain would be different.

  Rain was born for it. It was all he thought about some days. The magazine covers, the trophies, but more than that, a new house for his mama, a nurse for his gran, a future for his brother. He saw it when he went to sleep. It was waiting for him first thing in the morning. He saw the house. It was white siding, green grass, a new roof that didn’t leak. It was his mama relaxing in a recliner on the porch. Larry shooting around out front. His dad in a new car.

  It was his sole purpose in life: to get out of the Bottom and take his family with him. His whole family. He would put them back together again with money for masking tape.

  Rain opened his bag and spotted the folded note he kept in there. The slip of paper was so crinkled, it was nearly silken. Rain knew every word. He recited it in bed before he went to sleep, or when he was shooting jumpers, or tying his shoes in the morning. It had turned into a prayer.

  “Dear Rain,” he would say, watching for tears, “I hope you find this first . . .”

  Rain started stretching as Big John and Jerome walked in. No one had really spoken after Rolabi’s departure yesterday—they had all just packed up and headed for home, walking or catching buses or calling for rides from confused parents. Rain’s mama worked long hours, so he always walked home, but when he told her about the early finish, she was furious.

  “Tell that new coach we have no time to waste,” she said. “This your year, baby. We can’t mess around with no silliness. Don’t make me pay him a visit. You know he doesn’t want that.”

  His mama was infamous for her “visits.” Freddy was petrified of her.

  Rain reluctantly turned back to his bag. His new ball was sitting there, staring back at him. He had wanted to leave it behind, but somehow he felt like Rolabi was expecting them to bring the balls he had provided. Rain prodded it with his index finger and looked around.

  Nobody disappeared, and he rubbed his forehead, exasperated. Of course nobody disappeared. Rain scooped up the ball, dribbled it once through his legs to test its weight, and then made his way onto the court. He had to admit: the ball was nice. He pulled up and took a three, the ball rolling smoothly off his splayed fingers. His wrist flicked as if chasing after it.

  Swish.

  “There he is,” Peño said approvingly. “You got that fire going already?”

  “Always.”

  Rain glanced at the dusty clock that hung over the doors. Rolabi was running late.

  “I guess this Rolabi guy isn’t worried about being on time,” he said.

  “Maybe he isn’t coming,” Lab suggested, almost hopefully.

  “Or maybe he’s already here.”

  The voice burst through the gym like a thunderbolt. Rain spun around. Rolabi was sitting casually on the bleachers, eating a polished apple. He s
tood up, took a last, savoring bite, and then, without even looking, tossed the core twenty yards into the gym’s garbage can.

  “Whoa,” Jerome murmured.

  Rolabi strode to the middle of the court, polished shoes as rhythmic as the clock.

  “Put the balls away,” he said.

  Rain found himself sprinting to the bench and back without thinking, joining the others in a loose semicircle. The entire team seemed wary. They shifted on the balls of their feet or wrung their hands and pointedly avoided eye contact with Rolabi, who was looking them over. His eyes flashed and refocused. Rain stared at the far wall, feeling his heavy gaze.

  “Umm . . . Professor Rolabi?” Twig said.

  His voice was a near whimper.

  “Yes?”

  “My . . . uh . . . my dad was wondering when the parents can come meet you?”

  Rain looked up at that. His mom had asked the same question last night.

  “Following the tryout, I will meet with parents,” Rolabi said.

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Did you say tryout?” Peño said. “This is the team.”

  “This was the team,” Rolabi corrected. “Everyone earns a place on my team.”

  Rain smirked. That was fine by him. Maybe Rolabi could replace a few weak links: Twig for starters, though A-Wall was useless on offense, and Jerome was basically a human-size pylon.

  “So our parents have to wait ten days to talk to you?” Vin said, frowning.

  “If there is pressing business, they can call 76522494936273.”

  Rain tried to keep track of the number and failed instantly.

  Twig was looking for a pen. “So . . . seven . . . eight . . . ? Can you repeat that?”

  “I’m sure Daddy will figure it out for you,” Big John said, and Twig flushed.

  “We are going to start with a scrimmage,” Rolabi said.

  That was a surprise. Scrimmages were always at the end of practice. Rain figured coaches put them there so their teams would work to get through the drills quickly. But it was his favorite part of practice, so he wasn’t about to complain. Maybe Rolabi had promise after all—he could deal with a little weirdness as long as the guy let them scrimmage and work on Rain’s offense.

  “We are going to use a different ball today,” Rolabi continued. “Last year’s starters versus the bench players. Devon will play for the latter for the moment.”

  Rain waited as the starters gathered around him: Peño, Lab, Twig, and A-Wall.

  Big John and Twig stepped up for the jump ball, and Rain crouched behind Twig, ready to spring on the ball if it came his way. Rolabi tossed it up, and Big John ignored the ball and hip-checked Twig, using his round midsection like a battering ram. Twig doubled over, gasping for air, and Big John easily tipped the ball back to Vin.

  “Foul!” Rain said.

  Freddy always followed Rain’s lead, but Rolabi didn’t. He simply walked to the sideline and turned to watch. Clearly, he didn’t know who the star of this team was. It was about time Rain showed him.

  Rain and Reggie were paired on defense as always, and Rain tracked Reggie to the wing.

  “You got moves for me this year?” Rain asked.

  Reggie snorted. “I had moves last year. You kept blocking them.”

  “So, step your game up,” Rain said. “Throw something new at me.”

  Reggie received a pass and surveyed the court. Rain stayed low and tight, one arm tracking the ball and the other blocking the lane. Reggie cocked the ball over his head for a two-handed pass to the post, but his intention was far too obvious, and Rain intercepted it and dribbled past him with a sudden burst of speed.

  Rain was all alone—just him and the waiting net.

  He glanced back to see if any defenders were close, debating a dunk attempt. Then he stopped, gathering the ball to his chest. The starters were gone. He could see the bench team: Reggie chasing him, and Vin and Jerome and Big John, and even the new kid, Devon, sprinting back from the block. But the entire starting lineup had vanished. Rain looked around, completely bewildered. They had been there only a second ago. He was sure of it.

  “Where are they?” he murmured.

  Right where you wanted them.

  He turned to Rolabi on the sideline. His eyes flashed, locked on Rain like searchlights.

  Rain didn’t know what to do. His team was gone, and he had lost his dribble, so he had only one choice: he turned to the basket and took the shot.

  He was too far out. The ball sailed well short of the rim and careened out-of-bounds, bouncing off the wall with an unceremonious thud. As soon as it did, Rain’s team reappeared.

  Lab scowled at him. “A bit far out, don’t you think, Rain?”

  Rain rubbed his eyes, disbelieving. “Yeah . . . sorry.”

  The bench players attacked again, and they began to move the ball rapidly around the perimeter while Devon and Big John ran screens down low. After Devon mysteriously passed up a wide-open layup, Jerome took the ball to the hoop, driving past Lab and Twig to score.

  Rain scowled. They were losing to the bench.

  He jogged up the court, getting into his usual position—the wing on the right. From there, he usually cut to the point for the ball and then drove hard to the net, either sticking with his left hand or crossing over quickly to his right for a layup or pull-up jumper. It was an almost unstoppable move for most Elite Youth League defenders. But this time the ball didn’t come.

  He turned back just in time to see Vin laying the ball in for a 4–0 lead.

  “What are you doing, Peño?” Lab snarled, running back to collect the ball.

  “Nothing,” Peño said. “Just lost the ball. Get back and set a pick, why don’t you?”

  Rain scowled. He would have to do it himself.

  But every time Rain touched the ball, his team vanished. He was forced to take bad shots or try to drive to the basket without even a fake pass or screen, which allowed the defense to double- or triple-team him. Rain was soon forced to rely on fadeaway jumpers and threes, and he felt his temper rising with every miss. After almost an hour, it was only 28–24, a positively dreadful score line. More important, the bench was winning. It was preposterous.

  Something weird was going on, but Rain was not going to lose to the bench.

  As Twig finally managed to grab a defensive rebound, Rain broke for half-court.

  “Twig! Here!”

  Twig immediately lobbed the ball up the court, looking strangely eager to get rid of it. Rain caught the arcing pass and turned away from his team so he wouldn’t see them disappear.

  I don’t need them anyway, he thought. I am the team.

  His right sneaker suddenly stuck to the ground. He looked down and realized it wasn’t just stuck: his shoe had sunk into the hardwood up to his laces. He stared at his submerged foot, dumbfounded. The floorboards had taken on the consistency of quicksand.

  “How . . . ?” Rain said, yanking his sneaker free with a wet, suctioning plop.

  He somehow kept his dribble, trying to make it to the net, but his feet sank deeper and deeper into the floor with every step. Soon they were submerged to his ankles, and he slogged forward, fixated on scoring and winning and showing the coach that he was the star of the team.

  But as his shins sank farther into the strange bog, he imagined the rest of him slipping below the surface. Fear bubbled up in his belly, and without thinking, he took a desperate shot from way beyond the three-point line. As before, it sailed well short and thudded against the far wall.

  The floor instantly returned to normal, and Rain spun around, looking for his teammates. They were all there. The fear that had flared through his stomach like a red-hot geyser receded and cooled to stone, heavy and nauseating. He took a deep breath, trying to hold back the bile.

  It is so easy to sink
into ourselves.

  Rolabi stepped out onto the court, his hands still clasped behind his back.

  “That will be all for today,” he announced.

  Peño turned to him, frowning. “We aren’t going to do any drills?”

  Rolabi didn’t seem to hear him. He waited patiently as the ball rolled back to his feet as if it were tethered. Then he scooped it up, dropped it into his medicine bag with a distant-sounding bounce, and made his way back to the bleachers, where he sat down with his hands folded on top of his bag. As soon as he did, the locker room door slammed open with a gust of freezing wind. Rain turned, facing the gale.

  “Where . . . How did . . . ?” Big John said.

  Rain glanced back at the bleachers. Once again, Rolabi Wizenard had vanished.

  “This ain’t cool,” Peño muttered.

  “So . . . we’re pretty set on our coach being a witch, right?” Big John said.

  Lab scowled. “What are you, six? There’s no such thing as witches.”

  “Aren’t witches usually female?” Jerome asked.

  “Yeah,” A-Wall said. “Men are mitches.”

  Lab rubbed his forehead. “You are dumb as a post, homie.”

  Rain walked away from the ensuing argument. He sat down and turned to the banners.

  He didn’t have time for this. Even if what Rolabi was doing was magic—impossible as it all seemed—it didn’t matter. Rain had one job: to put his family back together. Rolabi didn’t understand that. No one here did. This wasn’t a game.

  He slipped his shoes off and went to put them away, then frowned. A business card was resting on top of his duffel bag. He checked the other bags and saw cards placed on each of them. The front of the card was mostly white with a blue W, like a simple logo, and a number: 76522494936273. The other players wandered over and found their cards as well.

  “When did he put these here?” Big John said. “Who’s got a cell? Vin, call it up.”

  Rain tucked his card away and hurried out. He didn’t need to call Rolabi—his mama did. She would set him straight. Rain needed to get back to training. He had to be ready for the season.