Training Camp

by Kobe Bryant

  “I always talked,” he said defensively. “Just nobody wants to listen.”

  Rain thought about that for a moment. Had they ever really given Twig a chance to join in the conversation? Or even asked him a simple question about his life outside of ball? Rain couldn’t think of even one example . . . and Twig had played with them for a full year already.

  “Okay, okay,” Rain said. “So why aren’t you avoiding me like the rest of the team?”

  Twig managed a smile and stretched out his legs.

  “I don’t think they’re avoiding you. You got upset yesterday. That’s all right. We all do sometimes. I do . . . well . . . a lot of times.”

  “I basically said I was the team,” Rain reminded him.

  Twig shrugged and took out his ball. “Who can blame you? It’s what you’ve been told.”

  Twig walked out onto the court. Rain followed him, thinking of his mama and Freddy. Twig was right: it was all they ever told him. His mama said it at least three times a day. But Rain had never argued with them. He’d believed everything they said. He thought he was special.

  Did Dad think I was too? he wondered.

  “Gather around,” a deep voice announced. “Put the balls away.”

  Rain turned and saw Rolabi standing at center court, checking his pocket watch.

  He and Twig hurried over with the rest of the team. A-Wall and Lab were pointedly avoiding Rain’s gaze, so he did the same to them. An uneasy silence settled over the group.

  “Today we are going to work on offense,” Rolabi said.

  “Finally,” Rain murmured.

  “We’ll start with passing,” Rolabi continued. “The foundation of all offense. What do all the great passers have?”

  Rain stayed quiet. Passing wasn’t exactly his strong suit.

  Why pass when you were the number one option?

  “Vision,” Peño said suddenly.

  “Very good. A great passer must be quick and agile and bold. But mostly, they must have vision. Both of what is and what will soon come. They must see everything on the floor.”

  Lab frowned. “So . . . we just have to practice seeing more . . . ?”

  “Yes,” Rolabi said. “And the best way to start is by seeing nothing at all.”

  The light suddenly blinked out. Not just the ceiling panels—even the sunlight that crept in through cracks around the door frame. It was so dark that Rain couldn’t see the tip of his nose.

  “Not cool,” A-Wall muttered.

  “Hey, watch it,” Peño said sharply. “That’s my toe!”

  Rain closed his eyes, opened them, realized it made no difference. He wasn’t afraid of the dark, but this was enveloping. It almost had a presence. It stifled him. His breathing quickened.

  “Vision is an interesting term for it,” Rolabi said. His voice was even more commanding in the darkness. “In this case, it isn’t only reliant on eyesight. We can hear what is happening. We can feel it. We can predict it. If you can do that, your eyes are just an added bonus.”

  The sound of a ball dribbling broke the quiet. Rain relaxed as it bounced methodically: boom, boom, boom. The floorboards vibrated beneath him, and the noise was calming and familiar—the only nursery rhyme he had ever liked. His father used to play it for him almost every day.

  “The game is simple,” Rolabi said. “The attacking team will start on one end, and the other team will wait in the middle. The attacking team will pass the ball up the court. They cannot dribble: only pass. If they get to the far side, they win. If they lose the ball, then the other team gets a turn. We will go until one team wins. The losing team will run.”

  “You really like making us run,” Big John muttered.

  “Never underestimate the value of sweat,” Rolabi said. “It can forge the greatest change.”

  Rain tried to focus. He bounced on his toes, feeling the floor bounce with him.

  He knew this floor.

  “Starters versus last year’s bench,” Rolabi said. “Starters will go first. Find the ball.”

  It took them five minutes just to do that. Rain waved his arms around, crouching low and flinching as he slapped shins or the walls. The starters eventually tracked the ball down, and it took another few minutes to get themselves organized beneath the net—they found the far wall and then turned and took a step away from it. There was much bumping and jostling and cursing.

  Finally, both sides decided that they were in the right positions.

  “Okay, I’m going!” Peño shouted.

  “Here!” Rain said, moving toward his voice.

  He turned his head away, worried about getting a pass right in the nose, but Peño wisely bounce-passed it, and Rain managed to block the ball and catch it on the second bounce. He heard shoes squeaking as the other players slowly advanced past him, taking timid little steps.

  Rain looked around, lifting the ball to his chest. “Who’s next?”

  “Here!” Lab said, sounding like he was only a few feet away. “Pass it.”

  Rain bounced it as well, but he heard a low grunt.

  “A little higher,” Lab said weakly. “Keep moving!”

  They continued up the floor. Progress was slow and awkward, but they managed to get the ball to half. When the two teams merged, however, chaos broke out. The voices began to jumble together, and Rain found it hard to listen for bounces. In seconds, the ball was lost again.

  After a long search, the bench team took a turn. They didn’t even make it to half before someone threw a wild pass, and the ball bounced into the bleachers with a disheartening clank.

  “Hmm,” Rolabi said. “Perhaps we will work up to complete darkness.”

  The ball suddenly turned a brilliant, crimson red, like a fire had been lit within it. Yet it cast no additional light, so that all Rain could see was the ball itself—like a night sky with one star. The red shape bobbed and started floating across the gym.

  “This is weird,” said Peño, who was presumably carrying the ball back to the starting position. The ball bounced back and forth between two unseen hands. “You guys ready? Go!”

  “Can anyone see me?” A-Wall said. “I’m lost.”

  “Are you serious right now?” Peño said. “Just stay there. Rain, where are you?”

  “Here! Pass!”

  They moved faster now. It was still tough to make a pass without seeing the target, but at least the glow made catching the ball a little easier. Rain focused intently on the voices and the squeaking shoes, and the starters proceeded quickly to the halfway line. Then things fell apart again.

  As the two teams merged, the shouts became one riotous mass of noise, the squeaks only adding to the confusion, and the ball was picked off by a whooping Jerome.

  “Switch sides,” Rolabi said.

  He sounded amused.

  They went back and forth until Rain was so drenched with sweat that he could taste salt on his tongue. He still couldn’t see a thing, but he was feeling more and more comfortable in the darkness. On what must have been the thirtieth attempt at least, he sprinted right past the line of scattered defenders, waving to avoid a collision, and then turned back again.

  “I’m open! Toss it up!”

  Someone heaved the ball up in the air, and it sped toward him like a blazing comet. He caught the pass and heard frantic squeaking as both attackers and defenders sprinted toward him.

  One voice rose up above the noise.

  “Here! Rain!” Peño called. “I’m open . . . probably!”

  It was coming from farther down the court. Guessing at the direction, Rain lobbed the ball up in the air with one arm. It seemed to move in slow motion, and he heard more squeaks and cries and curses and jumps. Then the ball abruptly stopped about four feet from the floor.

  “Got it!” Peño said. “Who’s next—”

 
The lights blinked on again, and Rain saw that Peño was standing right beside the net.

  “The starting team wins,” Rolabi said. “Water break.”

  Peño and the other starters exchanged high fives, but Rain didn’t join them. He doubted they wanted to talk to him, anyway. That was fine. He headed to the away bench alone, satisfied that he’d won something. He pulled out his bottle and took a thirsty gulp as Twig joined him.

  “That was crazy,” Twig said, chugging so much water that it streamed down his chin.

  “Yeah,” Rain said. “Though compared to the tiger, that drill was nothing.”

  Twig laughed. “True.”

  Rolabi turned to them, his enormous hands clasped behind his back. “The losing team will run at the end of practice. The winning team can decide then if they want to join them.”

  Rain had to stop himself from snorting. They had won. Why would they want to join in?

  “So, clearly, on offense we must learn to listen,” Rolabi said. “What else?”

  “Score?” Rain suggested, hoping they might get to work on their shots.

  “Yes, eventually,” Rolabi agreed. “But more fundamentally.”

  “Talk?” Twig said.

  “Exactly. We talk on defense but forget to do it on offense. Twig, come up here, please.”

  Twig flushed and put his bottle down. He nervously took a spot beside Rolabi, who loomed over even him. The top of Twig’s head only reached Rolabi’s chin, and Twig was six five.

  “I want you to tell the team one thing you would like to say to them. One honest thing.”

  Twig glanced up at Rolabi. “What sort of thing?”

  “It could be anything. If you cannot be honest with each other, you cannot be a team.”

  Twig fidgeted for a moment. “Umm . . . well . . . I don’t have anything.”

  “Yes, you do,” Rolabi said. “I am sure you have many things. Just pick one for starters.”

  “But . . .”

  “Anything at all.”

  Twig scratched his arm, leaving white marks. Rain frowned. There were tons of them. He had always noticed Twig’s cheeks—pockmarked and scarred. He’d never really thought about it, but now he wondered. Was he scratching at his cheeks too? Had Twig created the scars himself?

  Rain shook the thought away. Twig was fine. He lived in a nice house with a nice family.

  It was a birthmark probably. An accident.

  Twig shifted uncomfortably. “Okay . . . well . . . I have been working really hard,” he said. “You know, in the off-season. And I am trying really hard to be better. I know maybe you guys didn’t want me back this season, but I really am trying to help the team. I want you guys to know that, I guess.”

  He quickly scurried back to the bench. Rain watched him, thinking back to his behavior. He hadn’t really wanted Twig back this season . . . none of them had. They hadn’t hid that fact either. And for all that, what did Twig do? He spent the entire off-season trying to get stronger and become a better player so that it wouldn’t happen again. And the first thing Rain did was tell him he looked the exact same. No wonder Twig had been upset that first day. Heat crept up Rain’s neck as he remembered how little he had done to stop Big John’s mean comments. He was as guilty as Big John and Jerome. Rain had tried to justify it, but he looked again at the scars, and he wondered, and he felt ashamed.

  “Jerome,” Rolabi said.

  They went through the team one at a time. Some of the things the players shared were surprising, others obvious. There were personal goals and team ones and fiery words from Peño about how they were going to win the national championship trophy. Finally, when everyone else had gone, Rolabi turned to Rain and nodded. Rain hesitated. He knew what he needed to say . . . but he was embarrassed to say it.

  The easy things to say are rarely worth saying.

  Rain flinched. He stepped up beside the professor, faced the team, and took a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “About yesterday. I shouldn’t have said I was the team like that.”

  “Do you believe it?” Vin asked.

  “Of course not. It’s a team sport.” He paused. “But I am the top scorer and the leader.”

  “Do they mean the same thing, I wonder?” Rolabi said.

  Rain frowned. “Of course they do.”

  “No, they don’t,” Vin snapped. “The leader is supposed to push the entire team.”

  “I do push you to be better!” Rain said.

  Lab shook his head. “No, you just try to score enough to pull us along with you.”

  Rain’s fists tightened at his sides. It was true that he scored a lot of points. That was what the team needed him to do. “Well, what do you want from me?” he asked.

  “To be a part of the Badgers,” Lab said. “Not Rain Adams and the Badgers.”

  Rain saw the anger on Lab’s face spread to others in the group. It was clear he had offended them all even worse than he had thought. That realization cooled his temper. He was still the one headed to the DBL. He was the reason the West Bottom Badgers existed in the first place. But these were his teammates, so he nodded. There was no need to alienate everyone.

  “I will be,” Rain said. “For real. Are we good?”

  The team was silent for a moment, and Rain wondered if they would reject his apology. Would they refuse to play with him this season? What then? Could they kick him off the team?

  And then Peño stepped out and gave him props. “We’re good, bro. Let’s forget it.”

  They tapped fists, and there was a general murmur of assent. Rain noticed that Rolabi was still watching him, and for just a moment, he saw a flicker of disappointment in his bright green eyes. But the professor soon turned back to the court.

  “Let’s scrimmage for an hour.”

  “No tricks?” Peño asked warily.

  “Just working on our vision. Rain, Vin, Lab, A-Wall, and Devon versus the rest.”

  Rolabi pulled out a ball. He extended it with one hand, staring down at it thoughtfully.

  “Humans are easily distracted. We focus on one actor and miss the others in the background. We watch one card as the dealer palms a second. We watch the ball but miss the game.” He looked at the players and then back at the ball. “We can see so much, and yet we choose not to. It is an odd decision.”

  Then Rain’s vision abruptly changed. It was as if he had put his fingers in front of his eyes, completely blocking his field of view except for the very periphery. He cried out and heard the others shouting, confirming that he wasn’t the only one affected. Rain spun around, shook his head, and rubbed his eyes, doing everything he could to remove the strange new obstacle.

  But nothing worked. Only his peripheral vision remained.

  “Not cool!” Lab shouted. Rain caught a glimpse of him whirling around like a top.

  “I can’t see!” Big John cried. “Well . . . sort of!”

  Rain tried to calm down. It was another illusion, the same as his missing right hand. There was no point in panicking. He breathed and tilted his head slightly, getting his bearings.

  “Ready to play?” Rolabi asked.

  “Just to clarify, does everyone else feel like they’re talking to the hand?” Peño asked.

  Rolabi tossed the ball up. Rain cocked his head, trying vainly to track the action with his limited vision. It should have been a bit easier than in the complete darkness, but he almost felt more disoriented using only his peripheral vision, because he was relying only on that. It seemed like his other senses had dulled again. Finally, he saw Vin scoop up the ball and start to dribble.

  “Keep talking!” Vin shouted. “Tell me where you are!”

  “Getting into my spot!” Rain called.

  Rain moved slowly down the court, waving his hands back and forth. He reached the corner and saw Vin dri
bbling to the top of the key, but he couldn’t see the defense or the net.

  It doesn’t matter until you have the ball, he told himself.

  Vin passed him the ball, and Rain managed to catch it. He turned to the net, surveying the rest of the court. Rain dribbled to the left, trying to catch a glimpse of Reggie. When he saw him trailing a step behind, Rain cut toward the net, moving right past Peño and Jerome on the perimeter.

  He was now alone with the big guys. He suspected that Twig or Big John would now be stepping up to block the lane. Normally, he would drive right past them and go for the layup, but it was impossible. He couldn’t see where they were coming from. He needed another option.

  Rain spotted Lab standing alone in the corner and passed him the ball.

  “I can see!” Lab shouted. He lined up the shot and drained it. “Nice pass, Rain!”

  Rain frowned and ran back to stay ahead of Reggie. He rarely made that pass out of the lane. Today it had been the only possible option. As they hurried back, he called out with the rest of his team to try to coordinate. It was like they had all become play-by-play announcers:

  “I’m at the top of the key!”

  “Play a three-two zone; Devon and A-Wall down low!”

  “I’ve got the right wing . . . Peño has the ball . . . who’s got him?”

  “I see him . . . Stepping up! Fill in behind me!”

  “Reggie just ran past me—who’s got him?”

  “I see him! He’s dropping back for the pass. Watch for cuts!”

  Rain defended Reggie on his wing, using a free hand to track him. His head was on a constant swivel. When an attacker ran past, visible in the corner of his eye, he had to figure out where they were headed and call out warnings. It was a game of strategy—slower and more methodical. But as the scrimmage continued, Rain felt increasingly attuned to his team. He relied on them on both ends of the court. It was only possible to get a sense of the game when every player talked. If one player went quiet, that part of the court went dark. It was a missing piece.

  He also realized that whenever there was an open shot, the block in his vision lifted. If he was driving into a crowd, it remained. Same for fadeaway jumpers or long threes. But if he had a truly good look, he could fully see. To get those looks, he had to move, rub screens, change pace.