Training Camp

by Kobe Bryant

  “So . . . seven . . . eight . . .” he said, trying to memorize it. “Can you repeat that?”

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

  Twig stiffened and looked away, his cheeks burning. Why did he have to call attention to himself by asking questions? Talking never worked out for him. He needed to just be quiet and play. That was all anyone wanted from him.

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

  Alfie tried to hide a grimace. He hated scrimmages. They meant that Big John got to shove him around while Rain took a thousand shots. Nobody played with any systems or zones—scrimmages were free-for-alls that devolved into one-on-one play. Thankfully, they usually only happened at the ends of practices, so Alfie could leave quickly afterward to hide any bruises or budding tears. But to start the day with a scrimmage? This was going to be an absolute nightmare. He wondered if it was too late to fake an injury.

  “Last year’s starters versus the bench players. Devon will play for the latter.”

  Alfie could almost hear the implied for now. And to make matters worse, he was playing against Big John. Alfie groaned inwardly as he squared off with him across the line.

  The starters filled in around Alfie: Rain, Peño, Lab, and A-Wall.

  “Ready to get stomped?” Big John asked, not even bothering to whisper.

  Alfie felt a weight drop into his stomach. He wasn’t cut out for this. A real man wouldn’t want to cry over a stupid threat. But Alfie wasn’t a man. He didn’t know how to hide emotions. He didn’t know how to be strong.

  Hiding our emotions is not strength.

  Alfie looked around for the source of the voice, but then stopped, considering.

  It had almost sounded like the voice was inside his head.

  Umm . . . hello? he thought.

  Rolabi tossed up the ball. It was a perfect toss, and Alfie knew he was going to win the jump—he had almost six inches on Big John and a better vertical too. But Big John had other plans. He bodychecked Alfie in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Alfie bent over, wheezing, and Big John tapped the ball back to Vin. Alfie gasped, wondering if he would vomit.

  He felt the air flood back into his lungs as he gathered himself, and a mixture of humiliation and anger and guilt flooded through him. Big John was wearing a lopsided grin as though he had done something clever. The worst part was that Alfie knew he wasn’t going to do anything about it, despite his father’s constant lectures and advice. He was a coward. A weakling.

  Big John hurried to the low post, and Alfie followed him, still feeling the tightness in his stomach. Alfie moved behind him, keeping himself between Big John and the hoop, his arms waving like one of those ridiculous inflatable figures outside of car dealerships. Big John replied by lowering his shoulder and driving it into Alfie’s chest, then cocking his elbow for a painful dig into Alfie’s exposed stomach. Alfie bit back another shout.

  “You gonna cry, Twig?” Big John taunted.

  Alfie ignored him, trying to ward off the constant blows.

  “Can’t you speak?” Big John said. “Pathetic. Why you here, anyway?”

  “To . . . play ball.”

  “You don’t belong here, rich boy. Go back to the burbs with Daddy.”

  “Freddy asked me to come—”

  “And now he’s gone,” Big John hissed. “Hey, new kid, switch!”

  Big John lumbered over to the other post, and Alfie reluctantly went after him. Devon and A-Wall hurried by, and Twig noticed that Devon gently stepped around him, avoiding contact. He turned back, frowning. Devon wasn’t pushing or shoving down low at all. He just stood there, a lone arm up for the pass, and didn’t say a word.

  Why isn’t he pushing A-Wall around? Twig thought, confused.

  He saw that Reggie was trying to get a pass to Big John and remembered what his dad had said: try and get a hand in front of your man to block the entry pass. He fought to get in front.

  “Here!” Big John said. “Let me snap this Twig!”

  Reggie tried the pass, but Rain picked it off.

  “C’mon!” Big John shouted. “What kind of a pass was that?”

  Alfie tried to follow Rain on offense, but Big John stuck out a leg. Alfie toppled over, smacking his cheek into the floor, rattling his teeth. He lay there, stunned, checking his teeth with his tongue. Big John stepped beside him, staring down with a crooked grin, eyes gleaming.

  “Stay down,” he whispered.

  Alfie wanted to, but he figured someone would step on him, so he scrambled up again and got to the block on defense. Big John deliberately overran it to collide with him, and Alfie gasped as the air flooded out of his lungs yet again. Jerome drove by him and laid up a basket.

  “Nice D, Twig,” Big John said. “Definitely living up to your namesake this season.”

  “Pick it up!” Peño snapped, thudding the inbound pass into Alfie’s chest.

  Alfie flushed and ran up the court. It was always his fault.

  Before he could even get to the block he heard someone cry out. Confused, he looked back and saw Vin taking it to the hoop for a layup. They were now losing 4–0, and Peño looked bewildered. Peño very rarely turned over the ball—he told everyone he had glue on his hands.

  “I thought you had mad handles?” Lab said. “You look like Twig dribbling.”

  “Thanks,” Alfie mumbled.

  Peño made it down the court this time, though just barely, and because Rain seemed strangely uninterested in getting open, Alfie flashed across the key. To his surprise, he got the pass. He turned and faked the shot from the free-throw line, and Big John flew past, clearly trying to swat the ball into another stratosphere. Alfie smiled and prepared to dribble in for the now wide-open layup. Then he froze. There was a mirror beneath the net—just one this time.

  Staring back was an almost skeletal little boy with a mop of unruly raven hair and big, watery brown eyes. It was Alfie as a second grader. He was holding the ball in the same position, getting ready to drive to the rim for a layup. But before he could move, other kids appeared around him.

  “He’s not gonna shoot it,” one said. “He’s scared.”

  “What a freak!”

  “Sissy!”

  Alfie knew the words by heart . . . he’d heard them all before. Then his dad walked up in the mirror, shooing the other kids away, and Alfie thought that maybe it was going to get better.

  “No son of mine gets teased like that,” he snarled. “You’re embarrassing me.”

  A thousand memories flashed through his mind. His father driving him home from a game, telling him that Rain is a real player. His father telling him to be more like his cousin Gerald—burly, tough, and a complete jerk. Further back. His father taking away his stuffed hippo when he was four because “he wasn’t a baby anymore.” It all crashed together, and it was hard to see or think or do anything at all. Because for all of that, he was still an embarrassment.

  Alfie passed the ball back to Peño, not even really hearing the tirade that followed. He shuffled down to the post, shaken. After that, he refused to get open for a pass. He didn’t want to touch the ball. He didn’t want to be Alfred Zetz.

  He barely paid attention the rest of the scrimmage. He took elbows and shoves without complaint. Rain was clearly getting agitated, and when a lucky bounce brought a defensive rebound right into Alfie’s outstretched and reluctant hands, Rain took off running, leaving Reggie hopelessly behind him. Alfie caught a glimpse of light reflecting off a pane of glass.

  “Twig! Here!” Rain shouted.

  Without thinking, Alfie lobbed the ball up the court, happy to get rid of it.

  “Afraid to dribble?” Big John asked.

  Alfie glanced at him and jogged after Rain.

  “Nothing to say?” Big John said. “Always running, right?
Always running scared.”

  Alfie felt his cheeks burning. Ahead of him, Rain was acting very bizarrely, moving in exaggerated slow motion. Then he stopped and heaved a long three that fell well short.

  Rain didn’t take shots like that. Something was happening.

  What was Rain seeing? Alfie wondered.

  Now you are asking the right questions.

  Alfie flinched and turned to the professor just as he strode onto the court.

  “That will be all for today.”

  “We aren’t going to do any drills?” Peño asked.

  As usual, Rolabi didn’t respond. With an eerie precision, the ball rolled directly between his polished shoes and stopped there. Rolabi scooped it up and proceeded back to the bleachers, dropping it into his bag on the way. He sat down as casually as if he were waiting for a bus. As soon as he did, there was an earsplitting crash. The locker room door flew open at once, careening into the wall and causing everyone to whirl to the source of the noise. Icy cold wind rushed out from the locker room, and Alfie stared in wonder. There were no windows in there.

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

  Alfie turned back. The bleachers were empty, and Rolabi Wizenard was gone.

  Alfie continued staring as the others launched into an argument about magic and sorcerers and whether they were all going crazy. As he listened, a memory surfaced in Alfie’s mind. It had been nagging him since yesterday. It was a story he’d read a long time ago, or perhaps had read to him . . . a children’s story. It had been about magic, except it was called something else . . . grapa? He remembered a mountain, and an island . . . and something else. The Kingdom of Granity. His eyes widened. That’s why the word granity had seemed familiar on the contract.

  Alfie stepped back to his bag to put his shoes away and froze when he saw a business card on top of his duffel. The card was white and blue, inscribed with a W and the number 76522494936273. He picked it up, wondering when Rolabi had possibly placed it there. Alfie hurried out to the parking lot and dialed the strange number. To his surprise, it started ringing.

  A deep voice answered. “This is Rolabi Wizenard—”

  “Hi, Rol—”

  The voice continued unabated. It sounded like a prerecorded message.

  “This line is for parents only. Have a good evening, Twig.”

  Alfie flinched and hung up. He stared down at his phone, bewildered, and then another piece of the old children’s story came back to him. A specific word. One he had long forgotten.

  “Wizenard,” he whispered.

  It wasn’t a last name. It was a title.

  He called his mother for a ride, suddenly eager to get home. He had to go find that book.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Alfie sat alone in the locker room, the stink pushing its way up his nostrils like two festering slugs. He was perched on the wooden bench that wrapped around the room, attached by steel brackets and spotted black with mold. The walls, once white, were now stained yellow with coppery rings from water damage. A few remaining rust-colored hooks jutted out over the bench. Alfie wanted to be alone, and in here, loneliness was guaranteed.

  He held the old, crinkled book in his hands. The World of Grana.

  He’d found it buried at the bottom of his closet and read it at least ten times last night. It was about an island, a place far out in the ocean and marked with a single snowcapped mountain: the Kingdom of Granity. There were teachers there—women and men who traveled the world unlocking grana, moving in and out of societies like ghosts. They were called Wizenards. In the story, an orphan—a girl named Pana—lost at sea stumbled upon the island and was trained to be one of them. She wanted to stay on the island and forget her old life, but after she learned the secrets of grana she realized she couldn’t. The last lines of the book were:

  Pana realized grana had always been there. And she knew she had to go back to the world and share its lessons with them. And so Pana left the Kingdom, but now as a Wizenard.

  Alfie chewed on his nails. He’d brought the book to show the others, but it was ridiculous to think they might take it seriously. It was a story for children. His mom used to read it to him before bedtime. He could picture Big John laughing hysterically. He ran his fingers over the painted pictures on each page. A beautiful golden cup. A white stone castle. A great, arching door cut into the mountain and a cavernous, round room inside.

  He shut the book and put it back in his bag. It was a coincidence. It had to be.

  And yet Rolabi was far from a normal coach. Alfie’s father had phoned him last night, looking for answers about Alfie’s playing time. He had made the call from his home office, and when he came out, he had looked a little . . . uneasy. He softly told Alfie that Rolabi seemed like a good coach. That was it. He didn’t say another word. Alfie had never seen him so quiet.

  Maybe that was grana too.

  When Alfie pulled out his sneakers, a little folded note spilled out from one of them.

  Alfie felt his eyes well up, and he wiped them gruffly with the palm of his hand, smearing the hot tears across his cheeks. He believed her. He could tell her about Rolabi, and she would listen. But then she would tell his father. He would find out, and he would yell, and he would tell Alfie that cowards never win. That he needed to focus on his game.

  Alfie folded the note neatly and tucked it back into his duffel bag.

  “I can’t go out there,” he said softly, his voice lingering in the empty room.

  It felt like there were iron weights strapped onto his limbs, tying him to the bench. He knew he could sit there for the entire day and his teammates wouldn’t care. They probably wouldn’t even notice. Alfie leaned back, staring at the far wall, and then squinted.

  Something was written on the cinder blocks.

  He crossed the room and found a short message. Alfie wondered how he had missed it when he first sat down. The penmanship was surprisingly elegant, almost like calligraphy:

  Alfie ran his hands over the dried ink, considering the words. Then he nodded and went to get his shoes on. Hundreds or maybe even thousands of people had sat in this old locker room before, and some had probably been afraid. Maybe even whoever wrote that message. But they’d stood up anyway and went out there to play basketball.

  Alfie could do that too. He could face another day.

  When he walked out, most of the team was already there, and the home bench was full.

  Alfie sat on the away one and waited for Big John’s inevitable taunts. They didn’t come. In fact, no one was really talking at all. If they were speaking, it was only in whispers.

  Alfie slipped the book out of his bag. Was their coach really a Wizenard? Was it all true?

  “There’s no such thing as magic,” Lab snapped, rising above the whispers.

  “Is that so?”

  The voice came from behind them. Alfie twisted so sharply, he fell right off the bench. The rest of the team toppled over on the other bench and spilled into a tangle of limbs. Rolabi walked onto the court, his leather medicine bag in one hand, the other swinging rhythmically at his side like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. It was almost hypnotizing.

  “If you don’t believe in magic,” Rolabi said, “you need to get out more.”

  His eyes flicked to Alfie, and as before, Alfie heard the ticking of the pocket watch.

  There is always time for change.

  Alfie didn’t look away this time. He met Rolabi’s eyes.

  He was looking at a Wizenard.

  The first to find the truth. But will you be the first to face it?

  How do I face it? Alfie thought.

  You work.

  “We will start with laps,” Rolabi said.

  Alfie blinked and climbed to his feet. He noticed that the team was turning in his direction to run, so Alfie took off, finding himself in an uncomfortable
lead. He set a slow pace, but five laps in, he was starting to sweat. A lot. It crept down his forehead and along his pointed nose, and he soon tasted wet salt on his lips.

  “We will take free throws, one at a time,” Rolabi announced. “As soon as someone scores, you will stop running for the day. If you miss, the entire team runs five more laps.”

  “I got this,” Peño said, wheezing as he stepped out of the line.

  Alfie doubled over, watching the sweat dribble down. It pooled on the floor for a second and then suddenly drained as though a plug had been pulled. He frowned. He had never seen the hardwood do that before. He looked around and saw the others gulping air beside him. Their sweat was dripping onto the floor and disappearing too. It was as if Fairwood was drinking it.

  He knelt down and felt the floors. They were coarse now—most of the wax had been stripped away, and the wood had splintered in places. Alfie’s fingers seemed to dry on contact.

  “What kind of a shot was that?” Lab asked incredulously.

  Alfie looked up. The ball was rolling away from a very dejected-­looking Peño.

  “Five more laps,” Rolabi said.

  Alfie stood up among the groans and prepared to start running again. His eyes widened.

  “Does anyone else see this?” Jerome whispered.

  The floor now veered upward at a 45-degree angle, as if the entire gym had been picked up on one end. Alfie felt his shoes slip backward, and he crouched, shifting his weight.

  “Begin,” Rolabi said.

  A Wizenard, Alfie thought in awe.

  Are you ready to find your grana?

  I . . . I don’t know, he thought.

  Then run and find out.

  Alfie took off. He was forced to widen his strides and lean forward, pushing himself up the incline with his arms ahead of him as a counterbalance. His legs pumped side to side like an ice-skater’s, and his thighs were burning terribly when he finally reached the baseline and turned again. Alfie slid to a halt, feeling a pileup behind him. Now the floor slanted downward.