Training Camp

by Kobe Bryant

  “That’s how you got the scars?”

  “Yeah.” Alfie looked away, embarrassed. “I don’t know why I do it. I guess . . . I’m sick.”

  “Did you tell your parents?”

  “They found me doing it one night. My dad told me that men didn’t do that stuff.”

  “I’ve seen him at the games,” Reggie said carefully. “He seems a little intense.”

  Alfie snorted. “That’s an understatement. He wants me to be better. Stronger and stuff.”

  Reggie nodded and looked down at his hands. They twisted in his lap, fidgeting.

  “I had some issues when my parents passed away. Well . . . I still do. Don’t sleep much. Can’t relax at night, you know? I get . . . sick a lot too. I think I do it to myself. Like I think so much about them and I get sad again and it turns my stomach. I end up throwing up.”

  “Why do you do it to yourself?” Twig asked.

  “To feel pain . . . or suffer . . . I don’t know. Maybe to make the outside feel like the inside.”

  He sighed and glanced at Alfie.

  “Maybe we both feel like we deserve to be hurting, you know?”

  Alfie ran his fingers over his cheeks. Felt the divots. The scars.

  “You don’t deserve it,” he said.

  “Neither do you,” Reggie said. “Maybe we can remind each other of that sometimes.”

  Alfie felt a weight slip off his shoulders he didn’t even know was there. “Deal.”

  They exchanged props, and Alfie smiled as he pulled on his shoes. He thought about his father, and Big John, and all the kids who had called him weak. He thought about his own internal voice, saying the same thing, telling him he would never be strong. His own voice was the worst. And maybe he had been listening to all of them for too long.

  ALFIE WAS BACK in the locker room. He liked it there now. It had been thoroughly cleaned in the last few days—who had done it, Alfie had no idea. The room was quiet, and it was his place, since all the others still got changed on the benches out of habit. He was thinking about the future. He did that a lot.

  He usually thought about his dad. His dad said he wanted his son to surpass him, but Alfie thought he wanted another shot . . . through Alfie, maybe, but really for himself. Sometimes his dad stood alone in the basement for hours and stared at the old trophies and dusted them even though he never dusted anything else. He’d had so much success in high school, and it wasn’t enough for him.

  Alfie was afraid that he couldn’t even get to that level. It often kept him up at night. It turned his stomach at dinner. His father was always there, hounding, criticizing, pushing him.

  Alfie sighed and leaned against the brick wall, feeling the comforting warmth against his back. He realized he hadn’t really been thinking about the future. He was thinking about failure.

  That was what was behind all those doors—in his mind, anyway. Different ways to fail.

  As Alfie zipped his bag up and headed for the door, a flash of movement caught his eye. He froze. The orb was back. And this time, it had come just for him. He knew that down in his bones.

  He slowly turned and faced it.

  The orb was floating in the corner of the locker room at about eye level. Alfie let his duffel bag fall to the floor. The orb didn’t move. Neither did he. He took a deep, calming breath.

  And then he made his move.

  Alfie lunged straight at the orb and missed. He spun and chased it around the room, running and jumping and reaching wildly. He stepped off the bench that wrapped around the room and flung himself upward, trying to swoop down on top of it like an eagle. But the orb flitted around, always out of reach, taunting him. Alfie narrowed his eyes and kept chasing.

  Soon sweat was snaking between his eyes. He was preparing to charge again when he thought back to yesterday. To the lack of vision. More so, to the way things had slowed down.

  Buy yourself time.

  He thought of the flower and took a deep breath, letting out some of the tension in his muscles. The orb shifted like a suspended raindrop. When Alfie moved again, he didn’t rush. He thought about what the orb would do next, and how he would respond, and how it would play out. The orb avoided him, but he didn’t put all his effort into a blind chase. He watched where it went, and slowly, meticulously, he discovered a pattern. If he charged, the orb dodged left, then left, then right. Left, left, right.

  Left, left, right.

  Alfie grinned. It had just gone right.

  He charged, faking right, but shot his hand out to the left at the same time. The orb zoomed into his outstretched fingers, and the locker room turned to black.

  Alfie was standing on a smooth concrete floor that stretched out into shadow all around him. There were no walls, no ceiling. Just floor and space and a chill that stuck in his lungs and crawled along his skin with probing, icy fingers. Where was he? Why was he here?

  There were no doors. No corridor. This place felt deeper than that.

  Alfie turned and found himself looking at a mirror. His reflection stared back at him: gangly and pale, with fiery red spots on his cheeks and a quivering bottom lip. His waxy hair was plastered to his forehead, making him look sickly. His shoulders were slumped and bent, his posture defeated. Words spontaneously looped across the mirror in silver ink:

  Alfie’s reflection began to scream the words at him.

  He covered his ears on instinct, but he couldn’t turn away. He was fixated on the mirror.

  His reflection changed again. His body filled out with muscle and fat. His cheeks cleared and hardened. He grew facial hair and hard, dark eyes. This wasn’t Alfie anymore. It was his father.

  His face was lined with something Alfie recognized all too well: disappointment. He was always wearing it. It was in the eyes mostly, but also the hard line of his stubbled upper lip, the folded arms, the tilted head. The cool words in his throat. All of it ready to tell him he was weak.

  “I’m trying,” Alfie said, feeling himself shrink down before his father. “I’m trying.”

  “It was a powerful image for you. The mirror. I wondered why.”

  Alfie spun around. Rolabi was standing beside him.

  “I don’t like mirrors,” Alfie said quietly.

  “Why?”

  Alfie turned back to the image of his father. He was still there but blurring, as if rain were running down the glass. Alfie realized his eyes were watering. He didn’t even know when they had started.

  “Because I don’t like myself,” he said.

  “How strange not to like ourselves. We’re the only person we’ve ever truly known.”

  Alfie frowned. “I can see other people. It’s obvious how I compare. I’m a loser. I know you or the gym or the grana or whatever has been trying to help me, and I’ve had moments of feeling stronger. But it’s a lost cause. Look at me. I’m still weak.”

  “You live in a world framed within your mind. You are the master of your perception.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Alfie asked, louder than he intended.

  “It means you have decided you are a loser. You can change your mind.”

  Alfie gestured to the mirror, where his father’s face was still barely visible. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not like him.”

  “We are standing inside your fears. Is that your fear—that you won’t be like him?”

  “Of course,” Alfie said. “I don’t want to let him down.”

  “Look closer.”

  Alfie stared at the reflection, and as he did, the reflection began to shift again. His father’s short hair grew longer and thinner, and his dark eyes softened. The belly melted away with the muscle, and his cheekbones morphed into ridges. Alfie took a step back. He was looking at himself, but the same age as his father. He looked disappointed. Alfie stared at himself, horrified and transfixed.

&n
bsp; “Is—is that me?” he whispered.

  “If you continue the way you are going, yes.”

  Alfie felt his eyes flood with fresh tears. These were tears of guilt. He saw the truth now.

  “I’m not afraid I won’t be like him,” Alfie murmured.

  “What, then?”

  Alfie hesitated. It felt traitorous to say it. “I’m afraid I will be like him.”

  It was true. His father was stuck in the past. He was angry and full of regret. He shouted at Alfie and at his mom, and he went to work and hated it. Alfie had long ago stopped admiring his father. He had started to resent him. And, somehow, to pity him.

  “You are your own person,” Rolabi said. “If you spend all your time chasing someone else’s shadow, how will you ever find your own light?”

  Alfie watched the mirror shift again to reflect his own gangly body. He stared at it.

  “I have high hopes for you, Alfred Zetz. You will need all of your courage.”

  “I’m still afraid,” Alfie whispered.

  “For now.”

  With that, the darkness was gone. Alfie was back in the locker room, staring at his empty hand. He knew he hadn’t beaten his fear. But he’d seen it. And he realized now that he had been afraid of the wrong monster all along. No more. He had to face that deeper question:

  Why didn’t he like himself, and how could he start?

  He grabbed his duffel bag and walked out to the gym. He noticed Rolabi standing beside the front door, and the professor nodded at him. Alfie nodded back, got his ball, and went to warm up. Rain was the last to arrive, and then Rolabi walked crisply to center court.

  “Gather around,” Rolabi said. “Today we work on your shots.”

  Rolabi reached into his bag and removed a ball with a W. Then his eyes fell on Devon.

  “Hmm,” Rolabi said. “This will be fascinating.”

  He tossed Devon the ball, and the second it touched his hands, Fairwood vanished.

  This time Alfie wasn’t thrust into a dark room. He was on top of a mountain, along with the rest of the team. Alfie looked around in wonder. The mountain was narrow, more like a stone tree, and it rose to such terrible heights that the clouds floated far below like distant tufts of cotton. Across from the mountaintop was a second stone tower with a lone hoop and backboard, and between the two, only cold, endless space. Rolabi was nowhere to be seen.

  The others started arguing, but Alfie stepped toward the ledge. His heart was lodged in his throat like a cork, but he was trying to think. There was no place like this in all of Dren—he was sure of that. All around them clouds rolled off to the horizon, framed beneath a blue-black sky. The sun was pale enough that stars littered the sky. It felt like Alfie could reach out and grab one.

  A tremendous crack like a thunderbolt split the air, and he nearly toppled over the side. Alfie turned just as a piece of rock split from the mountain and was swallowed eagerly by the clouds. He never heard it land. More deep cracks splintered the mountaintop, creeping toward the team like vines. Alfie looked between the cliff and the hoop.

  “We need to do something,” he said, cutting right over the other players’ arguments.

  Everyone looked at him.

  “Like what?” Vin asked.

  “I don’t know,” Twig replied.

  He thought back to what Rolabi had said. Shooting. And there was a hoop . . .

  “We’re supposed to be practicing shooting, right? Maybe we need to shoot the ball.”

  There was another thunderous crack.

  “Take the shot, Rain,” Reggie said, and Devon quickly threw him the ball.

  A huge chunk of stone split off, shrinking the plateau by another ten feet. The team closed in, forming a little U around Rain, who set up to shoot. He was trembling madly, and Alfie knew immediately he would miss. Rain’s shot clanked off the rim and plummeted into the clouds.

  Alfie peeked over the edge. “That’s not good—”

  The ball abruptly flew back up and landed in Vin’s hands. He stared at it, wide-eyed.

  “Keep shooting!” Twig urged.

  Vin missed. Several more missed after him. No one could make the shot.

  The ball came to Alfie.

  Someone has to open the door.

  He stepped forward, taking a deep breath. His hands were shaking, so he breathed again, trying to still them. He knew it was the fear making people miss. But he was always afraid when he was shooting . . . of missing or being blocked or getting yelled at. He knew that feeling well.

  What was the difference, really? Fear was fear.

  “Hurry up!” Peño urged as another crack split the mountain.

  The old Alfie would have hoisted up a shot immediately. But he fought the urge and went through his routine. He dribbled it, took a last breath, and then rose up for the shot and drained it.

  “Nice one, Twig!” Reggie said, clapping him on the back.

  Alfie stepped back, shocked that he had been the first and hoping the mountain would vanish. But it wasn’t enough. Nothing changed. It seemed that everyone had to score.

  And the others were still struggling. Rain missed yet again, and the mountain was shrinking fast. It was about the size of Alfie’s bedroom now. Devon missed badly once again. Then Lab. Then Rain.

  “Come on, Rain!” Vin shouted.

  Round by round they went. Soon it was only Rain, Lab, Peño, and Devon left. Peño made his shot and pumped his fist. More of the mountain collapsed. There wasn’t much time now.

  Alfie imagined falling into the distant clouds and felt dizzy. Rain missed again.

  “Come on!” Rain shouted in disbelief.

  Devon missed. Lab made his next shot, and his older brother pulled him into a hug. Another chunk of the mountain fell. Now Rain and Devon—the last ones to score—had to press their backs against the group while they shot to avoid falling. Rain took a shot and rimmed out.

  “No!” Vin shouted.

  The ball came to Devon. As he lifted it, Alfie realized that they weren’t attacking this drill like a team. Watching and shouting and getting angry at one another wasn’t helping.

  This wasn’t just about individual shooting. If it were, why were they all here?

  He pushed his way through.

  “Wait!” Alfie said, stepping up beside Devon.

  Devon looked at him in surprise but lowered the ball.

  “Just breathe,” Alfie said, gently pushing down on his elbow. “Tuck your arm in. Yeah . . . perfect. And follow through toward the net. Your wrist will flick at the end.” He showed him what it would look like. “Flick it like you are dropping it in there.”

  He could hardly believe he was coaching someone, but Devon listened carefully, watching Alfie’s form, and then took the shot. The ball hit the rim, careened off the backboard, and dropped in. Devon laughed and gave him a clap on the shoulder . . . hard enough that he knocked Alfie toward the edge. His shoe slipped, and he felt empty air, flailing wildly.

  Devon grabbed his shirt, pulling him back to safety.

  “Sorry,” Devon said.

  Alfie managed a weak smile. “No problem.”

  Rain stepped forward just as another huge chunk split away. There was no more time. The next boulder would take the team with it. The ball flew up and landed softly in Rain’s hands.

  “Make it, Rain!” Peño shouted.

  There was a deep crack beneath their feet. The mountain’s bones were giving way.

  “Hurry!” Vin said.

  The ground shifted.

  “Shoot it!” A-Wall said.

  “Stay calm,” Alfie whispered.

  Rain took the shot just as the final crack split through the air. The mountain teetered and swung backward, and Alfie watched as the ball spun toward the net, wondering if they were all about to die. He grabbed
Devon’s arm and felt open air on his back. The ball continued.

  Swish.

  The net rippled, and the mountain was gone.

  They were back in Fairwood Community Center. His teammates collapsed to the ground or cheered and laughed manically. Alfie did neither. He stood there, thinking that he might have accomplished more today than he had in his entire life. Rolabi was waiting calmly for them.

  And now the tree stretches for the sky.

  “Welcome back,” he said. “What makes a great shooter?”

  “You almost killed us!” Vin shouted.

  “Twig, what do you think?” Rolabi asked, ignoring Vin’s hysterics.

  Alfie thought about that. “Good form?”

  “A good shooter needs that, certainly. But more is needed for greatness.”

  You know the answer. What does a great shooter lack?

  Alfie was confused. Why would a great shooter lack anything?

  “Fear,” Devon said. “He lacks fear.”

  Alfie almost laughed. Of course.

  “All great shooters are fearless. If they fear missing, or being blocked, or losing, then they will not shoot. Even if they do, they will rush. They will allow fear to move their elbows or turn their fingers to stone. They will never be great. And how do we get rid of our fears?”

  “We face them,” Devon replied.

  Rolabi nodded. “Yes . . . and one thing we all fear is letting down our friends. Basketball is about confronting fear. If you won’t face it, you will lose. We will practice a thousand shots. Ten thousand. Twenty. If you take them all from a crumbling mountain, you will become great shooters.”

  Alfie thought about that. It was the heart of his entire game. Fear of losing. Of humiliation. It drove his decisions on the court. Without that fear, he could just play.

  Rolabi strolled toward the wall, bag in hand. The lights flashed, and he vanished.

  Alfie turned to Reggie. “That was close.”

  “Yeah,” Reggie said. “It’s crazy, you know . . . what you think of.”