Training Camp

by Kobe Bryant

  “You’re back,” Rolabi said, his eyes falling on him.

  Devon stiffened. “I . . . I am.”

  “And I won my bet. Do you know what one of my favorite traits is in a person?”

  “Umm . . . no,” he said.

  “Someone who keeps their promises.”

  Devon stared at him, his mouth opening and closing without sound. How could he possibly know about his promise? He had made it to himself in the mirror three nights ago, gripping the bathroom counter and whispering each word. Ten days to try. His parents didn’t even know.

  Was it a coincidence?

  “It’s good to have you back,” Rolabi said, smiling. “Nine more days to go.”

  Devon blanched, opened his mouth, closed it, and managed a weak nod.

  In a moment, the Badgers were gathered before the coach.

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

  Devon glanced at him. He was tall—maybe six five—but skinnier than Devon’s wrist, with almost skeletal features and cheeks rippled with small divots and scars. He had his hand up as if he were in a classroom.

  “Yes?” Rolabi said.

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

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

  Devon glanced at Rolabi, confused. Tryout? Freddy had told him that he was automatically on the team if he showed up. He had been so worried about getting through the training, he hadn’t even thought about having to try out. What if his offense got him cut?

  Of course he would be cut. It would be better for everyone, himself included. This had all been a mistake. But he couldn’t shake a little feeling of dismay, even fear, at the prospect of being kicked off the team. It surprised him.

  If you really want your cage, it will be waiting.

  Devon glanced at the big man. That voice had been his. There was no doubt.

  What cage? he thought.

  The one you built for yourself. Why did you build it?

  Devon turned away, his eyes screwing shut, his cheeks hot. Images and voices snuck into his consciousness—wisps of smoke from an unseen fire—but he drove them away. Pushed them down and down into some lockbox he had created. That was where they belonged. Hidden away.

  And then you joined them.

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

  Devon tried to hide his disappointment. He had hoped they would start with some physical drills so he could showcase his athleticism. Now he might have to shoot the ball and be immediately humiliated. What if he got cut on the second day? What if they all laughed at him?

  He looked at the others, feeling his throat tighten. He tried to clear his throat and coughed, then saw someone looking at him, and flushed.

  Last night, he had admitted to his nana how nervous he’d been at practice . . . almost sick from it.

  She’d said, “Anxiety has a feeling to it, Devon. It sits in your bones like a cold weight, and the more you ask it to leave, the more comfortable it gets. You get nervous about the anxiety itself, and that makes a nasty little circle. I saw it with your grandpa, rest his soul. So don’t bother asking it to leave. Let it sit. If you don’t ask for its opinion, it will stop giving you one.”

  He tried to remember that. Just let it sit. Play the game. One possession at a time.

  “You think you’re nervous?” a grumpy voice said. “I get to be a giant drum set.”

  Devon glanced around, then scowled. Buildings don’t speak, he reminded himself.

  “Or humans don’t listen,” the voice retorted.

  “We are going to use a different ball today,” Rolabi said, drawing one out from deep inside his bag. “Last year’s starters versus the bench players. Devon will play for the latter.”

  Devon tried to remember who the bench players were. He saw a few boys look at him appraisingly and assumed they must be from the bench team: Reggie, Vin, Jerome, and Big John.

  Twig and Big John stepped up for the toss, so Devon matched up with A-Wall.

  Just play the game, Devon thought again, trying to control his already-pounding heart.

  He played with his father in the street most nights, but it was different to be back on a real court. There was pressure here. Less time to think. Moving bodies and shouting and run-ins. He decided to be very careful—he was not going to start the training camp by hurting somebody.

  Devon gingerly sidled up to A-Wall. He was a slightly stooped kid with an Afro and a smattering of freckles beneath his eyes. He was chewing on a mangled toothpick.

  “So you’re the new power forward,” A-Wall said, eyeing him over. “You’re big.”

  “Uh . . . yeah,” Devon said.

  “A-Wall,” he said, extending a hand. “They call me that because I lose my temper. Just in games, though. Never at my own team. I mean, besides a few times. But rarely. Don’t sweat it.”

  Devon frowned and shook his hand. “Oh. Devon. That’s . . . just my name.”

  “Cool. I think I met a dog named Devon once. He was a stray. Had fleas, I think.”

  Devon stared at him, wondering if it was a joke, but A-Wall seemed quite sincere.

  “Cool,” Devon murmured.

  “I think your team has the ball, bro,” A-Wall said.

  Devon realized that Vin was dribbling up the floor, so he sprinted to the post to get open. A-Wall stomped after him. Devon spread his legs, bracing himself, and A-Wall hurried to get in position and tried to push him off the low post. Devon didn’t move an inch.

  “It’s like pushing against a wall,” A-Wall muttered. “And I would know.”

  Devon glanced back. A-Wall was certainly . . . unique. But when he saw the sweat beading on A-Wall’s forehead, and the strain on his face, he let himself be pushed out. He didn’t want to make anyone nervous. Or afraid.

  “New kid . . . switch!”

  Devon turned to see Big John running toward him, gesturing for Devon to move. He quickly ran to the other block, keeping clear so he didn’t run into Twig, who looked very fragile. A-Wall hurried after Devon, grabbing on to his arms and holding on like the reins of a dogsled.

  “I foul a lot,” A-Wall said conversationally. “Devon, huh? You could be D-Wall.”

  “I . . . uh . . . Why?”

  A-Wall snorted. “Devon . . . strong like a wall. What’s to get? Uh-oh.”

  Rain had stolen the ball, but he heaved a three and missed badly.

  Devon got into position down low again. His guards—Vin, Jerome, and Reggie—moved the ball around the three-point line, and then Reggie threw the ball to him. Devon caught the pass and glanced back. A-Wall had stepped away, maybe wary of Devon’s looming elbows, so Devon was wide-open for a shot. He turned to the hoop, bringing the ball up for a quick bank shot.

  “Just take your time,” his dad always said—usually right before Devon missed.

  He looked toward the basket, trying to remember to tuck his elbow. His eyes widened.

  The hoop was the size of a coin. The backboard was the same, the ball was the same . . . the hoop was just minuscule. He couldn’t have fit his index finger through it. Devon stared at the miniature net, bewildered. There was no conceivable way he could get the ball through that rim.

  Short of options, he turned and passed the ball back to Vin at the point.

  “Take that shot, big man!” Vin shouted angrily.

  Devon was about to gesture to the hoop to show him how small it was when he saw that it had gone back to normal again. Had he imagined the tiny rim? He scratched his head.

  “Yeah,” the surly voice said, “you’re bonkers. Might as well do some cleaning instead.”

  “Who are you?” Devon whispered, looking around.

  “Your conscience,” the voice said sarcastically. “Now stop stepping on
me, you clod.”

  The rest of the game wasn’t much better. Devon soon realized that everyone was acting strangely . . . that, or they were all really bad at basketball. A-Wall kept trying to touch something invisible, and he was pretty sure Reggie started crying at one point. Devon constantly found himself facing a mini rim with an oversize beach ball. Combined with his reluctance to bump into anybody or fight for rebounds, he was pretty much useless. His unwillingness to shoot clearly irked his point guard, Vin, who kept shouting, “Take the shot, dude!” or “What are you doing, big man?” or “You were so open, bro!”

  At one point, Vin ran past him with a pronounced scowl.

  “You join the team to never score a point?” he snarled. “Step it up, man!”

  Devon didn’t know what to say. To him, the message was clear: We don’t want you here. He remembered it well. Devon wanted to storm out of the gym. Instead, he kept running and moving and refusing to take a shot.

  After a strange sequence where Rain seemed to be trying out some sort of slow-motion strategy, Rolabi walked onto the court. He hadn’t said a word throughout the awful scrimmage.

  “That will be all for today.”

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

  Rolabi didn’t seem to hear him. The coach just put the game ball in his bag, sat on the bleachers, and checked his watch. The instant he did, Devon heard a deafening crash. He turned to the far wall. A gust of freezing wind came roaring in from the now wide-open locker room door. Then, just as suddenly, the wind stopped, and the door slammed shut.

  “Where . . . How did . . . ?” Big John said, sounding almost faint.

  Devon turned back to the bleachers.

  Once again, Rolabi Wizenard had suddenly and inexplicably vanished.

  “He never says goodbye,” the grumpy voice said. “Rude, really.”

  Devon rubbed his temples and went back to his duffel bag, trying to remember if the world had always been this nonsensical. Clearly, he’d spent a little too much time alone. He wondered if everything he was seeing and hearing was because of the anxiety too. Maybe his nana would know.

  He sat down on the bench and pulled his ratty old bag out from underneath. After the new shoes, they hadn’t had the money for a bag, but he didn’t mind—it reminded him of his grandpa. Devon frowned. There was a card resting on the bag—blue and white with a big W and a number. So Rolabi had left a way to contact him. Devon tucked it in the bag. Nana would be happy, at least.

  “So,” Peño said, sliding up beside him on the bench. “New guy. Homeschooler. Big baller.”

  “You’re not going to rhyme, are you?” Lab asked from Peño’s other side.

  “Maybe later,” Peño said. “Just want to get to know the new kid. For instance, I noticed you don’t like to shoot. Or rebound. Or push people. And yet you’re huge. I’m a little confused.”

  Devon forced a smile. “I . . . I was just getting used to the team.”

  “Understandable,” Peño said. “Usually I can dribble. I just . . . well . . . It was a weird day. But, man, be big. Or at least show me some workouts. You’re like an ox. A box. A lock stock and—”

  “Please stop,” Lab moaned.

  “My brother doesn’t get my genius,” Peño said, sighing dramatically. “Well?”

  Vin hung up his cell phone. He seemed to be the only player who had one.

  “A recording. It said the line was for parents. And it said ‘Good night, Vin,’ which was creepy.”

  “He’s a witch,” Big John said.

  They proceeded to launch into an argument, and Peño patted Devon’s knee.

  “See you tomorrow, bro. Step on somebody, will you? Just not me. I’m too beautiful.”

  Devon laughed without thinking, and Peño shot him a grin and joined the debate.

  “You see any warts?” he said. “And witches don’t wear suits, dummy.”

  “How many witches you know?” Big John rebuked.

  “Well . . . we got your mama—”

  Big John chased after him, and Peño scampered away, laughing uproariously. Devon watched them run around the gym and laughed again. Maybe he could give it one more day.

  YOU LISTEN TO that Rolabi,” Nana said, wagging her finger again. “Don’t talk back to him.”

  Devon sighed as he swung one leg out of the car. Last night, Nana had dialed the phone number Rolabi had given out and proceeded to stay on the phone for nearly thirty minutes, talking like she’d reconnected with a childhood best friend. And after, she had told anyone who would listen that Rolabi Wizenard was a “blessing.” She wouldn’t tell them anything else, though.

  “When do I ever talk back?” Devon said. He closed the car door.

  “Don’t make me point out the irony here,” Nana said.

  From the back seat, Keya leaned out an open window and pointed a finger-gun at him. “Pew . . . pew . . . pew—”

  “Enough with shooting people!” Nana shouted. “I’m going to ship you off to space soon, girl.”

  “Good,” Keya said.

  Nana massaged the bridge of her nose. “I’m supposed to be retired. Taking it easy. Ha!”

  She drove off, leaving Devon to wave from the parking lot. The car pulled out into the road, squeaking and bumping and barely getting along. They had only the one—both his mom and dad took a bus to work so his nana would have a car for emergencies. It meant they both had to leave before sunrise, but they never complained, even when they returned after dark.

  He kicked a rolling paper bag. Devon had lived in the Bottom his whole life, but he had confined himself to his house for so long, he had almost forgotten how destitute the streets were.

  He pulled open the creaky old doors and walked into the gym. Rolabi was nowhere to be seen, but a few guys were already getting ready on the benches: Reggie, Peño, Lab, and Vin.

  “What up, big brute?” Peño said.

  Devon just nodded and sat down.

  “Not much of a talker,” Peño said, as if explaining to the others.

  “We noticed,” Vin muttered.

  Devon busied himself in his bag, pretending he didn’t hear them. He slid his shoes on and started walking around the gym, tuning out their conversations. Nana was forever snapping him out of his daydreams. She was a strict teacher. He didn’t get summer break, and she had given him these ten days off only because she wanted him to make friends. Everyone in his family wanted him to be the kid he had been before that day. They wanted him to forget what had happened.

  But Devon couldn’t just talk to these boys like he was a normal kid. He wasn’t.

  Normal—a common and impossible goal.

  Devon sighed inwardly. When he had loosened up, Devon went back to the bench and sat down. He had a ball now, of course, but it seemed everyone else was talking. He wasn’t going to go shoot alone where they could all watch him. So instead he just sat there, hands in his lap, listening to the others talk about Rolabi.

  “It was magic, man,” Big John was saying.

  “There’s no such thing as magic,” Lab replied, rolling his eyes.

  “Is that so?” a deep voice asked from behind them.

  It was like someone had flipped the benches. The entire team—Devon included—spilled forward, twisting to look and shouting as they toppled awkwardly to the ground. Devon smacked his chin hard enough to rattle teeth.

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

  Devon massaged his sore chin. Everyone else was still groaning.

  “We will start with laps,” Rolabi announced.

  The team climbed back to their feet and took off. They were moving at a slow pace, but Devon noticed that some players looked exhausted after only a few laps. Big John was already teetering. Devon wondered if they had done any cardio in prev
ious seasons. It didn’t look like they had.

  “How many laps we got to do, you think?” Vin asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jerome muttered. “Could be all day.”

  “Don’t say that,” Big John said, wheezing.

  When they had circled the court five times, Rolabi spoke again.

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

  Devon felt a lump form in his throat. Would he have to shoot? He was terrible at free throws. His dad had estimated him at about a 9 percent shooter on their old hoop, which even he said had to be some sort of record.

  “I got this,” Peño said, heading right for the free-throw line.

  Most of the team had already doubled over, so there were no complaints. Devon looked around, amazed. Why were they in such bad shape? How could they actually play a full game?

  Peño accepted a pass from Rolabi and proceeded to the free-throw line, moving with exaggerated slowness. He dribbled a few times, took a deep breath, looked up, and then froze.

  He seemed uncertain. He kept glancing from Rolabi to the hoop, mumbling something.

  Finally, Peño crouched down and heaved the ball over the net and out of bounds.

  Devon stared, bewildered. That shot was even worse than his. Maybe he would fit in here after all.

  “Five more laps,” Rolabi said.

  Devon felt it before he saw it—a shift in balance, a sudden pull. He crouched down in alarm as the entire gym suddenly tilted up on one end. They were now at the base of a steep hardwood hill, and the far wall was up. He blinked, disbelieving, but the steep incline remained.

  “I think I pulled something.” The cantankerous voice was back. “A left support strut, maybe.”

  “Does anyone else see this?” Jerome whispered.

  “Begin,” Rolabi said.

  There was a pause, and then Twig started up the hill. The team, short of options, trudged after him. Devon threw himself forward with every step, fingers gripping the floor and feet driving him upward with splayed steps to avoid slipping. When they reached the top, Devon turned to the baseline, ready to climb. The team bunched up again. The floor was tilted down now, steep and smooth.