Training Camp

by Kobe Bryant

  “Didn’t feel like an accident,” Big John muttered.

  It took at least five minutes to establish what they thought was the center line, and a few minutes more for the starters to get ready beneath the net. Devon wasn’t even sure he was facing in the right direction, but he spread his hands out and tried to keep track of the voices.

  “Remember when we used to just do layup drills and scrimmage?” Vin said wistfully.

  “Remember when we went three and twelve last year?” Reggie said. “We sucked.”

  “And you think this is going to help?” Big John said.

  “Couldn’t hurt.”

  “Tell that to my shin,” Big John said.

  The starters finally set off—or at least it sounded like they did. Their shouting voices and shuffling steps slowly closed in. Finally, when the voices were nearly on top of the defenders, everyone started to shout, and Devon lost track of the attackers. Somebody ran into his chest. Teammates cried out for the ball. Someone missed a pass, and it went bouncing off the court.

  “Switch,” Rolabi said.

  It took another five minutes to get the bench team organized beneath the net. Devon bonked his nose on the wall, and then Vin missed the very first pass and lost the ball again.

  “This is going well,” Jerome said.

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

  Devon eased open his eyes. A crimson ball of light moved in the darkness. He could make out thin black lines curving around the sphere and the soft glow between them, though the ball cast no extra light. Armed with the illuminated ball, the starters moved a little faster, but Jerome still picked off a pass.

  “Switch sides,” Rolabi said.

  The play went back and forth for what felt like hours. Devon started to get used to the sensation of darkness. He had never noticed how helpful his other senses could be on the court. He knew the pros called out plays, but he had never thought to listen to the flow of bodies running and breathing. He used his hands to grab the ball, but he had never enlisted them to track the other team like probing tentacles. He supposed he could always smell, but he had never been aware of the pungent body odor moving around him with the cutting players. He even got an unfortunate taste of a sweaty arm.

  Finally, the starters managed to get across the gym, and the lights flicked back on.

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

  Devon shuffled over to the bench, blinking against the sudden fluorescent glare. He wondered what Rolabi had meant about him being ready to find his center. To face his cage. He had already been there, and yes, he had possessed the keys. But that didn’t mean he could use them. He gulped back some water, watching as the others did the same. Why couldn’t he just be normal like them? Rain and Twig and Lab—they were fine. They didn’t have to be afraid.

  “Twig, come up here, please,” Rolabi said.

  Twig shuffled over to the big professor, who made even the gangly center look short.

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

  Devon frowned. He didn’t like where this was going. Was it just Twig who was going to be put on the spot? Rolabi had to cajole an answer out of him. Devon could sympathize with his reluctance to talk.

  But then Twig spoke. “Okay, well, I have been working really hard,” he murmured. “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.”

  Devon focused again on the scars and pockmarks on Twig’s cheeks. A small part of him wondered if Twig had secrets too.

  We all have secrets and scars. Only the fool chooses not to see them.

  “Jerome,” Rolabi said.

  They began to cycle through, and Devon grew increasingly nervous. What would he say? Could he bring himself to talk in front of the team? His throat felt dry, and he downed more water. He felt his chest growing tighter as each person took their turn:

  “I want to kill it this season.”

  “I’ve been working on my jumper, and I know I’m going to hit some shots this year.”

  “I’m going to be a starter this year.”

  The statements were mostly generic. Devon tried to think of something. He would . . . play hard? That sounded stupid even to him. He was still rehearsing answers when Rolabi called on him. He walked to the front, racking his brain, and then just mumbled the first thing that came to mind.

  “I . . . I want another shot.”

  That seemed to confuse everyone, so he just hurried back to the bench. Why did he say that? He meant take shots. Or score. Not another shot. He stared at his feet, his cheeks blazing.

  You have come to the right place. But you have to earn it.

  How? he thought meekly.

  Tell me what we must do with our strength.

  Devon frowned. What? He didn’t know.

  Then pay attention.

  “Let’s scrimmage for an hour,” Rolabi said.

  “No tricks?” Peño asked.

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

  Devon looked around in surprise. He was playing with Rain now? Was he a starter? Both the centers from last year—Twig and Big John—were on the same team, so he figured he was now the opposing center by default. He stepped up across from Twig, and Twig nodded at him.

  “We can see so much, and yet we choose not to,” Rolabi said. “It is an odd decision.”

  It didn’t go fully dark this time. Instead, it was like a strange blockage had been placed in front of Devon’s face, leaving only two narrow slivers of visibility on either side. Devon turned this way and that, but the blockage remained. He rubbed his eyes, but that had no effect either. Devon sighed. It was another test. He just had to stay calm and play.

  Now you are getting it.

  The others didn’t seem to be taking it as well.

  “Not cool!” Lab shrieked.

  “I’m half-blind!” A-Wall said. “Maybe even three-quarters!”

  Rolabi tossed the ball up, and Devon jumped blindly. He caught a flash of orange and a confused Twig on the way back down. Then he felt someone smack him in the shin and spotted Twig hunched over below him, clearly having chased after the ball.

  “Sorry!” Twig said sheepishly.

  Vin scooped up the ball, and the scrimmage began. It didn’t take long for Devon to see the point of the exercise. It made passing and running in straight, direct lines nearly impossible. The ball had to be spread outward. Everything had to slow down to facilitate that. Devon moved constantly, shifting and turning to keep his teammates in view. Because his field of vision was so limited, he relied on his teammates to call out cuts and rotations and to let him know when shots were taken.

  He began to recite actions in his head on offense: Move to the ball. Catch it. Weigh your options. Choose the best one. Repeat. It was almost mathematical. He calculated the best odds every time he touched the ball. If he was going to shoot, he made sure he had a path. There was no guesswork—if you guessed, you were liable to run into something. It was a new style of play.

  All this time he had thought basketball was a mindless release—a battle of talent and strength. But there was much more going on if you slowed the action down. A game within a game within a game.

  “That will do,” Rolabi said finally. “Grab your bottles and join me in the center.”

  The blockage in his vision vanished, and Devon downed the rest of his water and started back for Rolabi. A-Wall fell in beside him, wiping his sodden face. His Afro was matted to his forehead as if it had been left out in the sun and wilted.

  “So you liking the Badgers so far?” A-Wall asked.

  Devon
glanced at him. “Uh, yeah.”

  “We used to have less wizards,” he said conversationally. “That’s new.”

  “Yeah, I kind of figured.”

  He noticed that A-Wall was staring at his chest. A-Wall stopped and looked him over.

  “So do you, like . . . do a lot of push-ups? I’m trying to work on my pecs.” He flexed and looked down at two pointy protrusions the size of bottle caps. “They’re small, right?”

  Devon frowned. “I—I don’t know. I guess you could do some push-ups.”

  “I knew it.” He rolled up his sleeve. “What do you think about my bi—”

  “Now, I am owed some laps,” Rolabi announced.

  Devon was actually grateful when they took off running. It wasn’t much of a run—they did a quick five laps, and then Reggie proceeded to hit his very first free throw attempt. They were back in the center circle in a couple of minutes.

  Rolabi opened his bag. “You all have your full eyesight again. But are you really looking? We must relearn to see.” Devon hurried to join the group just as Rolabi set down the potted daisy.

  “Not again,” Peño muttered.

  “Many times more,” Rolabi said. “If you wish to win, you must slow down time. Begin.”

  He turned on one heel and headed for the doors, his bag swinging beside him.

  “Where are you going?” Peño asked.

  “You will take the daisy home tonight, Peño,” Rolabi said. “Be careful with it, please.”

  Peño gulped.

  “How long do you want us to stare at it?” Rain called after him.

  “Until you see something new,” said the professor.

  The doors slammed shut behind him.

  Devon hesitated, then sat down and folded his legs beneath him. The others were talking, but he let their voices fade away. He focused on the petals and tried to see them move. That wasn’t likely to happen, of course—he had figured that out the first time. To watch the flower grow simply meant to appreciate time. To slow things down in his head to the point that even something as imperceptible as the growth of a flower might be seen. It didn’t really matter if it ever was.

  Most of the team didn’t join him. Big John left altogether, while several others shot around. Only Reggie and Twig remained seated. Devon ignored them all.

  It was some time before he felt the mood change. The entire gym fell quiet. Still. Cold.

  A deep sense of dread swept over Devon. He heard whispers and faraway voices. Twig and Reggie were rigid, their eyes focused just above his head. Devon guessed that the orb was floating right over him.

  He kept his eyes on the flower. He knew this might be his best shot. The orb had come for him. He stared at the flower for a minute, hopefully lulling the orb into false complacency.

  Devon took a last steadying breath. Then he made his move.

  He jerked his hand up without looking and felt it close on something viscous and icy cold. Devon looked up at the captured orb, watching it seep through his fingers. And then the gym disappeared.

  He was sitting on a concrete floor, surrounded by darkness. He slowly stood up.

  Where am I? he wondered numbly.

  The air was cold and damp, like a late-winter morning. It seeped into his bones, made them ache, made his skin prickle. Devon turned, peering into the darkness. There was no cage this time. No keys. But something appeared at the edge of shadows. He paused, gripped with fear.

  But his curiosity was stronger. He walked toward the hulking shape, his breathing shallow.

  As he closed in, Devon’s eyes widened. It was a door. He knew the door—it was the one from his old public school—a creaky metal one like Fairwood’s. Unexpectedly, Devon felt his eyes watering at the sight. He missed that place. Or maybe . . . he missed who he had been when he was there. Before everything went so wrong. Without thinking, he opened the door and stepped through.

  A scene appeared in front of him. A younger version of himself—already tall and broad—dribbled down a court for a layup, shouldering aside a smaller boy on the way. The younger Devon smiled as he hit the layup. The other boy didn’t. Greg Nennitz. It was him.

  “I didn’t know stupid meat loafs could get the ball through the hoop,” Greg said. “Hey, everyone, did you see the loaf of meat get a basket? It’s a miracle!”

  “Don’t call me that,” the younger Devon growled.

  Step away, Devon thought. Breathe.

  But his younger self didn’t listen. It had been going on for a year already. Little comments. Laughs and jokes. Greg always seemed at the center of it. He told the girls that Devon was dangerous, and they all stayed far away. He told the guys that Devon was stupid.

  They joined in with the name-calling.

  “Or what?” Greg said. “You’re too stupid to do anything about it. You’re a freak.”

  Breathe. Walk away. Play the game. Don’t do it. Don’t do it.

  “Shut up,” the younger Devon said.

  Greg took the ball and smirked at him. “Your mom must be an ogre. Ugh. Nasty.”

  Devon closed his eyes. He had tried so hard to forget. He spent countless hours burying it, shunting it aside, trying anything to lock it all away. Why was he seeing this again? Why?

  Breathe, he pleaded with his younger self. Walk away. This time, walk away.

  “Don’t talk about my family,” the younger Devon said, stepping closer now.

  Greg laughed. “What, how ugly your mama is? Or that your grandma is a cow—”

  Devon couldn’t really remember doing it. It was a stupid comment—nothing really. Maybe it was the accumulation of a year’s worth of taunts. Maybe it was his own issues with his size. Whatever it was, he snapped.

  And as he watched in horror, his younger self shoved Greg with every bit of strength he had—a considerable amount. The boy’s head smacked the ground with a sickening thud. His body went limp, his eyes closed, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. Other kids started screaming. So did the younger Devon. He called for help, wiping the blood with his own T-shirt, crying and shouting for teachers or an ambulance or his parents. Greg had suffered a severe concussion. He was in a coma for a few days. Away from school for months.

  Devon had overheard that it could have easily been fatal.

  Devon fell onto his knees as he watched the scene continue. Greg stayed on the ground for an excruciatingly long time, just like Devon remembered. The attack was just as bad. He really was as dangerous as they said. He could have killed him . . . just like that. In one moment of anger. The scene blew away in a wisp of smoke, and Devon knelt in the midst of it, ashamed.

  “It was a terrible thing to do. You were prodded, yes. But it was a mistake to push him.”

  Devon turned and saw Rolabi standing behind him, emerging from the tendrils of smoke.

  “But if we cannot grow, what are we?” he asked.

  “What is this place?” Devon whispered. His eyes were watering, his vision blurred. “Why did you bring me here?”

  “Actually, you brought me here,” Rolabi said. “This place is yours.”

  “What is it?”

  “Your fears,” Rolabi said. “Your scars. We are in them. The orb contains fears, which are different for everyone, of course. Not your everyday fears. Those are easy to see. This is far deeper. It is a place where few people go—the heart of their own fears.”

  Devon stared into the darkness. The smoke had faded now, leaving nothing.

  “Why did I see that?”

  “You tell me.”

  Devon tried to process . . . tried to quiet the terrible guilt inside of him. He knew it well.

  “I . . . think about it a lot,” he murmured.

  “This was the day things changed for you. It was the day you gave up.”

  “You saw what I did,” Devon said.


  “I saw a boy pushed too far, a boy who let himself down. Nothing more.”

  Devon whirled on him. “They said I was dangerous. They didn’t want me back.”

  “We should never listen to those who speak from fear. Why did you lock yourself away?”

  Devon was silent for a long time. “Because I believed them.”

  “And you have punished yourself since. Self-doubt is an invasive seed. It grows and grows until it takes over everything. It becomes anxiety. It chokes you. In time, you fear yourself most of all.”

  Devon looked down at his hands. They were trembling, and he knew that what Rolabi was saying was true.

  “What are you afraid of?” Rolabi asked.

  Devon hesitated and looked away. “That they were right,” he whispered. “That I am a bad person. That I am dangerous and an animal and all those awful things they said I was.”

  The whole room seemed to tremble.

  “You know,” Rolabi said thoughtfully, “only good people are ever afraid of being bad ones. But if you never beat that fear, then you can never reach your true potential.” He laid a hand on Devon’s shoulder. “Greg made a bad choice that day. So did you. You can make yourself a monster for the rest of your life, or you can become something more.”

  “But the other kids—”

  “They have moved on. Even Greg. The only forgiveness left to find is your own.”

  Devon wiped his nose. “How will I know if . . . if I’m a good person?”

  “The people you love will tell you. Stop isolating yourself, Devon. Learn from the past. Build yourself a future. Create new friendships here. Build them strong. You will need them.”

  Rolabi withdrew his hand.

  “The good news is that you have the strength to do it. And I don’t mean your biceps.”

  Light flooded into the dark room, and once again, Devon was standing in Fairwood. There were shouts and pointing fingers and stunned faces all around, but he didn’t pay any attention. He didn’t feel like talking. He just grabbed his duffel bag and headed for the doors.

  It was true. He had locked himself in that moment. Inside that old school. His memories were a cage. Maybe he had been waiting for someone to invite him out, to break the bars for him, to tell him he was good. But the cage opened from the inside. No one else could unlock it for him.