Training Camp

by Kobe Bryant

  The fear was still there—the guilt and the shame and the self-doubt. At least Devon knew what was at the heart of it now.

  It wasn’t a victory. But it was a start.

  The monster had a face. Now Devon had to figure out if he was strong enough to defeat it.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Devon took a deep breath, staring at the doors. He had been planning his new approach all night. It was always easier before the fact, and now he had to follow through.

  “Just ask someone how they’re doing,” he whispered. “One person. Just try it.”

  “You grab them and pull,” someone commented.

  He jumped. Nana was still parked behind him—he had completely spaced out and forgotten they were there. Keya was playing with an action figure in the back seat, her helmet reflecting the smog-infused sunlight, while his nana was leaning out the window, grinning.

  “You’re still here,” Devon said, embarrassed.

  “Amazingly, yes,” Nana replied. “Though at a ripe old age. Come here.”

  Devon walked over to the car. Nana licked a wrinkled thumb and wiped his chin with it.

  “You eat like a barbarian.” She cupped his chin. “I’m proud of you.”

  “What?”

  She sighed, gave his chin a little shake, and smiled sadly.

  “And you still have such a hard road ahead. See you tonight.”

  With that, she drove off. He watched as the car rounded the corner, bumping and rattling along, and wondered what she meant by a hard road ahead. Did she know something about what his future held?

  Devon put the question aside for later and walked into Fairwood. Twig and Reggie were stretching by the benches, and Devon glanced at them as he sat down. He had promised himself to ask someone a question. Start a conversation. It scared the heck out of him, but he was going to try.

  Just not quite yet, he thought.

  He pulled on his sneakers and went to shoot around. For the last six days, he had been taking layups or avoiding shooting altogether. But he knew he couldn’t hide his inept form forever. Eventually, he would have to play a real game . . . if he made it through the camp. So, he just started to shoot.

  He shot jumpers from the elbow and threes and free throws. They clanged off the rim. They hit the backboard or nothing at all. But he didn’t stop. He shot until the ball was slick in his hands. He shot from each new location until he hit one—sometimes it took ten or twenty attempts. But every time he made a shot, he grinned and remembered exactly what he had done—the feel on his fingertips, the bounce in his toes, the direction of his elbow. Then he worked to replicate it again and again. Sweat began to stream down his face.

  Peño came up behind him, grinning:

  “Less terrible than usual,” Lab muttered.

  Peño threw his hands up. “I have impressed my brother!”

  “You rhymed shots with gots,” Lab said. “Don’t get too excited.”

  Devon snorted and kept working.

  “Today we work on your shots,” Rolabi’s deep voice announced. “Balls away.”

  That’s a coincidence, Devon thought.

  He wondered if Rolabi believed in such things.

  Devon looked around and realized the entire team had arrived. He quickly put his ball away and joined the group around Rolabi, lingering on the edge of the circle. The professor looked over their faces as if searching for something. His gaze fell on Devon, and he smiled.

  “Your grana grows stronger,” Rolabi said. “It is time to share it.”

  Rolabi tossed Devon a ball. As soon as he caught it, the gym fell away beneath him like melting wax. It was replaced with black skies tinged blue, dark enough to see a smattering of stars. Devon whirled around, his lungs flooding with cold, thin air. Thin, because the team was standing on a spiraling summit. The peak was small, chopped away at the edges into sharp lines and teeth. Devon’s breath caught at the sight of the clouds far below them. He spotted a second mountain facing theirs. Atop it was a pristine basketball hoop, and between the two mountains was ten feet of open space and a very long fall.

  Devon looked down at the ball. What had Rolabi meant? Had he brought the team here? And grana . . . That was the same word the grumpy voice had used. Why did it seem so familiar?

  You have always known it.

  What is it? he thought.

  It is shaping your world.

  The silent conversation was cut off by a crack like thunder. The team cried out as an enormous chunk of the mountain detached and fell toward the waiting clouds. New fissures rapidly spread out around the shorn cliffside, threatening to pull the rest down, and Devon immediately understood what was happening. The mountain was a giant hourglass. This test would be timed.

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

  The mountain splintered, sending another boulder plummeting toward the clouds, and the team turned to Devon. He looked down at the ball and felt his throat catch. He had to shoot it?

  “Take the shot, Rain,” Reggie said.

  Devon was relieved. Giving Rain the ball was definitely the smarter choice—hopefully only one of them needed to score. Devon tossed Rain the ball, though he noticed that Rain was trembling even more than he was. Rain barely caught the ball, and another boulder fell away. The mountain was collapsing faster now.

  Rain brought the ball up, his hands shaking madly, and missed. The ball fell into the abyss between the mountains, and Devon watched it numbly, wondering what they would do now. He needn’t have asked. The ball rocketed right back up again directly into Vin’s hands.

  “Keep shooting!” Twig said.

  They began to shoot, and each time, make or miss, some invisible force rebounded the ball back up over the mountain and into someone’s reluctant hands. When it came to Devon, he tried to stay calm, knowing he would never hit the shot otherwise. But he could feel the team’s eyes on his back. He could hear the cracking of stone. The short, shallow breaths of the nervous players.

  He took the shot and missed everything, eliciting a chorus of groans. Devon backed away from the cliffside. Only Twig made a shot the first round. The second round of attempts started with a miss by Rain.

  “I don’t like heights,” A-Wall said. “At least not when I’m on them.”

  Devon missed again as well—hard off the rim. Only a few of them had made their shots on the second round, and it started again. Rain missed. Vin made. Lab missed. Peño missed. Reggie made. A boulder fell. Devon missed again, this time off the back of the rim.

  “We’re dead,” A-Wall said.

  Devon ran his hand down his face, angry and afraid.

  Where is this grana now? he thought furiously.

  In every miss.

  Another chunk of mountain sheered away. The ball arched back up again, and Rain missed to the left.

  “Come on, Rain!” Vin shouted.

  Rain looked stunned. Lab missed. Peño made. Devon missed off the front rim and nearly screamed in frustration. He couldn’t do this. He wasn’t a baller. He was a coward and a failure, and there were too many eyes on him. He belonged at home, alone. Rain missed again.

  “Come on!” Rain screamed at the mountain.

  Lab made his shot. Just like that, there were only two players left: Devon and Rain. Rain missed. Devon missed again. Of course he did. This was a mistake. A failed effort. It was all a missed attempt. He had wanted friends, and now he was letting them down.

  Devon could hear them whispering:

  “He’ll never hit it.”

  “What do we do?”

  “He’s not even close. We’re gonna die, man.”

  The guilt was like a red-hot weight sitting in his stomach. His eyes welled.

  This isn’t worth it, he thought. I was better off alone. I was the only person I could let
down.

  The bars spring up again.

  Good! he thought, raging now. Leave me alone!

  There was no response.

  Rain missed again. Another boulder fell. The mountain was shrinking fast; they were almost out of time. The ball came back to Devon. His temper flared, replacing the humiliation. He couldn’t do this, and he shouldn’t be forced to. He never should have joined the stupid West Bottom Badgers. He lifted the ball quickly, not thinking, not focusing, just wanting it to be over.

  “Wait!” Twig said suddenly. He hurried over, gesturing for Devon to hold off. Devon looked at him, confused.

  “Just breathe,” Twig said quietly.

  Devon paused and then took Twig’s advice. His lungs flooded with cold, thin air. He took another gulp, and then another. The trembling in his hands calmed. The fire subsided.

  “Tuck your arm in. Yeah . . . perfect,” Twig continued, coaching him. “And follow through toward the net. Your wrist will flick at the end. Flick it like you’re dropping it in there.”

  Devon followed his instructions carefully. Twig wasn’t calling him a failure. He was trying to help. Devon turned to the basket and breathed deeply again. Then he took the shot.

  It hit the front of the rim, then the backboard, and dropped in. Elation surged through Devon, and he clapped Twig on the shoulder so hard that he nearly knocked the slender boy right off the mountain. Devon quickly grabbed his shirt and pulled him onto solid ground again.

  “Sorry,” Devon murmured.

  Twig managed a smile. “No problem.”

  The ball flew back to Rain. He stood at the edge of their shrinking huddle facing the basket. The rock cracked again, and Devon realized the sound was coming from right beneath them. His jubilation at hitting his own shot faded. The mountain was about to fall.

  “Make it, Rain!” Peño shouted.

  The splintering intensified.

  “Hurry!” Vin said.

  The ground shook and rolled beneath Devon’s feet. His breath caught in his throat.

  “Shoot it!” A-Wall cried.

  The mountain gave way just as Rain released the ball. The mountain fell backward, and Devon felt gravity tug at his limbs. He tried to scream, but no sound came out. He watched as the ball floated toward the hoop, spinning beneath the stars. It seemed to take hours to arrive. Then it flew through the rim with a gentle ripple of mesh.

  Instantly the team was back in Fairwood, and Devon slumped over, gasping. The team cheered and pumped their fists or dropped to kiss the ground. Rolabi stood in front of them, watching with calm bemusement. Devon looked at him, meeting those curious emerald eyes.

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

  What did you find?

  Devon paused, still trying to stop the shaking. I don’t know . . .

  What did you lose?

  “Think about the heart of a great shooter,” Rolabi said. “What does he lack?”

  Devon thought back to the mountain. To the moment when he finally made his shot. What did he lose in that moment? What was different from the shots before? What did he lack?

  “Fear,” Devon said, forgetting his shyness for a second. “He lacks fear.”

  “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 it. 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?”

  Devon realized it was never the mountain he feared. It was the shot. It was letting down his new teammates. Stepping into the spotlight. The drill made him face everything he had been hiding from. He could see it clearly now. His fear had grown into a mountain, invisible only because he had chosen not to look.

  “We face them,” Devon whispered.

  “Yes, and one thing we all fear is letting down our friends,” Rolabi said. “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.”

  Devon looked at the closest basket and smiled. He could see faint stars behind it.

  “That will do for today,” Rolabi said.

  Rolabi walked toward the nearest wall, and with a brilliant flash of fluorescent white, he was gone. Rain headed for his bag, grabbed a ball, and then proceeded to the top of the key.

  “What are you doing, Rain?” Peño asked.

  “Shooting,” Rain said.

  Devon could see the grim determination on Rain’s face—he was promising himself not to be last again. Devon smiled. Maybe the star player had a little more grit than he had realized. The others got their balls as well and formed a free-throw line. Devon hesitated, then went to join them. They shot one after another, and Devon stepped up last of all.

  He breathed deeply and took the shot, for once not thinking about how he might miss.

  DEVON STARED AROUND the locker room, confused. He had been in here to use the bathroom only a few times, and it had been thoroughly smelly and dilapidated to the point that he had been almost afraid to touch anything. Now the locker room sparkled. The mirror, once cracked and spotted, was freshly polished. The white sink was spotless, and the floor tiles gleamed a calming sky blue. Someone had renovated the bathroom in a single night.

  That was enough to puzzle over, but for the moment, Devon was focused on himself. Not his appearance. Nobody here cared what he looked like—they just cared if he could play ball. He liked that about coming to Fairwood. Instead, he was asking the boy in the mirror if he was going to be strong. If he could remember the mountain and the dark room and try something different: a day without fear. He realized that meant the likelihood of failure. Of a bunch of missed shots, of saying things that might not be very funny or smart or cool. That was what he had to accept.

  If he wasn’t afraid of the results, he could take the risk.

  “You are going to go out there and shoot from everywhere,” he said. “You’re going to talk too. Just say hi or shout out some plays. You are going to try. You are going to be a beast.”

  The boy in the mirror said it back, and Devon thought he looked a bit braver today.

  It occurred to him again that normal kids probably didn’t have to talk to themselves in the mirror. They probably didn’t have to give themselves pep talks. Normal kids didn’t have to try to be normal. Normal kids didn’t have to promise themselves to speak. Devon sighed.

  “I know, I wish this was easier,” he whispered to his reflection.

  It doesn’t matter what you wish for, a deep voice said. It only matters what you work for.

  Devon wondered what he meant. Weren’t wishes and dreams necessary?

  The reflection suddenly changed. It went pitch-black and then pulled Devon in headfirst. He screamed as he tumbled end over end and then found himself standing in the darkness, looking around wildly. Light broke the blackness, illuminating piles of bricks in a ring around Devon. Mounds of them. Bricks and mortar and assorted tools, and it was all a chaotic mess.

  Devon picked up one of the bricks, confused.

  “A great many people have stood among these bricks.”

  Devon turned toward the familiar voice. Rolabi was standing behind him, hands clasped at his back.

  “Practically everyone in the world, in fact.”

  Devon frowned and put the brick down. “What for?”

  Rolabi walked past him and gestured to a great, open space beyond the piles. Grass sprouted up, green and fresh, and without thinking, Devon hurried over and knelt in it.

  “They stand here and wish for a house,” Rolabi said.

  Devon was unable to hide his excitement. “Do they get one?”

  “No,” Rolabi said with a sad smile. “They stand still a
nd they wish. They wish for the biggest mansion, normally. Or for nicer cars. For better friends. Closer family. More money.”

  “Out of bricks?” Devon asked, frowning.

  “Or something similar,” Rolabi replied. He picked up one of the bricks. It was small in his hand. “They stand amid all they need, and they wish. But, of course, nothing happens.”

  Devon ran his fingers through the blades of grass. They brushed his palm, soft and warm. He had never seen this sort of healthy grass in person before—all that was left in the Bottom was starchy, yellow, poisoned.

  “They don’t realize that each brick must be laid. That they must begin now what they seek in a year, or two, or ten. That they must set a foundation, and labor, and build it strong.”

  Devon stood up and faced him. “But how do I know what to build?”

  “You are the architect,” Rolabi said. “Envision what you want. But don’t just focus on the exterior, the facade. Remember that it needs beams and posts and strong walls. If you build your dreams on straw, the whole structure will fall as soon as the wind picks up.”

  Devon grabbed a brick and stared at it. “These aren’t literally bricks, are they?”

  Rolabi chuckled. “No. They are kind deeds. They are early mornings. Long nights. They are moments of reflection. Hard choices. They are every action you make. Use them all to build.”

  Rolabi put his brick down and met Devon’s eyes.

  “The time to build is now. We will need strong shoulders to bear the weight.”

  The room suddenly vanished, and Devon was back in the locker room again. He blinked, dizzy for a moment, and gripped the sink to steady himself. He wondered about Rolabi’s last words—they seemed almost like a warning. His mind flicked back to the bricks. To the house waiting to be built. Devon hadn’t seen his future, but Rolabi was helping him find it. The hard way. Little steps and struggles and setbacks, all inching toward a change that would take far longer than a day to achieve.