by Marc Skelton
When it comes to coaching, I am clearly a Benthamite. Jeremy Bentham thought happiness came when you avoided pain. I see losses as causing pain, so I try to avoid them as much as I can. I’ve managed to avoid too many losses by preparing not to lose. Through scouting, I try as much as I can to teach the team about what could happen in the game. We are always very prepared. I don’t want my team ever to feel I didn’t prepare them for a game or a situation. I don’t want to let them down, and they don’t want to let me down. So far so good.
THE JELLY
Tyree was not the only one playing well. Jaelen, the freshman, handled his launch into the starting lineup well. His hands and feet were sometimes poorly positioned, as is often the case with freshmen—a drag of the pivot foot here, an untimely drive there. He lacked the typical resourcefulness of a seasoned varsity player, yet he had the doggedness of a lost cabdriver determined to find his way. JB was juggling a lot. He had schoolwork, a girlfriend, and after school he was responsible for his younger brother and sister. He would run up the street, pick them up, and bring them to practice. They would do their homework in the bleachers.
The biggest surprise of the season was Shamar. Against Alfred E. Smith High School, Shamar had a career-high 32 points. He did not look hampered in his new role. In fact, he looked freaking awesome. Shamar’s nickname, “Mr. Give Me Lane,” held true tonight. He attacked the rim fearlessly. His coterie of friends with similar names, Mr. Greenlight and Mr. You Can’t Guard Me, would have been proud of Shamar tonight.
Shamar had almost perfected “the jelly”: a finger roll in its inception, the ball would roll off his hand, and the move would conclude with a little flare, a kick off the leg, or a deceptive spin off the glass. As he finished the move you could hear the bench and the crowd say, “Jelly.” It was a viral move. Considering the talents of New York City guards, it is difficult not only to create a new move, but to market it as well. The Jelly comes packaged for anyone to try. Unlike the dunk, something that most of us cannot do, the Jelly is not utilitarian; it is aesthetic. A bold layup with a piquant finish—it sounds like a coffee commercial. It gets the crowds caffeinated. It is not the iconic George Gervin finger roll, where he floated like a statue toward the rim and if you blinked you missed seeing his hand release the ball like a magician. The Jelly is a refined finger roll with an assassin’s heart. Tyree and Shamar will sometimes look their defender in the eye, as if they are telling them they are going to Jelly and there isn’t a damn thing they can do about it.
Started by a few guards in New York City, it was the move of the year. Ty liked it. Shamar embraced it. Sometimes it didn’t work, like in traffic. It was best served on a fast break one-on-one.
After the game, Shamar was the last one to leave the room. Soaking up the career-high endorphins. I was proud of him. He had worked very hard on his game and was now reaping the results.
“Great game. You are really playing well,” I said.
“I felt like I had to not only worry about my spot on the floor, but to make sure everyone was in position to get a bucket. I’m already a nervous person, so that became even more nerve-racking,” Shamar confessed. “Coach, get home safe.”
“You too.”
SPIES LIKE US
Anastasia Bitis, the brilliant Maspeth coach, filmed the Bathgate game in a clandestine fashion. This may seem like blatant espionage, but there’s really nothing wrong with filming your opponent. We all do it. As coaches, we teach during the day and somehow are able to find time to develop a couple of lesson plans for our real job, the one that pays us. After school we somehow find the time to develop another two-hour lesson plan: fifteen minutes of shooting drills, twenty minutes of shell defense, full-court press defense and offense, special situations, free throws, zone sets, man-to-man sets, sideline out-of-bounds plays, baseline out-of-bounds plays. The really dedicated scout opponents and watch film.
The Maspeth Argonauts, located in Maspeth, Queens, were 9-1, their lone loss coming to South Bronx Prep. They were also ranked as one of the top ten teams in New York State polls, and every year are ranked as a contender for the city championship. The 2015 PSAL Class B champs, Maspeth have been on our non-conference schedule since they knocked us out of the playoffs that year. After some teams win a high school championship, they crumble back to earth and aren’t as potent anymore. Schools like Maspeth keep climbing. Maspeth has a wonderful basketball program.
The sunlit Maspeth gym awoke a wicked memory of a recent painful defeat: Bari Higinio and Ken Duran’s last game, and the sad end of the New York Times story. When I closed my eyes, the massacre at Maspeth glowed on my internal film screen. The autopsy continued to haunt me. I have watched that game at least twenty times. It still feels like Maspeth didn’t miss a shot that night.
When we entered the gym, “Hate Me Now” by Nas filled the air. Maspeth players were warming up, waiting, aggressively impatient, on a Wednesday afternoon three days after Christmas. They looked at us like we drank all the eggnog.
“I don’t think they have ever lost here,” Gaby said. “Look.” He pointed to several green, white, and blue banners displaying several undefeated seasons.
My heart sank.
I tried to erase the bitter memory of The Game—the 2015 playoff loss to Maspeth. Michael Powell and the impeccable photographer Todd Heisler captured us at our most vulnerable, a playoff loss. Sure, last year we beat Maspeth quite easily at Fannie Lou in front of twenty people. Actually, I turned last year’s game on the other day. Maspeth’s guards could not bring the ball up against Kobe Boateng and Frankie’s defense. I missed the verve Kobe and Frankie created on defense last year. They were unsubtle thieves, removing the ball like a gang of Gypsies wearing neon T-shirts advertising their intentions to pickpocket you. Frankie and Kobe specialized in this brand of thievery. I had to turn the game off.
* * *
—
As usual, Charles won the jump and Shamar blew by the lone defender for an easy layup on the left side. We hadn’t seen anything like Maspeth’s half-court defense this year. It was apparent to me that they had studied us well. After a few more possessions, I wondered if they knew what we had for breakfast, the last movie I watched, what photos I liked on Instagram.
It was clear this rivalry was becoming like a Cold War spy novel. We knew each other’s secrets. No team plays harder than Maspeth, so how do you beat them? There was a superpower tension right here in ironclad industrial Maspeth, Queens.
In the second quarter, Maspeth switched to a three-quarter-court trapping 1–2–2 defense.
“Look familiar?” Gaby asked me.
“Anastasia was at the Bathgate game and it worked well for us. Why not?”
A brilliant cloak-and-dagger move: use your enemy’s best defense on them. It worked well against us. Forced a few turnovers. We were forced to call a time-out.
“Get into Wildcat,” I instructed. Our press offense.
Eyes nodded. Their heads stood still like statues in the huddle. “This game is about effort, the effort to come to a pass, to sprint to your spot, to know what the hell to do when you are out on the court,” I said irritably.
Once up by twelve, we barely survived a stormy second quarter to be down five, 30–25. My youth brigade acted like they had their passwords changed on them and kept repeating the same old password until Maspeth was back into the game. The Argos had their own Enigma Machine and had deciphered our plays.
At halftime we walked to the dreaded locker room. I recalled it had the same temperature as a meat locker. I stared at the halftime statistics. Only Charles and Walfri had rebounds.
“Damn.”
I grabbed the handle. It was locked. “Now I don’t even have a proper place to get mad.”
Annoyance turned into fury.
Turnovers! Shamar performed like he was playing for Maspeth. He had only one assist and one bucket.
> “Mack, you keep dribbling into the trap. Reverse the ball.”
At this point, my voice was echoing up and down the staircase. Mack’s encyclopedic knowledge of basketball was always impressive, but at times, on the court, it would leave him.
“If you don’t have it, get it going to somebody else, please.” I modulated the roar into a more didactic voice.
“JB, you’re hanging out at half-court while everyone is trying to rebound. Please get your butt in there and rebound.”
“What’s your middle name, Tyree?”
“Ronald.”
“You sure? I want to make sure they didn’t kidnap you or give us the Tyree clone.”
Maspeth had Tyree in a chokehold. He was in a different universe from that 43-point game. He had 7 points and wouldn’t score in the second half.
As is true of many halftime rants, this one seemed to cut down our mistakes as much as increase our advantages. Games like these are a test of a team’s character.
Tied late in the fourth, we needed a bucket. We also needed a play Maspeth hadn’t seen. They knew everything; our cover was blown. I sketched the scene. I had seen the Denver Nuggets run this one a few times. Implementing the enshrined act of misdirection, Ty would set two screens.
“Tyree, you’re on the left block, you will screen for Shamar. Shamar, Ty is going to screen for Charles. Give the ball to him. Charles, if you get doubled, look to kick it out. If not, go to work.” Good coaching has a little sorcery and deception and a lot of forgery in it. They ran the play perfectly. Charles scored on the layup. Time-out Maspeth. Out of the time-out, Shamar got a steal. He passed to Walfri. He cut right and, like a quarterback delivering the ball to his trusted fullback for a third-and-inches, handed Shamar the ball. Walfri’s defender threw himself on top of Shamar for what looked to be a loss of yards on the play. If it was football that was what it would have looked like, but in basketball you can’t tackle a player. A foul was called.
Shamar calmly went to the line. He took his patented dribble sequence.
“Hey, Lil Uzi, don’t miss!” some clever fan from the crowd yelled.
Swish.
Shamar went to the line for his second shot.
The crowd needed to try something that might throw Shamar off.
“Travis Scott.”
This one hit some rim, but same result.
“Gaby, who are Travis Scott and Lil Uzi?” I asked.
“Two rappers that have hair like Shamar.” Gaby giggled.
It didn’t matter what the crowd yelled. Shamar was 6-for-6 from the free-throw line in the fourth quarter. We won 66–63.
There was more good news: Walfri’s hardheadedness from early on in the season had disappeared like the morning mist on the Hudson River. Walfri and Charles had 10 blocks. We usually shackled teams on the perimeter; today, numbers 3 and 34 defended the paint well.
* * *
—
And so, after surviving the Maspeth game, a weight was lifted off our shoulders, a weight we could finally put away. I do believe in revenge games. I believe in packing away ghosts. Ghosts linger around basketball, and the best way to get rid of them is to beat them. It was Maspeth’s first loss at home in their brief, but extremely successful, three-year varsity program history.
Charles told a local reporter, “It feels pretty good. Our team really stuck together. They are our rivals and this gives us more confidence as we get ready to go into the playoffs.”
Dear Charles, it is December 28, and the playoffs are two months away with a lot of basketball to play. Nonetheless, we were undefeated for the second year in a row on New Year’s Eve because of Shamar’s clutch free throws.
It is difficult to exaggerate how important Shamar has become to the team. He embodies the season’s undertow of determination, of never quitting. Our once-vexed relationship had become one of reliability and trust.
We jogged to our white chariot of a minibus. Shamar had his arm around Kaleb.
“I got cut twice because I was a dribble-head,” Shamar confessed. “I thought I could impress everyone with my quickness and dribbles. Listen to Coach now, it will make your life easier.” Shamar was sharing his wisdom and the rock thoughtfully.
FRANKIE’S LEG
In our first game back from the holiday break, we didn’t miss a beat. In fact, after the few days off we looked rejuvenated.
In a flash the Comprehensive Model High School game arrived. Their away Carolina-blue uniforms were a welcome surprise. I examined the bench. Kenneth looked unusually nervous. It was his birthday, and his friends in the stands had reminded me several times to try to get him in the game. Frankie, in street clothes, milled about awkwardly at the far end of the bench. His crutches took up space we didn’t have. We attacked them like a virus and the score grew exponentially: 11–0. We would score and then our 2–2–1 zone press would turn deadly; a month ago it was benign.
Shamar’s pressure forced another steal, and he delivered it to Charles for a hoop plus the foul.
CMHS’s coach reminded his players, “George, George!”
A chorus of “George, George!” rings out from our players.
We may or may not know their play, but we will always call it out like we know it. It messes with our opponents’ heads.
In the Maspeth game we had a difficult time executing on offense, but tonight everyone was locked in. Tonight Shamar’s passes had the precision of a mohel. He would drive into the paint and deliver the ball on time and on target to Charles time after time. Charles was wearing a white headband that pressed his hair up like a head of broccoli. At one point in the second quarter, he stole an errant pass and drove toward the hoop. A defender was running parallel on his right. Next Charles executed a perfect Fibonacci sequence, wrapping the ball around his hip like Oscar Robertson, then elevating and incredibly dunking the ball with his right hand. It was a phenomenal play. For an encore at the end of the second quarter, Charles tried a windmill dunk that ricocheted off the back of the rim. We walked toward Room 103 for halftime incubation.
“Are you mad at me?” Charles asked.
“Why would I be mad at you?” We were up twenty-five points at halftime.
“Because I missed the dunk.”
“Yeah. I am. Don’t do that again. I mean, miss.”
In the third quarter, Charles made a Jerry Stackhouse–esque dunk. He was having a good time. All of us were.
Kenneth, the birthday boy, subbed in the fourth quarter. Charles ended the night with 33 points and 24 rebounds in a little over three quarters. Tyree had 28 points. Immediately Kenneth tried to score. He missed two wide-open threes. We were up 92–52, and on the last possession the crowd was begging him to shoot, but he politely and respectfully dribbled out the clock.
After the game we met in my room.
“Yo, yo, stop getting dressed.” There was always a warning in Ty’s voice.
I kept the postgame talk short. The guys threw their jerseys in the large red duffel bag. Each one shuffled out. Kenneth was last. He looked sad.
“Why didn’t you shoot it?” I asked.
“Coach, you told us not to score on the last possession if we are up. It is disrespectful.”
“You’re right, Kenneth. Happy birthday.”
Not all was well. Midway through the third, I had looked down the bench and realized Frankie had headphones on and looked to be listening to music.
“What the hell are you doing?”
He quickly removed them and tucked them away.
The better we were playing, the further Frankie was drifting away from us. Even though he was only a few feet from us, it was the furthest he’d ever been from the team. The fracture in his foot was healing, but another one was clearly forming as we kept winning without him. We were worried about his foot healing, but we should have been watching hi
s heart. He wanted to escape. This was painful for me. I remember wanting to escape. I remember trying to escape.
Sitting on the bench was killing Frankie. It was hurting his mother too. She hadn’t been to a game since the injury. She told me she just couldn’t see him sit on the bench injured.
Even if Frankie did return this season, it was unlikely he would be the same player. He had been off to such a great start, and recapturing your poise, confidence, conditioning, and feel for the game in February is about as unlikely as recovering a stolen bike in New York City. Once your bike is gone, it is gone. Once the season is gone, you can’t recover it. Frankie’s season was over even if he came back. I should have done a better job of making him feel a part of the team.
APOPLECTIC
I’ve been asked a hundred times why I get so angry when I’m coaching. There has never been a reassuringly comprehensible answer. I would say, “I’m trying to get their attention! I’m trying to control the chaos of the game with my voice! Have you ever practiced something and asked someone to perform it and they forget it seconds after you just told them?” These attempts never really satisfy anyone. My answers are ungratifying, lacking some fundamental reason behind my anger. In some way this is my biggest failure as a coach, the ability not to lose my mind. My second-biggest failure is my inability to convince people that I’m not really angry. Nonetheless, I aspire to coach without looking angry. These two ideals seem opposed—coaching successfully without yelling—but they are both the byproduct of expectations. I’m sure you are still not satisfied with my explanation.
Maybe the error is in the question “Why are you so angry?” I’m not angry. I may look frustrated or hysterical. Can I request a concession? Can we agree I am coaching with passion? It means I care. It means my players are very committed to the team. I see this compromise pleases nobody. Yelling is clearly a way to seize control when I feel helpless. When we adjust our offense or press to whatever I was yelling about, my intensity decreases. Do I lie in bed with anguish after a loss? Yes. Is basketball an obsessive pursuit? It has turned out that way. I don’t think it’s destructive. The game without a coach’s displeasure, anger, frustration, rage, irritation is just a pickup game. A carefree exercise.
