“Trouble with your phone?” It’s Fuller, sitting across the aisle.
“I got some kind of trouble,” I answer.
“Oh,” Fuller says. He sees right through me. Anyone could. He rattles out a knowing laugh, trying to sound all wise. “Woman trouble is the worst kind of trouble.”
I just laugh at him. “Man, do you hear yourself sometimes?”
“What?” Fuller throws his palms up, truly confused. When we were sophomores, this drove me crazy. He just doesn’t get how to play it cool. But now I love it. Hell, I’d take a roster full of Fullers right now instead of the mess we’ve got.
I shake off his cluelessness and point to my phone. “I didn’t even do anything,” I say. I lay it on thick, echoing the lament of just about every guy who’s ever had a girlfriend mad at him.
It draws a laugh from Fuller. He edges over in his seat, then leans halfway into the bus aisle. Behind him, I see the south side of Terre Haute sliding past. We’re on 41 now, barreling south for our showdown with Evansville Harrison. There’s an old mall that looks like it was built a hundred years ago. And then it’s that same dreary stretch that every middle-sized city has. The chain restaurants that need paint jobs, the second-hand stores. There’s a turn for the fairgrounds and then a sign for the federal penitentiary. I bet Marion East has sent more guys there than to Indiana State, the college that’s just a few miles behind us.
“You ready?” Fuller asks. “Gonna take down Kernantz?”
“I’m not even sweating that,” I tell him. It’s a lie, but I don’t want anyone to know different. “It’s five-on-five, remember. I’m more worried about getting our five playing together.”
Fuller’s chest swells out. The kid loves some teamwork talk. “Sounds good to me,” he says.
We bump fists, our hands meeting right in the middle of the aisle. When I look up, I see Uncle Kid peeping in our direction. He gives me a wink. I know what this means. I’ve seen it about a million times on the blacktop. He feels pretty damn sure we’re gonna show out tonight.
It takes half a quarter for all that feel-good vibe from the bus to evaporate. Evansville Harrison controls the tip. On his first touch, Kernantz just rips it right to the rim. I’m left reaching at air while he knifes into the lane. Jones comes to help, but Kernantz just shovels it to their best big—Scotty Sims—for a nasty jam. On our first possession, Jones gets it in his head he’s got to match Sims bucket for bucket. When he gets a touch at seventeen—obviously out of his range—he launches, clanging back rim.
The rebound ricochets out to the elbow, where Evansville Harrison grabs it. They outlet to Kernantz. I’m back to slow him up, but Reynolds made a deadly mistake. He lunged at the rebound and now he’s trailing his man by a good ten feet. Two-on-one, with Kernantz handling. I’ve got no chance. Kernantz pushes it right at me until I have to commit. Then he just drops one over his shoulder to their off-guard for another easy deuce. 4-0. And their crowd sounds as loud as a jet taking flight. As I bring the ball up again, I hear it—there’s a slight mocking tone to their cheers, almost like there’s an undercurrent of laughter. They think they’re gonna blow us right out of the gym.
So I try to shut them up. When Reynolds comes to the wing, hands extended for the ball, I just wave him down. Kernantz isn’t the only big-time point guard in the state. And it’s about time for this crowd to get a rude reminder. I muscle right, getting some contact with Kernantz. Then I spin back middle, sealing him off so I can glide into the lane. I’ve got some room, so I take a power dribble to gather myself. The bigs come, but I just rise right up—and I get some lift, but about two inches less than I used to. Instead of a throwdown, I try to scoop one in around Sims and it just scrapes iron.
They rip and run again.
This time we get back, but they just let the offense click. They’re a unit, for real. The ball zips around faster than a hockey puck. After a few reversals, Fuller gets lost on a back-door. Kernantz sees it, feeds it, and it’s another bucket right at the rim. 6-0.
That prompts a timeout from Murphy. When I trot to the bench, my neck and ears burn with anger. And shame. I should know better than to get caught up in some macho showdown. That’s the kind of thing I used to do as a sophomore—until Coach Bolden broke me of it. I realize, as we slump down onto the bench, that that’s what I’m expecting—some of Bolden’s old wrath. Instead, Murphy cuffs me on the shoulder and says, “Good take, D. It’ll fall next time.” Then he turns to Gibson and tells him to check in. “You’ve got Kernantz. Let Derrick slide to the two. Reynolds, you’re out for a couple minutes.”
That earns a huge huff from Reynolds. I look at Murphy, waiting for his response. But none comes. I even look to the back of the huddle at Kid. Maybe he’ll step in and remind Reynolds how to act. But he’s only a week into the job. It’s not his place.
Of course, the Gibson-Kernantz matchup goes how you might expect. Gibson has no damn chance. Sure, Kernantz can’t just blow by Gibson with his first step, but Kernantz has been around. He’s got moves on moves. And after a couple minutes we’re staring at a 14-3 hole. We’re also staring at each other in the time-out huddle again, searching for answers where there aren’t any. While we sit, Kid and Murphy have their own private huddle a few feet onto the court. I see Kid gesture angrily toward the defensive end, like he’s personally offended by how we’re getting whipped.
On the bench, there’s some serious grumbling.
“I need some damn touches,” Xavier says.
“You need some touches?” Jones gripes. “You don’t even know where to go on offense.”
Xavier scowls right back at Jones.
“We can’t win anyway if we can’t get some stops,” Fuller says. This is about as pessimistic as he gets, so he throws in a “Come on, guys!” as a little afterthought.
Meanwhile Reynolds still sulks for being benched. He’s got one foot in the back of the huddle, but he’s angled away from us like he can’t bear to look.
I try not to let it get to me. I let the other guys bellyache and try to focus instead. I look down at my kicks. An 11-point hole? Normally that’s nothing. A good run erases that. But against Evansville Harrison? On the road? We’ll have to play out of our minds the rest of the way to have a chance. I glance toward our stands, but I know I’m not going to see my people. Mom’s due date is in two days, so she’s not exactly making road trips. And Dad and Jayson aren’t going to leave her on her own, for sure. While I’m glancing around, I feel Gibson staring at me.
“Kernantz is a freakin’ jet,” he says.
I have to grin a little at that. At least we understand each other’s pain.
Finally, the coaches make their way back into the huddle. Kid stands, arms folded tight across his chest, while Murphy kneels in front of us. One glance around and he can tell guys are about to go off the tracks. “Easy,” he says. “Take a deep breath.” Then he looks over his shoulder, points up at the scoreboard. “There are no easy fixes for that,” he says. “But here’s the plan. First, let’s get our heads on straight. We’ve cruised all year, so a spot like this will tell us what we’re made of. Let’s rise to it. Second, let’s be a little patient on offense. They’re gonna have a hard time checking Derrick at the two-spot, so let’s work through him some more. And on defense?” He pauses now. We’re on pace to give up over a hundred in a high school game. Our problems on that end are about as hard to solve as crime in the city. Murphy takes a deep breath before giving us his solution. “We’re going zone. Two-three.”
Zone. Somewhere back in Indianapolis, Coach Bolden just felt a chill in his bones.
Their scoring slows. To some it might even look like the zone works. But it’s like slapping a Band-aid on a gunshot wound. Evansville Harrison is a supremely talented team, athletic as hell, but they’re also experienced. So they’re not going to fold because of a flimsy zone. Instead, they work the ball around. Reversals. Duck-ins to the lane. Overload a side to test the zone. On most trips, it ends with Ke
rnantz finally knifing between two defenders, making the zone collapse. Then he’ll either zip a bullet out to a shooter or squeeze a nifty pass to Sims. Either way, they get a ton of good looks and bury most of them.
I’m the only thing that keeps us within shouting distance. With Gibson running point, I don’t have Kernantz in my jersey everywhere I go. It starts with a mid-range J when I just use my size to elevate over their guard. Then I get a run-out for my first dunk in longer than I care to remember. Then a put-back. Then a deep three.
By mid-third I’m flat rolling. When I drop another three—this time freeing myself with a slick step-back—even some of the Evansville Harrison fans ooh. And lord knows these stands are filled with college scouts. If nothing else, maybe some of those schools that cooled on me after my ACL will kick themselves for it.
But none of that matters. I’m not wearing a Marion East jersey to impress people in Evansville or coaches from schools I’ll never go to. I’m here to win. It just so happens that right now the best way to do that is to drop bomb after bomb on these fools. So I do. A leaner in the lane. A turnaround from the shallow wing. Then, with the clock racing to zeros on the third quarter, I flare off a Fuller screen. Gibson puts the rock on me, but I catch it deep—twenty-five feet, at least. Do I have the range? Ha. Everyone in the gym knows the shot’s wet as soon as it leaves my hand.
When it drops, the horn sounds on the quarter. Our bench erupts. Even Reynolds rushes onto the court pumping his fist. I glance at the scoreboard. We’re still down, 60-54, but for the first time since opening tip it feels like we might close that gap.
“That’s the truth, D,” Jones shouts. I’m so amped I don’t even know what I say in return. All I know is that I can’t wait to get back between those lines. Murphy’s talk is just noise to me. Even when Kid tries to get my attention, I shake him off. He gets it—he’s been in this kind of zone before, back in the day. I just stare at the court. And when the horn sounds to break the huddle, I practically sprint back out there, like a pit bull released from its leash.
It’s Evansville Harrison’s ball first. The momentum’s shifted just a little our way, so they spread the offense out. No hurry. A few dribble exchanges out top. A half-hearted look to the post before another few reversals. It’s way too early for them to go into a true stall, but burning thirty seconds off the clock settles everyone down. It’s like someone snapped the burner off a pot that was about to boil. Except for me. I’ve still got the fire in my belly.
And when Kernantz gives it up to their two, I jump him. It’s breaking zone principles, but now’s not the time to worry about that. I hound him out to the hash, then stay into him as he backs up further. I’ll chase this kid all the way to the Ohio River if I have to. He panics. He waves once, frantically, for Kernantz to come bail him out, but his savior’s all the way on the opposite baseline. He picks up his dribble, and that’s that. I clamp down, and all my boys behind me jump the passing lanes. The crowd senses trouble and rises in an anxious roar—screams of Pass it! and Call time! blending together.
In the end, he just gets a five-second call. I was hoping to pressure him into a bad pass, a steal, a fast break for us. But when that whistle blows on the five-count, I hear Murphy stomp his foot from our bench. He shakes both fists in front of him, intensity flashing across his face. For the first time, he seems like the fire-breathing coach we’ve needed all along.
Behind our bench, the entire Marion East crowd—a small, faithful group that made the trek to Evansville—rises in unison. And for a second their noise bullies the home fans back into their seats. As Gibson brings the ball up though, Kernantz starts gesturing to the crowd. He raises his hands over and over, begging them to get back on their feet. And what Kernantz says, the fans do. Suddenly, they roar back to life and drown out our fans.
Me? I love it. The fact that the supposed top guard in the state has to beg his crowd to get loud means we’ve tilted this game back in our direction. Time to strike.
Gibson starts into the offense. I widen to the right wing, then sprint for the opposite baseline. My man glides past a Jones screen and chases me out to the perimeter. With the way I’ve been shooting, he doesn’t want to give me any look from three. Gibson sees it. He pump-fakes my way, selling it perfectly. My man lunges, all but spilling out of bounds. I slip past him, receive a laser from Gibson. Then I hit attack mode.
I power dribble into the lane. See the bigs coming. And I pull up. Since I’ve been fourteen, this would have been a time to explode right to the rack. But not anymore. Instead, it’s a tough in-between look. As soon as I float it up there, I know it’s off. A scraper. An easy board for Evansville Harrison.
When they outlet to Kernantz, I expect him to go for the kill. Just rip it right to the rim. Instead, he slows in the front court and waits for his teammates to join him. He circles it back out top while we settle into our zone. Then he looks right at me and grins. Some of the crowd sees it, and they howl. Just like that, he’s back in control again. Of the rock. The game. The whole damn gym.
They run another thirty seconds off the clock, but in my heart I know what the end result is going to be. And, eventually, it comes. Fuller gets pinned on a screen and Kernantz flies free on the baseline. He’s got about a week to set and fire.
Bang. We’re back to a nine-point hole and our fans are back in their seats.
What I want most in the world is to grab that rock and attack the rim again. But what would I do when I get there? I can’t just rise up on people anymore. I may be filling up the stat sheet, but if I can’t put one down in someone’s grill, I’m just not the same player.
The game slips away. The lead swells to 11. To 15. Then, when Murphy pulls the starters, it gets ugly. At the final horn, the scoreboard reads Evansville Harrison 84, Marion East 62.
Before I head to the locker room, I stare up at that score. I stare so long that when I blink the image leaves an afterglow on the inside of my eyelids.
“That’s what happens when one guy tries to play savior,” someone says.
Before I look, I know who it is. Gibson. “They put me at the two-guard,” I tell him. “That’s a scorer’s spot.” Then I step to him. “And in case you didn’t notice, I shot us back into the damn game.”
He sneers. “Shot us out of it too.”
Before we can escalate, Kid’s on us, a hand on each of our backs. “We gotta talk, we’ll talk, but not in front of them.” He nods toward some lingering Evansville Harrison fans. They’re full of themselves, enjoying the fact that the beat-down we just got has spilled over into infighting. “Keep it in the locker room,” Kid says, and he gives us another nudge in that direction.
11.
You make your own luck. That’s what my folks always say. And it’s a pretty good basketball slogan too. No excuses. You can’t gripe about a bad call or a tough roll on the rim. You make your own luck.
So I look around Wes’ place—the first time I’ve been inside his digs in almost a year—and it looks like he’s made some terrible luck for himself. The majority of the house is a disaster. Unread mail stacked on chairs. Dust an inch thick on counters. Cracked windows in the kitchen. A scratch zig-zagging down the television screen. Garbage cans overflowing with fast food bags and napkins.
Wes’ mom was never exactly stable, but last year she fell apart. And now it looks like she’s gone altogether. Wes senses what I’m thinking and sighs. “Man, my moms is having a rough time. She’s got this new guy. He lives down Central, I think. She crashes there most of the time, but he’s no good for her.” I want to ask what exactly no good means, but the subject seems to make Wes bristle. Without saying another word he shrugs his shoulders and heads to his room.
His space is spotless. Like the calm at the center of a hurricane. But even here, the change is clear. When we were runts, his walls were covered with posters of jazz giants—guys I didn’t recognize but who Wes knew of through his dad. Now the walls are still slapped with posters, but it’s all gangsta
rap nonsense. The kind of thing Wes used to laugh at.
And it’s not that I’m too good for a little hardcore noise. With Wes though, it’s like he’s trying a little too hard to be like the guys on his walls.
Then there’s his closet. It’s perfectly ordered. Every piece in place like a museum exhibit. Only now there are lots of oversized coats and baggy jeans, everything red and black. It’s a lot of expensive stuff, way out of the range of someone who’s supposed to be paying off a debt. One peek in my closet and a person would see all the potential places I’m headed. A look in here shows a kid going nowhere.
“So how’s work?” I ask. I play like I don’t know, just to see if Wes will come clean.
“Eh,” he mutters. He rubs the back of his neck like some overworked factory hand. “It’s a grind, but what you gonna do?”
Seeing Wes lie so quickly kills me. And it’s practiced and slick. Where’s the guy I used to hang with? The kid who always told my parents everything at the first suspicious look because he could never think up a cover story? “Stop it, Wes,” I say. “I talked to Kid. I know.”
This is all the room Wes needs to get worked up. “Then why you playin’ me that way, D? You got something to say, then up and say it.”
My instinct is to get up in his grill, give him a reminder I’ve got about a full foot on him. But I’ve tried that before. I’ve tried pressuring and pleading, anything to get his head back on straight. But now I look at him and I know it’s too late. The simmering anger in his eyes? The lip curled in defiance? The who-gives-a fuck attitude? These are things Wes used to practice. Now they’re who he really is.
My phone goes off, but I silence it. I point to his closet. “At least man up and tell me where you’re getting the scratch for clothes like that.”
Quicks Page 8
