“You?” I said. “Shit, Jayson, try being on the road all weekend and then coming home to this.”
“Shut up the both of you,” Kid shout-whispered. “There’s no sense in trying to one up each other on your grievances. Just be thankful you’re not the ones trying to get her back to sleep.” He tilted his head toward the back of the house, where my parents were likely about to lose their minds. Then he slid three plates on the table, each one stacked high with chips and a massive sandwich—ham, tomato, lettuce, multiple cheeses, mayo. He fetched some glasses from the cupboard and poured us all tall glasses of milk. They seemed to glow in the moonlight peeking through the window. He sighed and sat beside us. “Remember this. The mama and daddy got the hard job. For guys like us it’s just an excuse for late night eats.”
Then we dug in, none of us talking. If there’s such a thing as sleep-eating, I think we were doing it. Only we’d pop our heads up every minute or two when Grace started crying again. Finally, as we finished, a firm hush settled over the house. Somehow we could all sense that she’d gone to sleep at last. Kid looked at each of us with his eyes wide. “I swear if either of you makes a noise on the way back to your room, I’ll kill you my damn self.”
We stifled a laugh, then delicately put our dishes in the sink.
“What’s wrong with Grace, anyway?” Jayson asked. “I mean, is she okay?” Now that he had a full belly and some peace and quiet, he’d grown concerned.
Kid shrugged his shoulders. “She’s fine. Baby’s cry, man. And maybe she’s got her days and nights confused.”
“That can happen?” Jayson asked.
“All the time,” Kid whispered.
“How you know all this? How come you’re so good with babies?” I asked. I mean, it’s one thing to hear Kid hold forth on hoops—the guy played. But all this baby knowledge keeps coming out of nowhere.
He shrugged again, then looked away sheepishly. “Ah, a long time ago I was hooking up with this woman who babysat for, like, a thousand kids. Dating her was like living in a nursery. After a while, I kind of liked helping her. I was good with the kids. Then I realized I liked them more than I liked her, and…” He trailed off. “Anyway,” he said, “maybe we should go get some sleep instead of having me reminisce about some ex.”
“Amen to that,” Jayson whispered.
Then we shuffled silently back to our rooms. For a moment, it was almost nice. My eyes burned from lack of sleep, but there was a camaraderie with Jayson and Kid I hadn’t felt in a long time. Part of me wanted it to last, like there was some spell we were under that made us nicer to each other than usual.
But now, at practice the next day, the spell sure is broken. And Kid’s feeling the weight of that missed sleep too. I can see it his eyes, bloodshot as when he used to come around the house scrounging breakfast after a long night throwing down drinks.
I’m hurting. Head pounding. Legs heavy like I’ve just run ten sets of arena stairs. Maybe this is what it feels like to be hungover. If it is, I know I’ve made the right choice to stay away from booze.
“Let’s go! Let’s go! Let’s go!” Murphy shouts. His shouts aren’t angry, really. Just more enthusiasm. But right now enthusiasm seems like an obscenity to me.
I lace up my shoes and try to stretch out my legs, taking extra care to be sure there’s no tightness around my knee. Then I trudge to the court. Usually, even at practices, I can’t wait to hit those boards. But not today. Part of it’s the fatigue from last night. But part of it too is the same old tension waiting there—Gibson trying to show me up, my teammates slacking and sulking.
Out on the court, guys are already messing around. Xavier’s hoisting twenty-footers. Reynolds is trying to bank in threes. Even Fuller’s in on the circus. He’s flipping up hook shots, each one clanging off back iron. I walk right to him. “You gonna break that out against West Lafayette Friday?” Fuller laughs, trying to shrug me off. Even then he looks impossibly serious, like his version of nonchalance is something he’s rehearsed methodically in his mirror. So how is this guy, the most straight-laced teammate I’ve ever had, goofing off at practice? I basically ask him that, and I remind him that by the end of last year we were tight. We swore we’d run the table this time around.
“Well, I’m here, Derrick,” he says, “just waiting for my teammate D-Bow to show up.” He stares at me then, as defiant as Fuller can get.
Before I can respond, Murphy claps a few times and asks guys to come to center court. They do, slowly. Xavier chucking up three more shots before he gets one to fall and then decides he’ll join us at last. Murphy doesn’t blink. Drives me nuts. When Xavier finally arrives, Murphy smiles at us all. “We’re gonna run fives to start out,” he explains. “But we’re mixing it up.”
Then he drops the hammer. Gibson’s running point. I bite my tongue, but inside the alarms all go off. My heart thumps in rage. My vision blurs. Gibson at point? For real? I have busted my tail for this school. I stayed here when I could have bolted to cushy Hamilton Academy as a freshman. I reined in my game as a sophomore. Hell, I went under the knife as a junior. And now Gibson at point?
Murphy’s still talking, but I’ve blocked it all out. Until I hear my name again. “Bowen?” Murphy says. “You with us?” I nod, but he can tell I haven’t been listening. He repeats that he’s sliding me to the two guard. He rattles off all the reasons—I can be our first scoring option, I can get looks with my polished jumper, I can get fast break points when Gibson pushes. He makes it sound exciting, like we’re little kids he’s going to take to the arcade. Whatever.
At least I’m still in the starting five, I guess. What Murphy doesn’t say—but what we all understand—is that Reynolds is heading to the bench. And he doesn’t contain his anger like I did. He mutters a bullshit just loud enough for us to hear. Then he walks toward the baseline in disgust. On one hand, I feel him. The guy’s come a long way since he was a scrawny freshman, and it’s because of some sweat he’s put in. He knows he’ll still get his minutes subbing at the two and three spots, but that’s not the same as being a starter—which he has been since last year. On the other hand, I’ve had about enough of his attitude.
“Now come on, Reynolds,” Murphy says. It’s pleading—the tone a weak parent takes with a brat. He walks after Reynolds, then meets him at the baseline and puts a hand on his shoulder. He explains patiently how Reynolds can still be a force for us, but Reynolds is leaning away the whole time.
Once they’ve done yapping, it’s time to run. The rest of the squad seems like they don’t really give a rip either way. They’re still just going through the motions. No urgency. You’d think we were already off for Christmas. Except for Gibson. That kid can’t contain his bounce. “Time to get it rolling,” he says to nobody in particular. He bobs at mid-court, switching the rock back and forth between his legs, waiting for everyone to get set. Then, once we’re live, he smacks that orange and attacks. He rips it past Malcolm Rider, the poor, lost back-up. Kicks it to Fuller in the corner. Then he cuts my way, setting a solid screen on Reynolds. “Go, Bowen!” he shouts. “Get it, get it, get it!”
I just don’t have it in me to get it today. I make my cut at half speed. It’s still enough to get open. When I receive the rock from Fuller, I know I could attack the rim. Instead, I just float up a little fade-away. It goes front-rim-back-rim out. A tough bounce.
“Come on, D,” Murphy chirps. “We can get a better look than that.”
I trot back on defense, pretending not to hear. Instead, I make eye contact with Uncle Kid. I sneer and shake my head at him, like Can you believe this joke we’ve got for a coach. Kid’s lids still look heavy from a lack of sleep, but that shakes him from his stupor. Only instead of meeting my look with sympathy, he scowls at me.
“Murphy’s right, Derrick,” he says. “You can get that look any time. Work for something better.”
Lord, I can’t trust anyone.
Meanwhile, Reynolds has darted ahead. He’s open on the far baseli
ne. It takes the second team a while to recognize it. So I decide to take out my frustrations a little. I flip that switch on. It takes me just a few strides to get from the hash to the opposite baseline. The ball arrives ahead of me, and any fool can see Reynolds is jacking that thing up. He catches and sets. Rises.
And I explode toward him. I could pluck his shot from mid-air if I wanted to, but I’ve got my own point to make. So I jack-knife that thing out-of-bounds, spiking it toward the bleachers that are pushed back against the gym’s wall. The ball thumps off those bleachers, then ricochets back toward the court like a pinball.
That one draws a few whistles and shouts from the boys. It doesn’t undo the indignity of getting switched the two spot, but it feels good. In fact, the elevation I got on that one felt like how it used to be—like I can just hang out in mid-air, disregarding those laws of gravity the other mortals on the court have to obey.
Kid catches me at my locker after practice. I’m in no mood for some serious talk, but apparently he doesn’t care.
“You gotta get that head straight, D,” he says.
I unlace my kicks and lean back in my locker. “I’m straight,” I say. “Just tired after last night.” I’ve already had this kind of lecture from Kid once. I’m in no mood for an encore.
Kid folds his arms and takes a step back. “You and I both know this doesn’t have anything to do with last night,” he says.
“Then what?” I pop. “If you know everything, explain it to me.”
Kid leans toward me. I can smell the coffee on his breath. But more importantly I can see a little anger in his eyes. They’re still bloodshot from that sleepless night, and they seem to burn a little. He doesn’t raise his voice to embarrass me, but he lays it out in no uncertain terms—if I’m going to act all hurt about Murphy switching things up, then I’m not the player he thought I was.
“Cut the shit, Kid,” I tell him. I don’t raise my voice either, but I know I can be more blunt with my uncle than I would be with any other coach. “You know my ticket’s as a point guard. I’m not getting all those offers to run at the two.”
Kid nods, but he’s not letting me off easy. “Or,” he says, “you could pull your head out of your ass and realize that you’ve got a chance to really use that jumper you’ve spent four years perfecting. Or that a lot of schools just love a guy who can drop twenty a night from the two spot.”
Behind Kid, teammates eye us. They can’t make out the conversation, but they aren’t idiots. They know what’s going down. I catch Fuller staring at us and he looks away fast, like he’s suddenly in a hurry to hit the showers. A couple lockers over from him, I see Jones and Xavier whispering to each other. Then Xavier laughs. Maybe it has nothing to do with me, but it doesn’t help my mood one bit.
The only person missing on the scene is the one I’m actually angry at—Murphy. In my heart, I know he’s the one I need to be hashing this out with. But Kid’s the one in front of me. So I take it out on him instead. “What do you know about it?” I seethe. “You had a chance to go to high majors back in the day, and what? You blew it and wasted your skills at JUCO.”
Kid just closes his eyes. I immediately regret what I said. I wanted to sting him, but bringing up all his old failures is over the line. He shakes his head. Then walks away. As he does his shoulders slump with all that old weight—his broken career, his mistakes, his wrong turns that have left him dead-ended.
I should call him back. Apologize. I know this. But I finish unlacing my shoes and hit the shower instead.
Murphy’s right about one thing. They can’t check me at the two spot. Free from the responsibilities of directing the offense, I can just hunt my own shots. I get it loose early and keep it rolling. A three from the right baseline. Another triple from the wing. A shot-fake and go for a pull-up. A mid-range J from the elbow. Another triple from the top of the key.
And on and on and on. By the break before the fourth, I’m already pushing 30. Every time it’s looked like West Lafayette might pull away, I ring the bell again. It’s like I’m keeping us in it single-handedly. But that’s the problem—it’s just me. Everyone else is struggling. Gibson has about a hundred assists from feeding me, but the box score’s gonna look real ugly in the morning for everyone else in a Marion East jersey.
In our huddle, heads are hanging.
“Come on,” Murphy urges. “We’re only down four. Let’s go!”
For once, I jump in with the same enthusiasm. “Coach is straight,” I say. “We can take these guys.”
Fuller nods, trying to get his spirits into it. But everyone else just looks on with dead stares. It’s been that way all game long, like the more buckets I pour in, the more everyone else resents me. When Reynolds has subbed in, he’s been as bad as when he was a lost freshman. Jones spent the first quarter griping about getting more touches. Now he’s just jutting his chin out in a pout. Hell, even Kid won’t look my way—hasn’t said word one to me since our go-round in the locker room earlier in the week.
Our huddle breaks for the fourth. I sprint out to the court. No use hanging with my teammates if they’re just going to drag me down. Alone at mid-court, I gaze around the stands. I know somewhere out there, Lia’s watching. But things have been pretty brittle with her too. And my family didn’t make the trip. Jayson had play rehearsal and Mom and Dad didn’t feel like packing Grace in the car seat just to hear her howl the whole way up I-65. It’s strange. All around me is the buzz of a game. The West Lafayette band is finishing up their fight song, the other players are shuffling out of the huddles. The fans are settling in for the stretch run. But in my heart, I feel over this already. Come next year, I might be back in West Lafayette, but it’ll be to take on Purdue on national T.V. instead.
Fuller finally steps to me, breaking my little trance. “Let’s take these guys, D.” He’s not exactly amped as he says it, but at least I know I can count on Fuller to give it his best run.
“Damn straight,” I say. I gesture toward our teammates. “Let’s get these guys going.”
Fuller raises his eyebrows and shrugs. His gesture suggests that he has no idea how to do that. Well, I do. Just keep getting after it myself until they have no choice but to jump on this train. I give Fuller a quick fist bump. Then it’s time.
Our ball first. A bucket here and it’s a one-possession game. Fuller bounces it in to Gibson, and he walks it into the frontcourt. As soon as Gibson nears the top of the key, he spots the difference. West Lafayette has gone zone. Gibson backs up a couple dribbles and signals us to go into our zone offense.
I stifle a smile. Our first look on the zone is a beauty that Murphy installed for just this scenario. I cut hard to the perimeter, calling for the ball. Fuller sets his feet to screen the man with baseline responsibility. But it’s all show. I spin and sprint for the rim. Fuller back-screens his man instead, and Xavier walls off the defender in the paint. And there it is—an easy run to the rim for an alley-oop. My knee might not be 100% yet, but I could handle this one on crutches.
One problem. Gibson fakes the lob to me, then just watches while I soar, uncontested, toward that rim. When I land, Gibson’s still holding the ball out top. He stares at me for a beat, then whips a pass to Fuller on the wing.
A freeze-out. Unreal. I don’t know if that was Gibson’s choice on his own or if some other players got in his ear, but that’s unacceptable. It’s all I can do not to storm out to the top of the key and demand an explanation.
Instead, I cut toward Fuller. It’s breaking the offensive set, but at this point who even cares about that? I clap a couple times for the rock and Fuller gives it up. He cuts to the other side of the court, emptying out some space for me to work. I put the ball on the deck with a hard dribble right. The whole zone jumps with the move—all eyes on me. I rip it between my legs to my left and knife toward the lane. Again the D jumps. The other perimeter guys sink down. The big steps up. The defender on the opposite baseline sinks into the paint. All it takes is a little head-fa
ke like I’m going for a pull-up—all the hands fly at me. And I’m gone, spinning back baseline. The big man comes to challenge, but I rise from about twelve feet.
At the last second, I duck under the big’s arm and shuffle a pass to Xavier. I put it right in his paws. All there is to stop him is that undersized defender coming from the opposite baseline. Easy as it gets.
And Xavier boots it. The pass skips right through his hands and lands harmlessly out of bounds.
I can’t help it now. I stomp my foot and clap my hands. “Come on!” I shout. “That’s gotta be a deuce.”
Xavier just huffs once, almost scoffing at me. He spins and trots back on defense. I watch him go, trying to burn a hole through his jersey with my stare. Then it’s Jones piling on. “He probably didn’t expect it,” he sneers. “Ball goes up every fucking time you touch it.”
That’s it. Forget it. I’ll play out the string. Get mine. Then peel off the Marion East colors off for the last time, ink a letter of intent, and get gone.
But right now, it’s West Lafayette bringing it up. They feel our tension and feed off it. Unlike ours, their offense hums. Guys communicate. Look for open teammates. Soon enough, Xavier gets himself turned around and his man slips to the rim—and unlike Gibson, their point guard puts the rock in the right place. It ends in a dunk, plus a cheap foul on Jones.
There’s a whole quarter left, but we’re as done as a team can be.
16.
“It should always be this easy between us,” Lia says.
We made up. In the best way there is. Now, in the aftermath, her house seems silent. Her dad’s gone again, giving us all the time we need to do all the things we want. In the space below her door, I see the light change rhythmically—their Christmas tree lights blinking in anticipation of the holiday. I know that not far away, my dad and Jayson are attending the Christmas Eve service, as much an escape from Grace’s crying as it is a religious rite. Kid’s who knows where. He’s been a ghost since we had our run-in. And Mom? Well, she’s on Grace duty. That’s a rough Christmas Eve.
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