Quicks

by Kevin Waltman

  I glance over at Jayson to see if he’s got anything to add now. He just turns back to his movie. It’s still muted, but he acts like it’s riveting stuff.

  “Then what?” I ask. I keep my voice level this time. “Why are you even here, Jasmine? Why aren’t you off at school?”

  Now it’s Jasmine’s turn to look evasive. She gazes toward the door like she’d suddenly rather be out in the blistering wind than here with me. “Because schools sucks,” she says. “I hate it. I’m barely passing any classes and I think about quitting each day. You happy?”

  “No,” I say. “Not happy. I—” But I don’t know how to go on from there. To hear Jasmine talk about college that way is crushing. She already admitted it was a struggle, but she was the one—smartest kid to come out of Marion East in forever. But I can’t put that weight on her. I feel it sometimes too—like it would be a lot easier if I were just some under-the-radar player who might get a chance at a mid-major.

  Jasmine takes up the slack in the conversation again. “It’s okay,” she says. “I’m the one that started this whole thing. Asking tough questions and making people talk.” She forces a little laugh. Then she gazes down at her hands, lost in thought for a few seconds. She looks back up at me then. “But you asked why I’m here. That one’s easy, Derrick. You’re my friend. This is what friends do.”

  Part of me still wants to fight. It’s like I’m worked up into the heat of battle and then someone blows a whistle and calls the game off. I don’t know what to do with all this energy.

  Jayson senses it. He smirks at me and rolls his eyes. “She’s got you again,” he says. “Don’t even try saying something back. You ain’t never gonna win with her.”

  I give him my meanest stare, but he doesn’t flinch. He knows he’s right. I know it too. I throw my hands up in the air, exasperated. “You two about to kill me,” I say. Then I ease back down onto the couch and we all share a tired laugh. Jayson punches that remote again, and the volume comes back up. Not too loud though, since he doesn’t want to wake Grace with the screams of pretty white teenagers inflicting violence on each other.

  Later, when Jayson’s finally given us some privacy, Jasmine lets her hand creep over toward mine. We lace fingers. A couple years ago, I would’ve leaned in for more. Try to get busy right there on the couch. But it’s different now.

  “What you gonna do next?” I ask her.

  She blinks a few times, her eyes a little wet. “Move back home, probably. Maybe try classes at IUPUI.” She says this like it’s an admission of guilt.

  “Come on, now. You’re gonna make it.” I give her fingers a little squeeze for emphasis. “You know that, right?”

  “Thanks,” she says, but she looks away.

  I unlace my fingers from hers. I put my hand on her shoulder, then wait for her to turn back to me. “I mean it. You’re too good not to make it.” She’s still not buying it. So I try to change the mood. “Besides, you don’t want to be going to school down in Kentucky anyway. And Louisville? Come on. How can you go to a school that was running freakin’ prostitutes for their basketball team? You’re better than that place.”

  She smiles at last. “Thanks, Derrick.”

  We sit in silence for a few seconds. It occurs to me that this might be one last opportunity to make it with Jasmine. But at this point, I don’t even want that. I mean, I do, but I want it like this more—us just being cool with each other, having each other’s backs.

  “You’re gonna make it too, D,” she says.

  “Yeah, well.”

  Then she gets me one more time. “Who knows, maybe after some credits at IUPUI, I’ll transfer again. Land where you go.”

  I have to just smile to myself. That was our goodbye, I know. She stands to go. I have no idea if I’ll ever see her again. But even as she walks to that door, she’s got me thinking about some imaginary night in the future. Some place where we’ll be different, on surer footing, and there won’t be any cause for her to leave me again.

  21.

  Kid’s such a rarity at home, I’m surprised to see him walking out the front door. He’s got Grace in her car seat, ready to take her somewhere. In the other hand, he holds a tiny squeaky bear that Gracie loves. He gives it a little squeeze every few seconds to keep her entertained. I don’t even ask. Just give him a nod and a ‘Sup.

  “Hey, D,” he says. He glances down at Grace, who fusses in her car seat. He squeaks her bear a couple times, then bounces the whole contraption up and down, shushing her. She quiets, easy as that. The man does have his ways. “Just taking Grace out for a little drive,” he says. “Puts her to sleep.”

  “Okay,” I say. Then we stand there, awkward with each other.

  “See you at the gym later,” he says, referring to our game with Guerin tonight. It’s been a full week since that washout in Muncie, but from here on out there’s a steady rhythm of games. Starting next week, it’s games every Friday and Saturday until Sectionals on the first weekend of March. If we’re going to make it happen, it’s got to start soon.

  “Catch you there,” I say. Then I step aside, making room for him as he shuffles past me with the car seat. He doesn’t even look at me again. Just heads for the car. When he hits the bottom step, I can look down on him even more than usual. I see the bald spot on the back of his head. I see his shoulder strain with the weight of the car seat. Something about it makes me hang my head. “Hey, Kid,” I call.

  He stops and turns. He doesn’t say a word, just waits for me to speak while he keeps bouncing Grace in her seat.

  “I’ve got Monday and Tuesday off to take my Alabama visit,” I say.

  “Yeah. I know. I’m the assistant coach, remember?”

  “Well, why don’t you come with me?” I say. I remember a promise I made to myself long ago, that I’d get Kid on these campus visits. After all, back in the day these should have been the trips he was making. “You know more about what I’m looking for than anyone else.”

  He responds briskly. Not mean, but businesslike. “I’ve got to stay and coach,” he says. “Besides, that’s a parent’s job.”

  “Kid,” I say, pleading.

  “What, D?” he snaps. Now he is angry. “I don’t want charity.”

  “Kid,” I say again. But he’s gone. He pops the car seat a little roughly into its base in the back seat of Dad’s car. Then he hops into the front seat, jangling Dad’s keys in his hand. Turns the ignition. Takes off. He pushes it pretty hard to the end of the block, but I see him ease onto the next street—with Grace in the back, he’s going to drive as careful as if the car were strapped with explosives. “You’re not a disaster, Kid,” I say, finishing the thought I started before he split. But what good does it do to say it to myself? What good is anything I do?

  We get run. By Guerin. Now, don’t get me wrong. Guerin’s got a decent enough squad. Got some shooters. A little size. But a bunch of white boys from Hamilton County aren’t supposed to ride down to the city and rip off a twenty-point win.

  In the locker room afterward, I don’t even want to see anybody. I keep my eyes on the floor. I see the carpet, stained and worn thin. I see my duffel bag by my locker. I see the wet cement of the shower room. That’s it. I know, around me, guys are talking—trying to pick each other up, bitching about blown calls, even whispering about what they’ll get up to later. But I know that if I open my mouth, all that will come out is a scream. I dropped in 20 and grabbed 12, even dished out 5 assists. For what? To see Xavier go 1-9 from the field? To see Reynolds pop off the bench and cough up 6 turnovers? To see Jones look as lost as a freshman on the defensive end? Forget it. All of it.

  I douse my head, rinse off the sweat. Then I grab a towel and head back to my locker. I glance up enough to see Murphy walking to the center of the room. As guys filter back from the showers, he clears his throat. He motions for them to sit.

  “Tough one,” he says at last. “But listen, guys. You got out there and competed. Winning is the most important thing i
n sports, I’m not gonna lie. But losing’s the second best. Because when you lose, it means you got out there and gave it your all. Losing is nothing to be ashamed of as long as you competed. You just have to keep working, guys. I believe in you.”

  I want to spit. He believes in us? Lord, what team is he even watching? I don’t believe in us. When I cut my eyes to Kid, I can tell he’s thinking the same thing. There’s real anger in his eyes. It’s one thing to get a beatdown. Another still to get it from suburb kids. But to just take it? To give some optimistic bullshit to the team afterward? That’s a sin to me. And to Kid.

  I wait a few more seconds, make sure Murphy’s done. Then when he claps his hands to signal he’s finished, I stuff my gear in my bag, zip it up. I throw on my street clothes in about two seconds, and I’m history. I don’t leave for Alabama until tomorrow morning, but I’d just as soon hit the road right now. As far as this locker room’s concerned, I’m as gone as gone can get.

  22.

  It’s so early it hurts, but I know the old man’s up. I’ve barely slept, feels like. We did the Bama trip Sunday, saw them beat Florida Monday night, had some more meetings Tuesday morning before mashing it back up I-65. We didn’t get in that late, but I couldn’t sleep. Too much noise in my head, too many nerves jangling.

  So, the old man. Before school starts on a Wednesday, I ring the doorbell on his little cottage house and wait. It’s the cleanest place on the block, but even here there are signs of decay. The driveway has cracks spiderwebbing across it. All the paint around the front windows is starting to flake off. Even the screen door sags heavily when you open it. I wait a minute, then bang on the door a few times.

  “Hold your damn water!” a voice rasps from behind the door. There it is. My coach. He finally opens the door, blinks a few times in the thin winter light, then registers who it is. “Derrick, you ever think that when a man retires one of the reasons would be so he doesn’t have to drag his bones out of bed at dawn anymore?” Then he smiles—an expression that’s always made it look like Coach Bolden’s face will crack in two—and invites me in.

  The place has that same spare and scrubbed feel his office used to have. There’s an old couch in one corner and two uncomfortable chairs along the opposite wall. A T.V. that looks straight out of 1977 sits against another wall. Past it, a dark hallway leads to the rest of the house. Bolden doesn’t look quite as put together as he used to though. He’s wearing some old blue sweats with a small hole at one knee, plus a Marion East t-shirt that looks so faded it might be from the year he was hired. Beneath it, he appears bony and frail. He’s got some gray stubble on his chin too, and his eyes look tired. I used to think of him as the “old man,” but now I really see his age. Then, when I take a deep breath, I smell it: that old-person scent that hovers around a place.

  “Well,” he rasps. “You got something on your mind, I bet.”

  I start by apologizing for waking him up. He just laughs it off and tells me he’s giving me hell—he’s been up since 4:00 am. So at least he’s still a step ahead of me mentally even if he looks like he’s angling for the grave. “I just got back from Tuscaloosa last night,” I say. “Visiting Alabama.”

  “Yeah? You gonna go be a good Southern boy? Roll Tide and all that?” There’s some sarcasm in his voice, but I can’t tell if it’s specifically because of Alabama, or because he just wants to knock me down a peg like always.

  “Nah,” I say. “They were nice enough. Cool town and school. But, man, we get more people at high school games than they got for an SEC game. I don’t think some of the people down there even know they have a basketball team.”

  Bolden laughs at that. He rubs that stubbly chin. “You said it there,” he says. “So where you gonna go?” I explain that it’s down to Clemson and Indiana really. I still could take visits to Marquette and Michigan, but I feel myself cooling on them. Then Bolden leans forward, and I see that old orneriness blaze up in his eyes. “That’s what you came for? Talk schools? Boy, you got a family for that.” He claps his hands in front of him, the way he used to in practice when he wanted guys to snap to attention. “Now go on and talk about what you want to talk about,” he demands.

  I take a deep breath. Every time I get around him, I’m a freshman again, head swimming. But then I remember all the things he and I have been through. And I remember that in the end—every time—Bolden had my back. I can ask the man what I want to ask him. “Why’d you up and quit on us?” I say.

  That question drains all the fire from his face. He purses his lips and looks to the window, where the morning light peeks through the blinds. “I didn’t quit on you,” he says. “You always think you know the whole story with people.” It’s a crack at me, I guess, but his voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it. He shakes his head and looks at the floor. Then he motions, palm up, toward that dark hallway. His voice is barely above a whisper now. “My wife got sick, Derrick. People forget that players and coaches have lives away from the court, and most of the time that includes a woman who’s holding the whole damn operation together all by herself. You realize I never even changed a diaper on our three kids? I was just off playing with the boys while she got them cleaned up, got them walking, got them to school, on to college. They’re all grown now. Oldest has a family of her own. And I visit them and hold my grandbaby and I know all of that—the woman my daughter’s become, the men my sons are becoming—is because of my wife. Mary,” he says, raising his voice on that as if her name is a golden truth I should always remember. “So last summer when the doctor told her she had cancer, it wasn’t some choice I was making. The team didn’t even factor in. It was time I stepped up and helped someone under this roof.”

  “Coach, I’m sorry,” I say. “Is she—” But I trail off, lacking the courage to finish the question.

  He raises her eyebrows. “Is she okay? Ha!” His laugh cracks the quiet like a gunshot. “She’s good. Gonna outlive me. She’s too damn competitive to die first. And she’s sick of me hanging around the house worrying over her.”

  “Well, then come back to the Marion East gym.”

  He shakes his head again. There’s a little smile, and I can tell he’s flattered by the idea. But he’s not having it. “I always swore when I retired, that was it. No comebacks for coaches. We can’t have one foot on the platform and one foot on the train like all these athletes who don’t know when to hang it up. I’m done.” Then he raises an eyebrow at me, stares with that old hawkeye. “Besides, you ever think Coach Murphy might have something to say about that? It’s his team now, you know.”

  I roll my eyes. Can’t help it. I know from years of experience that kind of attitude gets under Coach’s skin—but if he’s not my coach, he can’t make me run stairs anymore. “You know I like Murphy,” I say. It’s the truth still. He’s a good guy. “But he’s not being a coach. He’s still just trying to pump guys up. That’s cool, I guess, but it doesn’t work if you’re not around to drop the hammer.”

  From down the hallway, I hear someone stirring. I figure we ought to keep it down. Instead, Coach just stands and crosses to the kitchen. Opens a cupboard, pulls out a bag of coffee, and starts the machine going. When he’s done, he leans on the kitchen counter, which opens out to the living room. “Drop the hammer?” he asks. “Was that all I was good for?” I start to explain, but he shakes his head. Just messing with me again. “Look, Derrick, you ever think that Murphy has his own style? I never expected that I’d hand the whistle over to him and he’d try to coach just like me. Bunch a different ways to run the show. Now that I’m done with it, I’m not even sure my way was the best.”

  I get it. He doesn’t want to bad-mouth his old assistant. It’s not like I actually expected Bolden to do anything. I know he’s not stepping back in mid-season. But I thought maybe I could at least coax some of that old fire from him again. Maybe he could help me get my head right. “He’s losing the team,” I tell him. “We had a fight in practice the other week. Haven’t won since.”
>
  Coach cocks his head at me. Behind him, the coffee machine starts to sputter and cough. “Now let me see. I think I recall a team that got in a fight in practice and still turned it around for the stretch run.” He rubs his chin, pretends like he’s trying to think back. Then he levels his eyes at me. Here it comes. The fire. “Oh, yeah. It was your team when you were a freshman. And it was you getting in the damn fight.” He strides back out of the kitchen now, walks directly to my chair. He towers over me. “As far as the Marion East team this year, it’s not really my problem anymore. But if it were” —he pauses, leans down—“I’d hope I had a senior leader who could come talk to the coach to get things straightened out.”

  There’s my answer. The same answer I always got from Bolden—it’s all my fault. The thing is, I kind of expected it would turn out this way. Hell, maybe I hoped it would. Maybe I needed someone to light a fire under me again.

  He stands up straight again and takes a step back. His wife calls his name from down the hallway, asking about breakfast. Bolden points at the door. “Now hoof it, boy,” he says. “I need to start on the food.”

  I do as I’m told. Marching orders.

  But before I hit the door, he tells me to wait up. “Derrick,” he says, “get it right. You don’t, you’ll never forgive yourself.”

  All I want is that last bell. For most kids, that means time to cut loose. Hit the streets. Hang with friends. Find trouble. For me, it’s going to mean a chat with Coach Murphy. Long overdue.

  But before last period, I get something else that’s overdue. A glimpse of Wes. I’m shocked to see him, especially at school. At this point, he shows up only a few times a month. I wonder why he bothers at all. There he goes though, strutting down senior wing like he’s some bad-ass. Thing is, in some circles of this city, that bullet wound—and the fact he kept his mouth shut about it—earns him mad respect.