Pike calls a timeout, but there’s nothing that can stop our run. They come out and turn it over again, then Gibson draws and dishes to Xavier for a deuce. Then it’s a Fuller leaner from twelve. A Jones turnaround from the block. Gibson with a pick and run-out for another deuce. Even Reynolds pops off the bench and promptly drops a three from the corner.
Drew does his best to keep his boys in it, but he’s a one-man show. Thurmond comes back off the bench and misses three straight shots. And we’re lights out. By the end of the third quarter we’ve left them in the dust.
24.
After that Pike game, we just keep mashing. We ride up to Logansport and win by a cool dozen. Sweep Northridge and Howe in a weekend tournament. Ring in February by hammering Speedway by 35.
It’s not just the Ws or even the margins of victory. It’s the way we’re winning. We started slow against Howe and were behind by a deuce at the end of the first. Aside from that, we haven’t trailed for a second. It’s like that ball goes up and the boys in Marion East colors ain’t even playin’. Just jumping on people from the first tick until triple zeroes.
My personal stats are popping too. I’m dropping 25 a game, but I’m taking fewer shots to do it. That rediscovered burst is getting me to the line, getting me easy looks at the rim. And it’s made life easier for everyone. Suddenly, it’s not just Gibson who can rip it past people. We’ve got two killer guards out top. With both of us turning ankles, the looks from other spots come so easy my dad could step out there and ring up ten a game.
The state is on notice. Our recaps in the Star are getting a little more attention every time out. But it’s not that rag that matters. It’s the word around the city. A month ago people were wondering what was wrong with Marion East. Now they’re talking about us like we’re the high school version of the Golden State Warriors. They call us the D Day Invasion, or the Double D Show, or they just say what the owner of Ty’s Tower told me last time I poked my head in there—“D-Bow and D-Train! Best backcourt in this state since Jay Edwards and Lyndon Jones.” I had to ask him who those kids were, and he just smiled. “Before your time, son. Before your time. Let’s just say you and Gibson keep it up, they’ll be comparing people to you thirty years from now.”
That’s not the only notice that’s going on. Since I’m still uncommitted, the recruiting game has gone crazy. Every day I power my phone back up as I walk home from school and scroll through the texts. Today, there are thirty of them. All those schools who cooled on me when I went down are pretty breathless now. I walk toward Patton and check the list—Ohio State, Oklahoma, Iowa.
Delete. Delete. Delete.
Then, when I get home, I head to my room and take the time to text back to Clemson and Indiana. I can feel them getting nervous. They thought they had the inside track, but they’re not fools—they know other schools want to scoop me up from them.
I’ve got a few minutes of privacy to rest on my bed and gather my thoughts. Then there’s a knock at the door. Kid.
“You don’t get enough of me at practice you gotta hang with me here too?” I say.
Kid knows I’m messing, but he gets that old hang-dog look of his. “Sorry, D,” he says. “I don’t mean to be all up in your business.”
I just wave him in and tell him it’s no problem. When he steps into the room though, he looks even more uncomfortable. There’s nowhere to sit, but I can tell it’s not just that. “Spill it, man,” I say.
Kid takes a deep breath. “I just wanted you to know that the offers keep coming.”
“What now?” I ask, but I sit up on my bed a little. There’s something about the way he says it that makes me think he’s taken something. He’s made a turnaround, but you never know when that old shady Kid will rear his head.
He laughs, almost to himself. “You been tearin’ it up pretty good, D. It’s like the moment you started trusting that knee again, every athletic department in the country found a little more juice in their bank accounts. I mean, you’re getting Mr. Basketball hype now.”
I swell with the compliment. Mr. Basketball from an Indianapolis Public School? I know Trey Lyles won it out of Arsenal Tech a few years ago, but before that you have to go waaaay back. But before I start daydreaming too much about that, I come back to Kid. He never really answered the question. “So,” I say, “what is it now?”
“A car. A long stack of green to go with it.”
“You take it?” I ask. It’s pretty blunt, but I’m tired of dancing around the question.
Kid shakes his head. “Nah, D. Come on. We been down that road already.”
“Who offered?”
“Does it matter?”
I don’t have to answer that one. He knows it doesn’t make a bit of difference. But, like always, part of me itches to know. And, like always, part of me wants to jump at it. If they’re throwing a ride and cash to my uncle, what else could I milk them for? What if, just once, I took the easy way? Got mine while I can, like Moose told me? But I let it go. I’ve learned that the easy path doesn’t stay easy for long. Hell, it would get hard fast the moment my folks found out.
That itch lingers for a while, and so does Kid. He’s still standing near my doorway, shifting from one foot to the other. Finally he looks at me again. “That’s not why I came in,” he says.
Now I’m worried something’s really off. I figured his shiftiness was just about being tempted by a hand-out. I spring off my bed and stand in front of him. He’s leaning a little, so I actually look down at him a tad. “Spill it, man.”
He straightens at my tone, showing off that he’s still got a half-inch on me no matter how grown I get. “Aw, man, you always suspect me,” he says. “I just came in to say I’m packing up and moving out.”
Kid coming in to admit he’s in trouble. Fessing up that he took some dirty money from a booster. Even something stupid like using up the last of the coffee before Mom and Dad had theirs. Those are the things I’ve come to expect from Kid when he has something to admit. Certainly not that he’s stepping up and moving back to a place of his own. And, suddenly, I feel his absence in advance. It’s not like he’s even been around that much, but there’s always the pillows and blankets—sometimes folded neatly, other times wadded in heaps on the floor—by the couch to remind us he’s staying here. That knowledge that Kid is still here has turned out to be comfortable—like throwing on a ratty old sweatshirt on a cold Sunday morning. I know now that I’ll miss the guy. But I also know I can’t let him see that. No self-respecting man is going to tell another grown man he’ll miss him. Instead, I scrunch up my face and shake my head. “Well, it’s about time, man. Give me some elbow room around this place for once.”
Kid laughs. “I figured you’d say that.”
I lay it on even thicker. “What are you, fifty now? Finally stepping out on your own?”
“Easy,” Kid says, acting all hurt. Then he puffs his chest out. “I’m a long way from fifty. And even when I get there I’ll still run your scrawny ass.”
Then we both laugh, knowing that his days of running me are long gone. “For real,” I say, “where you gonna be?”
He tells me it’s a small place just off of Central. Cheap. Probably pretty sketch. But it’s something he can afford honestly. “And,” he adds, “if things go according to plan, I’ll be spending most of my time at April’s anyway.” He raises his eyebrows at me a few times for effect.
Then there’s a holler from down the hall. Dinner’s on. We open my door and head toward the bustle of the house. Dad and Jayson bickering about something silly while they set the table. Gracie whimpering in Mom’s arms. The background chatter of the T.V. Jayson forgot to turn off. As we approach, Kid slaps me once on the back. “Hey, D,” he says, “I’ma miss you too.”
It’s a Sunday morning. We’re fresh off thumping Bowman Academy and then putting away Zionsville on the road late. A fine weekend. Which means by all rights I should be able to skip church and sleep in for once, rest my muscles. Maybe kno
ck out some homework before vegging out in front of the feature Big Ten game.
Dad’s got other plans. I wake to him shaking my shoulder. It feels impossibly early, but when I peep at the clock it’s pushing 7:00. Still, the rest of the house is sleeping—even Gracie—so Dad puts a finger to his lips to remind me to be quiet. Then he whispers to me to get dressed and come with him. I slip out of bed and throw on some old clothes piled on the floor. When I hit the living room, looking pretty scraggly, Dad pops up off the couch, ready to roll. He’s shaved and showered, wearing clothes fit for service. But I know we’re not heading to church this early. Through my sleep fog, I begin to wonder what in the world is up with him. Just as we’re about to leave—door open just an inch and the February air bristling in—the first cry from Gracie floats down the hall. I look at Dad. He waits for a second. Doesn’t hear another cry. “Come on,” he says, and he’s out the door so fast he could have ripped it past me on the deck.
I’m too tired to ask Dad any questions yet, so I just lean back and let him drive. He heads over to Keystone, then north. I figure I know where he’s headed—The Donut Shop, his time-worn favorite. But he stops a few blocks short of that, then hangs a left into a shopping plaza. Finally, I have to ask. “What’s up, Dad?”
He smiles at me. “Nothing’s up, Derrick,” he says. “Just, with Gracie and basketball and recruiting trips and everything, it’s been a long time since you and I have been able to just sit down and talk.”
Oh, man. It must be bad. You know when someone wants to sit down and talk—especially if that someone is a girlfriend or a parent—there’s a storm about to hit. Dad parks, then points to a façade of the strip mall, where the word “DELI” appears in red, capital letters. “There we are,” he says.
I trudge to the place, hunching my shoulders against the cold February morning. When I get inside, I relax a little. It’s a classic Dad spot. A greasy dive. Already, the place is nearly packed, everyone from disheveled college kids to old men grumbling about politics. There are people decked for church grabbing a bite before service, a few young couples staring longingly at each other over steaming cups of coffee. Young, old, black, white, brown—it’s a mix of Indy at the tables. The place is loud with conversation and the clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen. The walls are plastered in pennants from Indiana teams, and behind us where we wait in line is a larger-than-life black and white of Frank Sinatra and JFK.
I can tell without even looking that you’ll be able to get a full belly in this place for about five or six bucks—the number one quality a restaurant can have in my dad’s book. After a few minutes we’re at a table near the window, waiting on pancakes and sausage and hash browns. Even though I’m more relaxed now, I still wonder what’s going on. Dad’s clearly got something on his mind. He’s content to make small talk until the food arrives—what do I think about Kid moving out, how do I think the Pacers will fare in the playoffs. Then, when they slap those heaping plates in front of us, he pauses with his fork in the air. “Things are going pretty well for you, aren’t they, Derrick?” he asks.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I say. I don’t want to say anything too definitive. This has to be building to some kind of lesson.
Dad slurps some coffee down, then encourages me. “You guess so? Come on. You guys are on a roll. You’ve got every college in the country begging you to come. I think that warrants more than an I guess so.”
“Okay, sure,” I say, still tentative. “But I don’t want to get too full of myself. We still have Sectionals. Hopefully Regionals and State after that. These wins now don’t mean a thing.”
Dad smiles, nods. He keeps nodding as he chews on some pancake, as if I’ve just offered him some deep and penetrating truth. When he’s done, he looks me in the eye. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Derrick. That’s not exactly common for guys in your position. You realize that, don’t you?”
“I guess,” I say again. Here it comes, I think. This is where it turns into some rundown of how I’ve screwed up. Maybe I’ve neglected chores at home? Haven’t fussed over Gracie enough? I don’t know what, but it’s coming.
Dad must sense my expectations because he shakes his head. He puts his fork down on his plate. “Relax, Derrick,” he says. “You’re making me feel guilty here. I know your mom and I are tough, but I swear this isn’t some chance for me to come down on you.”
“What is it then?” I say at last, a little exasperated. It comes out a bit loud, but with the noise of the place swirling around us, nobody seems to notice.
Dad slumps down and shakes his head. Now he actually is a little mad since I’ve raised my voice at him. He rattles the next words off at me quick. “I wanted to take you to a nice breakfast to tell you how proud I am of you for being a stand-up guy in a game where it’s a lot easier to do just the opposite. I wanted to tell you that I hope this season ends up with a championship, because if any player in the world deserves it, it’s you.” Then he pauses, sighs. “But it seems like you’d actually prefer it for me to be a little angry with you, so you can be happy now.”
After that, we both eat in silence for a while. But suddenly I’ve lost my appetite. I take a few bites, then just push my plate away. “Thanks, Dad,” I say. “I’m sorry I ruined the whole thing.”
He offers a little ironic laugh. “Don’t sweat it,” he says. “The truth is I’m worse at giving compliments than you are at taking them. It’s a Bowen curse, so get used to messing up nice moments for the rest of your life.”
He reaches over and pats me on the back once. Then he points to my plate, urging me to eat—God forbid I don’t finish every bite of a breakfast that didn’t even cost him a Jackson. But I do as I’m told. And the two Bowen men do something we are good at—shut up and crush some good eats.
25.
Ben Davis, our floor. Senior night. Last game before the playoffs.
Pre-game, they parade the seniors out. It’s me and Jones and Fuller, accompanied by family. As a baller, you’re not supposed to get emotional. I hate it when I see guys crying on the bench when they lose in the tournament. I mean, man up a little. But as we’re drowned in cheers, I take a quick glimpse at my classmates. Next to him, Fuller’s mom and dad are just flat-out crying—tears streaming down their faces. She leans over and kisses her boy on his cheek, and I see Fuller’s eyes get a little glassy. Jones only has his mom there with him, and I can tell from one glance she’s a tough one—tall and wiry, got that hard edge to her that Jones wishes he had. But when he bends down and gives her a bear hug, I see her melt a little. She doesn’t cry like Fuller’s parents, but she looks down at the floor for a second, takes a deep breath to steady herself.
Then I feel it—my mom reaches over and curls her fingers around my hand. It’s just us. With Kid on the bench, it would have left Jayson in charge of Gracie and he begged off of that duty. So Dad’s in the stands, holding her. There’s something that gets to me about Mom holding my hand, and out of nowhere I start welling up. I do just like Jones’ mom—look down quick like there’s something real interesting on my kicks. I swipe my free hand across my face to erase any tell-tale signs. Take a breath to gather myself. Then I turn and look down at my mom. She’s decked out for this one. She’s got on a red dress and heels, even went to the hairdresser this afternoon to do it up right. I remember what Dad said the other morning about Bowen men always ruining nice moments. So for once I forget about trying to act all swole on the court. I lean down and hug Mom tight—who cares if I look a little sappy? You only get one senior night.
Into my chest, she shudders once with emotion. Then I hear her, even through the crowd noise. “You got grown fast, boy,” she says. “Way too fast.”
And then that’s it. We escort our moms back to the stands, and re-join our teammates on the bench. “Glad that’s over with,” Gibson says to me. “Like a damn chick flick out there. Let’s get back to ball.” He’s kidding, but only a little. I think about how much he bristled against his folks on
my brief visit. I make a little mental note—if my college schedule lets me, I’ll have to get back to the Marion East gym for next year’s senior night just so I can watch the mighty D-Train get all teary-eyed between his parents.
But he’s right about one thing. It’s back to ball. Murphy’s got a few seconds for last-ditch instructions, then we’re at center court for tip. I still feel a little raw from that moment with my mom, and I remember that these things can go two different ways. Sometimes a team gets all amped up for something like senior night and they just steamroll the team on the other bench. Other times, the emotions get too much and they lose their edge.
That ball goes up and Jones springs after it, getting about three extra inches on his normal vertical. He taps it to Gibson who races ahead. A quick dish to Fuller on the wing. Shot fake and go. The defense collapses, losing sight of everyone else. I crash toward the rim for a possible rebound, but at the last moment Fuller eyes me. Instead of a shot, he lofts up a perfect lob—right at rim level.
I pluck that thing from the air and even have time to cock it back with my right hand before hammering it home.
Just so everyone knows—that’s how this senior night emotion is going to play out.
Ben Davis is no joke, but we treated them like one. We got it all rolling. I loosened up the D with some bombs from range, then we got Jones and Xavier making noise in the post. Reynolds popped off the bench to give me a spell and didn’t miss a beat—drained a trey and then got a teardrop runner to find home for a hoop-and-harm.
By mid-third all that mattered was getting the seniors some love. I’d already had a highlight reel, so Gibson made a concerted effort to get the other seniors theirs. He made sure to tell me so at a dead ball—didn’t want me thinking he was up to his old game of freezing me out. He just wanted to be sure that Jones and Fuller got some senior night buckets too. And they sure enough did. Gibson started carving up that D with drives and dropping dimes—Fuller from fifteen, Jones for a dunk, Fuller on a slash to the rim, Jones on a pick-and-roll. Then came the icing. Gibson turned his man inside out and knifed into the lane, then backed it out even though he had a look—setting up Fuller for an easy backdoor and throwdown at the third quarter buzzer. Crowd went insane.
Quicks Page 20
