Quicks

by Kevin Waltman

  Murphy sent the starters back out there for the beginning of the fourth, even though we were up 23 at that point. But it was just for effect. First dead ball, he subbed Reynolds in for Fuller. Standing O as Fuller trotted to the bench for the last time on his home court. Next dead ball Jones got the love. Then he waited an extra minute for me. A couple chances to sub me out passed, and I realized he was giving me time to drop one last deuce in front of the home crowd. I hunted a dunk, but by then the Ben Davis D pinched into the paint as soon as I so much as leaned toward the lane. So instead, I got a nice look at a pull-up from sixteen. Two points just the same. And I held that follow through for a few seconds, savoring it. I wanted it etched in my mind—the rock finding bottom, the lull in the sound of the crowd before they reacted to the shot, the big men all jostling for position with their necks craned to follow the ball. Even Gibson. He had one arm raised in premature celebration, that old cocky smirk on his face—a look that used to make me tremble with anger when it was directed at me but now it felt just right.

  Next buzzer, I was done. And the crowd thundered out their approval. I took my time walking off, pumping a fist for them. But by then I wasn’t caught up in the senior night emotion anymore. I was already hungry for Sectionals at Pike.

  Now, it’s Lia time. We’re at her place, alone. But instead of getting busy from the drop, we just hang on her couch and chill for a while. Things have been so crazy we don’t even feel like we get a chance anymore. Growing up, I always thought ballers got all the girls. And it’s true, I guess—if last year I had been just another junior shuffling through Marion East instead of some blue chip recruit, no way would Lia Stone have looked my way. But if ball gets you female attention, the games and practices and recruiting visits and bus rides and team meetings mean you get a lot less time to spend with a girl once you get her.

  I look at Lia sitting on her couch. The lamp beside her casts a harsh light and it makes her look older, a little tired. She gives a weak smile and reaches for an old blue blanket behind her. She curls her knees up and smoothes the blanket across her. The pose pushes her back away from me a little, her knees and feet like a barrier I can’t cross. Suddenly I wonder what Lia would say about basketball and boyfriends. Chances are she’d say ballers aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.

  “Lia, I’m sorry it’s been such a mess with me,” I say. “This season’s gonna be done soon, and then—”

  “Then you’ll be packing your bags for some other place,” she cracks. It takes the wind out of my apology. She senses it, reaches over and pats my arm—but it’s a brittle motion, no real warmth behind it. “I didn’t mean it that way,” she adds. “You know I’ve got to give you a hard time about it.”

  We’ve had the T.V. on, but we’re not really watching it. Just some low level noise in the background. The news, which now switches to sports. Instinctively, I start to watch the highlights from the action around the state—but I catch myself. I reach for the remote, wedged between the cushions and click off the set. “It doesn’t have to be like that,” I say. “I could pretty easily end up in Bloomington next year. You could be with me as much as you want.”

  Lia smiles and shakes her head. “You say that, but—” She lets it trail off. A couple times she starts to talk but catches herself. The sound comes out like a gasp instead. Finally, she stands. Lets the blanket just slide off her legs to the floor. She’s above me now, a chance to look down at me. I gaze up at her and shudder a little at how hot she is, even now. I just can’t help myself with her. She senses it and moves closer. Tempting me. I could reach up, grab her hips, pull her into me. She leans down, putting her hands on either side of my head, her lips close while she whispers.

  “There are other schools within driving distance, you know,” she says. She leans in that last inch and gives my ear a little bite.

  I can’t stop my hand from running up and down her leg now. My heart is pounding so loud I can feel it in my temples. “Uh huh,” I groan. “I’m listening.”

  Then she says it. A Kentucky school. It doesn’t matter which one really. Not interested. I give a quick laugh. Then I lean into her, kiss her neck. “You crazy, girl,” I say. “You know not a thing in this world could make me go there.”

  Just like that she stiffens and backs away. “Not a thing in the world. Including me,” she says. She folds her arms across her chest. “I knew it. I told them you wouldn’t go for it.”

  Now it’s my turn to tense up. I pop off the couch, my pulse racing with leftover lust and a sudden anger. Lia flinches beneath me and I remember how big I am next to her, realize the scowl I must have on my face. I soften my stance and take a step back, but I still ask. “Told who?”

  “Those coaches. Or not coaches, I guess. A booster or whatever.” She hangs her head, unable to look at me.

  “They were trying to use you to get me there?” I ask.

  She looks up again, eyebrows pinched down. Outside a car rolls past slow. Its lights wash across the windows, and the bass thump rattles the walls. But it’s not that noise that threatens to shake the place apart. “You don’t have to act like the idea’s that ridiculous,” Lia says. Pure ice.

  “I didn’t mean that,” I say. “It’s just, what? Were they offering you something?”

  She nods. She unclasps those arms from her chest and slumps her shoulders. She walks to the chair—her dad’s chair—and sinks into it, defeated. “They said they could get me in there. Make it work with admissions or some bullshit like that. Or if not they’d get me set up with some stupid job in the athletic department.” She shakes her head, angry at her own actions. Then she rolls her eyes. “God knows what they would have given you.”

  There’s not much to say then. I keep waiting for her to get up, shake it off. In some ways, nothing has changed between us. We’re right where we were before she brought the whole thing up. If anything, I just make myself a vow to take it to that school when I get a chance, revenge for playing dirty with Lia. Stupidly, I say, “We’re okay, Lia. It doesn’t change anything.”

  She glares at me from the chair. “It changes everything.”

  “Because I won’t go where you want me to?”

  She shakes her head slightly, but keeps that glare on me. It’s like she blames me for what the school did. “No. Because every time I look at you I’m going to remember what this makes me feel like.”

  I take a quick inventory. I want to remember this place. That threadbare couch and the old blue blankets. The lamp on the nightstand that wobbles. That old T.V. that must be from before Lia was born. Her Dad’s chair, its cracked brown leather. And I try to forget the person sitting in it, at least like she is now. I close my eyes and think about how she looked when she flirted with me at that party junior year. Or the way she laughed when we were out having fun. And, sure, the way she peered at me as she led me out of this room toward hers. Because I know without asking this is the last time I’ll be over here, and I don’t want the image of her now—tucked into a ball on the chair, too ashamed to even look at me—to be the one that sticks.

  Like I said, there are no promises Senior Night will go the way people hope.

  26.

  We lost enough early in the season to get a tough Sectional draw. After a grinder against Lawrence North, we feed straight into Pike, who’s rested after a blowout of Roncalli. And at home. And still smarting from the whipping we gave them a few weeks ago.

  During warm-ups, it’s clear our boy Scout Thurmond has learned his lesson. He doesn’t so much as think about talking smack. Doesn’t even glance at our end of the court. When that ball goes up though, we’ve got a whole different problem than some sophomore punk getting loud—Devin Drew means business. He’s a senior, intent on showing why he’s one of the best points in the state and why he’s good enough to sign with Illinois. That dream I’ve got of cutting down the nets as my exit move? Yeah. Drew’s got the same dream.

  He chases down the opening tap and races ahead. Throws a crossov
er at Gibson and then loses him on a spin. Pull up from seventeen is wet. Next time it’s pure speed—right past Gibson and to the rack before any big can get over to challenge. Then he just gets nasty. He sees an outlet and races into the frontcourt like he wants a pull-up from range. When Gibson comes to check him, he gives a false step and ducks past. Gibson’s good enough to check even that—but he’s not good enough to recover on Drew’s ridiculous step-back. It creates enough space for a look at a three—and of course it falls. That gives Pike an early 7-2 edge. Murphy pops off that bench like he sat on a tack. Calls time.

  What needs to be said has nothing to do with Xs and Os. So before we hit the bench, I get next to Gibson. “You got this,” I say.

  “I know,” he seethes.

  He’s angry—at getting turned inside-out by Drew. But nobody likes to get a lecture a mid-court so I let him get to the huddle before I get in his ear again. “For real,” I tell him. “You got this.” I point toward the other bench. “Drew’s good. And he’s feeling it. Home crowd. Knows they bounced us from Sectionals last year. He’s real comfortable.”

  Gibson nods. He takes a big swig of water and slams the bottle down at his feet. “You telling me things I already know, D.”

  “Well, make him uncomfortable,” I say. “Remind Drew that you got some quicks too. Show him that when the D-Train’s coming he best step off the tracks.”

  Gibson can’t help but smile at that.

  Murphy draws something up in the huddle. He probably thinks it’s a great play. But when we hit the deck, we start to run his set and then I get a touch on the wing and stop. I wave Gibson over to me and we run a little hand-off. Then I just empty out the side. Let Gibson solo up Drew for a change. He gives a couple rhythm bounces, then—poof—he’s gone like it’s a magic trick. Drew recovers late, but all he can do is hack at Gibson before he gets a shot off. Foul. First on Drew.

  We set up for the inbounds. From the bench, Murphy signals for us to run our #3 entry—a way to get Xavier free on the blocks. But again when I get a touch, I set up Gibson. Oh, I give a look Xavier’s way, but ain’t no way in the world I’m giving him the pill. We get it to Gibson, clear out again. This time, he starts right like before. When Drew jumps it, Gibson whips the rock behind his back and knifes into the lane. Drew just lets him go. Doesn’t want that second whistle this early. It’s an easy path to the rim for Gibson to silence the crowd.

  Then Gibson jumps Drew full court. Now, no way is Gibson going to pick it from him, but the look on Drew’s face is enough—he’s annoyed that he’s not getting a free inch of hardwood. Angry that some white point guard he’d never heard of before the season has the brass to challenge him on his home court. He’s just as uncomfortable as we could ever hope for.

  Thurmond is tame. The one time he gets a little puffed up after a rebound bucket, I jog down the court next to him. “You mouth off, I’m-a put one in your grill again,” I say. And it’s like if he can’t talk trash he can’t do anything else either—can’t make a shot, can’t keep track of Fuller on the other end, can’t be anything more than a mediocre forward getting worked over when it counts.

  And Drew gets reckless. By early second half, he’s pretty sure that he’s going to have to play savior. So he turns into a flick. He gets some to fall, but it basically freezes out his teammates. And he doesn’t get enough to fall to keep them in the game.

  We just keep coming at them. Fuller keeps losing Thurmond for mid-range Js. Gibson keeps turning Drew’s ankles. Our bigs get busy on the blocks. And I get mine. No big show-out like last time. Just this steady drumbeat—a leaner from the foul line, a spot-and-shoot from eighteen, a put-back of a Jones miss. Bucket. Bucket. Bucket.

  By early fourth, we’ve stretched out a 59-40 lead. The Pike crowd stays, hoping for a miracle that will never come. But they’re quiet. All you can hear is our crowd living it up. Getting louder with each Pike miss, every shot we bottom out. The last few minutes feel like a long coronation. Marion East as Sectional champs. As it should be.

  We let it loose at the buzzer. Xavier runs to Murphy and hugs him, lifting our coach a foot off the ground. Kid hops up on the bench and waves a towel around, pointing to our crowd. He’s acting like he’s been out there on the boards, but I say let the man do his thing. And the rest of us woof and holler. We keep it to each other, except Fuller. He hunts up Thurmond as he’s sulking away. “Yap now, big boy! Yap now!” Thurmond tenses once like he’s going to stop and throw down. Drew doubles back to grab Thurmond and stop any drama. Then Fuller turns around to celebrate with the rest of us. Hugs. High fives. Some dancing. Then we line up and take turns on the ladder to snip down the nets. All the stuff you get to do as champions.

  But by the time we hit the locker room, we’re settled down. Guys are still laughing and hollering, but nobody’s acting like we just won the NBA crown. Murphy says a few words to tell us he’s proud, but he senses it too. “Look, guys,” he says at last. “A month ago I didn’t know if we’d get this far. But now that we’re here—” He breaks off his sentence and looks around. Everyone stops in the middle of peeling off socks and jerseys or joking around with the guy next to them. They give Murphy their undivided attention. Then he starts again. “Now that we’re here, I don’t see a single damn reason to stop at a Sectional championship.” He stomps his foot on the locker room floor. “I’m talking about a Regional championship! I’m talking about more than that. I’m talking about Marion East as the Indiana state champs!”

  And that draws the biggest celebration from his players all night.

  Someone must have given Hamilton Academy the same speech. It’s only fitting they’re the ones standing between us and State. My first two years, they were the alpha dog in Indiana—stocked full of high major talent, with back-to-back undefeated seasons until we clipped them my sophomore year. And they’re the school who wanted me to transfer so bad when I was a freshman. It’s like every time I see them, I’m seeing some alternate version of my basketball life—and I can’t let the alternate version turn out better than the real one.

  But of course it’s them—the Hamilton Academy Giants. We both cruised through the opener in Regionals and now we’re warming up across from each other in Hinkle Fieldhouse—the most storied court of all Indiana courts. They’ve got a nice balanced team—shooters at every spot, some size on the blocks. It’s Kalif Trueblood who’s the standout. Like Thurmond from Pike, he’s a 6’6” sophomore. But where Thurmond was all muscle, Trueblood’s pure silk. He’s got leaps, but finishes with finger rolls more often than jams. Has a crazy array of leaners and pull-ups and turnarounds. And his range? If he’s in the same zip code as the bucket, you better challenge.

  As soon as the tip goes up, it’s clear we’re in for more of a dog fight than we had against Pike. Sure, Pike jumped on us early, but it was just the Devin Drew show. We slowed him down and that was that. Hamilton Academy is more than Trueblood. Their first touch, they zip it around at a fast clip—a schooled and patient team. Every guy who touches offers fakes, looks to the post, then finds the open man. When Trueblood catches and beats Fuller baseline, our whole team sinks down to help. He just rifles a cross-court pass to an open shooter on the baseline. Bang. 3-0.

  But the biggest difference between them and Pike is on the defensive end. Pike you could catch napping. Not these guys. It’s like they share a brain. They’re always in ball-you-man alignment. Always help on drivers, but never over-commit like we did. Their bigs aren’t special, but they’ve got the footwork to keep from getting sealed by Jones and Xavier. And they put Trueblood on me. I could take him, but it’s not like I can just turn that rangy kid inside out like I do other guys. We work and work, but can’t get a look. Finally, Gibson tries a runner from fifteen—a shot he can make, but a real tough take. It scrapes, Hamilton corrals, and they patiently set up again.

  As the first half wears on, we get more and more frustrated. Even when we get open looks, we’re so worn down from the effort to get loose that
they come off flat. And with each miss you can feel our crowd deflate. They started the game at a fever pitch, but now they’re just sitting there. If anything, we can some disgruntled hollers of bad advice—Get out and run, they yell, or Shoot the three, never mind that you’ve got to get clean stops to run, and you’ve got to get open looks before you fire off treys.

  We head to the locker room discouraged. It’s only a seven-point gap—25-18—but it feels like a lot more. We’re just not used to being held to 18 points in a half. As soon as that locker room door swings open, guys start griping. They can’t help it. There’s no finger-pointing, but just about everyone wants to point out to Gibson and me that they’re getting open.

  “Just get me some touches,” Xavier complains. “I can take my man.”

  “They’re losing sight of me all the time,” Fuller says. “Just watch for me on the wing.”

  Gibson starts to point out that neither one of those statements is entirely true. He looks at me for some support, and I jump in. “Look, I’ve been here against these guys before,” I say. “We’ve got to stay patient.”

  Now it’s Jones. He roars in disapproval. “Patient?! Shit. We get any more patient, we’ll be stuck on eighteen points until next season!”

  At the front of the locker room, Murphy offers two loud claps. “Keep it together!” he yells. “Let’s not go back to who we were in January. We’re frustrated, but we’re gonna fix this.” Then he nods toward Uncle Kid.

  Kid steps forward. The man with the plan. But as he starts to speak he sounds a little nervous. “Now, they’ve got Trueblood on Derrick,” he says. “That means we can’t, you know, just flatten out and expect Derrick to save us, right?” He glances around the locker room like he wants an answer. But people just stare. Kid coughs once, then starts to slump his shoulders in that old shifty Kid pose. He needs some support.