Quicks

by Kevin Waltman

  “Then what do we do?” I ask. It comes out unintentionally sarcastic, the opposite of how I wanted to sound. Kid stares at me, hurt. “I mean it, Coach,” I say. “Tell us what to do. We trust you.”

  That’s all Kid needs. He smiles. He claps his hands in front of him and starts striding around the locker room while he talks. Looking guys in the eye. “Now, listen! We know we’re a better offensive team than what we showed. We have the best damn backcourt in the state. We’ve got big nastys in the post. We’ve got shooters on the wings. The problem’s not the players. It’s the offense.” He jabs his finger back toward the court. “They’re too disciplined for what we’ve been running. They’ve watched some film on us, boys. So the new offense is simple.” He huffs a big breath, a touch winded from pacing around. Then he straightens up, nods his head as he speaks. “Screen for Derrick,” he says.

  After all that build-up, we were expecting more. Guys hang on, waiting for some added explanation. When it doesn’t come, they all lean back in their chairs, disappointed. The grand plan amounts to everyone working to get me open. Jones voices what everyone else is thinking. “For real? Season’s on the line, and your whole plan is try to get Derrick open.”

  Murphy steps back in, standing up for his assistant. “For real,” he says. “Thing is, you pups forget Kid and I been around a little. This will work.” He leans forward and repeats it for emphasis. “This will work.”

  We get to test it out right away. Our ball first, and Gibson brings it into the frontcourt. I widen to the wing, Trueblood plastered to me. Then the screens start coming. A back screen from Jones. A down screen from Xavier. Another back screen from Fuller.

  And Trueblood glides past each one. Forget me getting buckets. This offense doesn’t even get me open. Even if Trueblood trails for a step, Hamilton reads it and hedges to stop me. They’re not going to get fooled by an offense that just funnels the rock to one guy.

  But right then, I hear a sharp shout from out top. “Ball! Ball now!” It’s Gibson, demanding the pill from Xavier. From the look in his eye though, it’s not because he’s just going to solo, try and go all D-Train. No. The kid sees something. Xavier bounces it his way, and then everyone stands for a second. Gibson yells at us. “Go!” he shouts. “Screen for D!”

  Well, if Hamilton Academy had any confusion about our plan, it’s cleared up now. Our point guard just announced it to the whole damn gym. But guys do as they’re told. It’s Fuller first. He comes for a cross screen. I try to set Trueblood up—jabbing baseline before rubbing past Fuller toward the foul line. But it barely gets me a step. And Fuller’s man helps out just to discourage any look my way. And zip. Gibson puts a laser into Fuller’s mitts. He catches at fifteen and pauses, surprised at how open he is. He’s still got time to re-set and launch. It rattles around and rolls home.

  Instinctively, everyone looks toward our coaches. There Murphy and Kid sit. They just nod at us. Kid nods a little more emphatically, like, See, I know what the hell I’m doing.

  Oh, that next trip down the floor everyone’s eager to “Screen for D.” Because we’re no fools. The plan’s not to get me open. It’s to get Hamilton jumping and helping so the screener gets open looks. Baby, those looks are abundant. Jones slips to the paint for a dunk. Xavier faces from ten. Fuller frees himself again. Reynolds checks in and promptly buries an open trey. Then, when Hamilton Academy is really turned in circles, Gibson just knifes through everyone for a sweet scoop shot in the paint.

  Of course, it’s not like Hamilton Academy forgets how to shoot on their end. They keep sniping away from range. And Trueblood starts turning Fuller inside out. But it’s driving them crazy that they can’t stop us. And the kicker is that we’re using their own best instincts—help defense—against them. Kid’s a genius.

  By end of the third we’ve doubled our first-half production. We’re still down 40-36, but they’re feeling the pressure. As we break the huddle for the fourth, I glance down at their bench. Their coaches are worked up. All decked out in coat and tie, they’re demonstrating how they want their players to defend. They flash their hands in one direction, then shuffle fast the other way, their hard soles clacking on the hardwood. Even from my vantage point, I know the lesson—they’re reminding their players they’ve got to recover to the guys they’re guarding after they help on me. I shake my head. You can’t have it both ways. If they’re worried about recovering, that means any help shading my way is just show.

  We get our first possession down five after they split a pair at the line. Gibson lasers one to Fuller just like he did to get our run started, but this time Fuller catches with a hand right in his face.

  Gibson and I share a quick look. We both know it—all those easy buckets are gone. Time for us to show that we really are the best back-court in the state. The first test is to see what Trueblood’s really got on D. I’ve been flaring to the perimeter on every screen, trying to draw the defense further from the bucket. But next chance I get, I curl tight around a screen from Xavier. Gibson puts it on me in rhythm and I keep rolling right to the rim. I feel Trueblood close behind me, so I shield him away with my body and float one up left-handed. It drops, but a left-handed scoop in traffic isn’t exactly something we want to turn into a steady diet.

  On the other end, Hamilton Academy stays patient. They work through Trueblood. He backs Fuller down until Jones has to help. Then Trueblood shuffles one to the open man—but not before Xavier jumps the passing lane. Our ball, down three. We don’t have numbers, so it’s a half-court set again. This time Gibson finds me again off a screen. I try driving baseline, but Trueblood cuts it off—time for the other half of this back-court to shine. I dribble back top and run a little hand-off with Gibson. He rubs shoulders as he catches it, making his man trail—and no matter how much Hamilton preaches help defense, Trueblood doesn’t want to leave me. That gives Gibson a head of steam at the rim. He takes advantage, beating a big to the rim. Gibson can’t get the finish, but he gets the whistle. Steps to the line and sinks two to cut it to one.

  Our crowd rises as we trot back on defense. They’ve been vocal this whole comeback, but now they taste it. Stop here and we’ve got a chance for the lead. Trueblood shuts them up fast. He catches on the right wing. Jab steps. One dribble right. Then between his legs to get back behind the stripe for a three over Fuller. A sick, sick, sick move. Back to four.

  And that’s how it goes for most of the fourth. Gibson and I trade off hoops on our end, then Trueblood answers for Hamilton. With a few minutes left, Hamilton has basically abandoned that whole team-first philosophy—they get the rock and just flatten out for Trueblood, who keeps singeing the nets.

  With a minute and change left, it’s 53-50. Dead ball, Hamilton Academy possession. Murphy calls time. Most of the year we’ve spent time-outs zoning out on what Murphy tells us, but there’s no shortage of attention now. We’re locked in. This is do or die, season on the line. He lets us catch our breath, then leans in. “Look, we can get the buckets we need to win,” he says. “We need stops. D-Bow, you switch onto Trueblood.” I nod. Even Fuller nods. The guy’s got all the heart in the world, but he knows he just can’t check Trueblood. Murphy claps his hands, demanding our attention back. “Here’s the thing, D. When I say you got him, I mean you. We can’t help off their shooters. You got to check that kid straight up. You got it?”

  “Straight,” I say.

  Then we break.

  It’s not like it’s some puzzle for Hamilton to figure out. They bounce it in to Trueblood, and there I am. He sizes me up. I see a little grin on his face. He wants this match-up. Just like I would have wanted to square up against an All-State senior when I was a sophomore. He waves his teammates down to the baseline. He wants to solo me up just like he’s been doing with Fuller. His coach calls from the sideline that there’s no hurry, to work the clock, but Trueblood isn’t having it. He dribbles toward me and I get into him at a few feet outside the stripe—no way do I want him getting a look at a three, n
o matter how deep. He gives a little bump with his hip. Nothing big. Just wants to see how much strength I have. Then he gets down to business. Steps back. Shudders right, then crosses left. Hard. I jump to cut him off, but he lowers his shoulder to edge past. All his long frame is crouched down now, and I know what’s coming. He takes one more dribble to get to about fifteen feet then explodes for a pull-up. His frame extends and he gets serious lift.

  So do I. And I meet him right up top on his shot. When I get a piece of the rock, I hear the crowd gasp. They didn’t think I had that kind of jump left in me.

  Fuller scoops up the loose ball—because Fuller gets every loose ball everywhere. He doesn’t waste time. He throws a long pass ahead to me. Trueblood’s trailing me, and their point is back. I could rip it to the rim. But I didn’t work on my jumper for four years to let this opportunity pass. I set my feet and let fly. Wet. Tie game with just under a minute left.

  Our crowd roars. Murphy and Kid are both stomping their feet and pumping their fists. The whole bench is screaming for us to get one last stop.

  Hamilton Academy pushes into the frontcourt and then slows up. Their coach leaps to his feet, index finger in the air—one shot. They go ahead and get it to Trueblood out top, but he just dribbles near midcourt. Milking clock. I go out to challenge, but every time I get that five-count close, he gets enough space to reset. Twenty seconds to go. Ten. Six. Everyone in the gym gets on their feet. Winning time. One way or another.

  Trueblood attacks. A lightning-fast rip to his right. But I match him quicks for quicks. He picks up his dribble at twenty feet out. My hand right in his grill. And at last he shows he’s a sophomore. Instead of calling for time, he panics. His eyes go wide and he floats a cross-courter for their point guard. Gibson reads that thing so easy the Hamilton crowd groans while the pass is still in the air.

  Then it’s just D-Train time. He plucks it clean. Glances at the clock. Two ticks left. For mortals, that’s just enough time for a dribble and a desperation heave. But for Gibson, that’s an eternity. He races all the way to the rim. Floats that baby up just a hair before the buzzer. And it falls—true—as the horn sounds.

  Our crowd goes berserk. They storm the Hinkle floor, spilling out the stands in streams. The place is a sea of rocking red and green. In the madness, I find Gibson. “They gotta know to get off the tracks!” I shout at him. He just hugs me in return. Then there’s a mass of arms around us—Jones, Fuller, Reynolds, Xavier. Then it’s Kid and Murphy piling in too. All the bench guys. But this time we don’t even wait for the locker room to get the message out.

  “Enjoy it, boys,” Murphy yells. “But remember! We ain’t finished! You hear me? We’re not done until we’re the last team standing!”

  We all hoot and holler at that. So do some fans who overhear.

  Evansville Harrison better lace ‘em up.

  27.

  The days creep. It’s like each one lasts a week. Every day at school is a pep rally, the school more worked up than if a Jay-Z show broke out in our auditorium. And each day I come home and I can’t even bear to think about idling through dinner, through homework, through channel surfing. Even my parents—who have always tried to keep everyone reined in on hoops mania—can’t take the wait. Every night, they try to steer the conversation to something else—politics, weather, how Kid’s doing at his new place, anything. But after a few minutes it always fails and we’re back to the only topic anyone’s kicking around this week. Can we corral Kernantz? Can we keep Scotty Sims in check? Can we actually do what nobody’s done in a year and a half—beat Evansville Harrison?

  Those answers are yes, I know. In fact, what people forget is that the last team to crack that Evansville Harrison code was us—last year right before I got hurt. Granted, they’ve taken it up a notch or ten since then. And they tore us up pretty good earlier this season. But we’ve got ourselves cranked up too.

  Whatever. The talking is pointless. My family knows it too. So tonight, like every night this week, we exhaust the topic, and then I sigh with impatience. “We’ll find out in a couple nights,” I say.

  Jayson nods. “You’ll get ‘em,” he says. Then he starts clearing dishes and humming out a song. All nervous energy. “You gotta get ‘em,” he says, but it’s like he’s trying to convince himself.

  After he’s helped wash dishes, Dad changes into his work clothes and takes off for a night shift. Mom gets Gracie settled to sleep in her swing. Then she calls a friend on the phone. Jayson and I chill in front of the tube, volume low so we don’t disturb Grace. There’s not a thing on worth watching, but we’re way too antsy to go back to our rooms and crack books for school. Mom emerges from her room to announce that she’s going down the street. “Ms. Taylor needs some eggs.” She holds up a carton of eggs as if it’s proof of testimony. She pulls on her coat and starts for the door.

  Jayson grunts at her, barely paying attention. Then, just as she puts her key in the door, he almost leaps off the couch. “Mom!” he whisper-shouts. “What about Gracie?” He points frantically toward the swing in the kitchen, as if Mom had forgotten about her daughter’s existence.

  Mom fixes a cold stare on Jayson. “She’s asleep, Jayson. And if I can’t count on you two to take care of a sleeping baby for two minutes so I can leave the house—for once in longer than I care to remember—without her in my arms, then we have got some problems.” She pauses for effect. “Do we have some problems, Jayson?”

  “No, Mom,” he says. He turns back to the T.V.

  Then Mom turns to me. “If she wakes up, just get her squeaky bear out,” she says. “She likes that. And if that doesn’t work—Lord save me for saying this—just try to do what Kid would do with her.”

  I tell her we got this, and then she’s out the door. As soon as it’s shut behind her, I feel that same dread Jayson does. What if Gracie wakes up? I did say we got this, but now it seems a little like the way a nervous freshman talks about clutch free throws right before he bricks a pair. I glance over at Gracie in her swing. She seems so peaceful. How can I be this scared of a three-month old?

  I whisper to Jayson that I’m going to get a Coke from the kitchen, and I ask if he wants one. He just shakes his head no, refusing even to whisper for fear of waking the baby. I edge past Grace, my eyes on her as I walk. Burglars have nothing on me for how gingerly I’m stepping. If she so much as breathes quickly, I stop. Wait for her to return to normal.

  And then I take one big step right onto that squeaky bear, left like a trap on the kitchen floor. Under my weight it gives off a long, high whistle like a tea kettle. Before I even have time to form my lips into a shhh, Grace is awake. And howling.

  Jayson races into the kitchen, panic on his face. “What the holy shit, D?” he says. “What are you doing?”

  I start to explain that I didn’t mean to wake her up, but her cries get so loud that they knife right through our argument. Waaaa. Wa-aa-aa-aaaaaaah! “Okay,” I shout. “We can do this. Get her out of the swing and we’ll rock her!”

  Jayson crouches down to unbuckle her. He’s shushing and telling her everything’s all right and trying to fumble through a song Kid sings to her all at the same time. But he’s rattled by the cries. He can’t get her undone. After a few seconds of trying, he looks up at me. “How do you get her out of this thing?!”

  I bend down. With Grace screaming at us, we maul the thing. We’re careful not to hurt her, but we’re like two dogs just pawing around. Finally, through sheer luck, one of us hits the right button and the buckle comes undone. Jayson scoops her up and starts to rock her. He supports her head and bounces her gently, just like Mom has demonstrated a million times. But by now we’ve hit full-bore Grace-fit. She’s shaking with her cries, face red, eyes squinched up in pain.

  “What do we do, D?” Jayson asks.

  I gaze around helplessly. Her cries come so fast that it rattles me. I feel an icy panic spread through my body.

  “D?” Jayson keeps saying, getting angry at me for not respond
ing.

  Finally, I remember the culprit that started all this. That bear. I scoop it up and present it to her. I smile, all calm now. “Here you go, Gracie,” I say. Then I squeak it a few times for her.

  The squeaks startle her out of her cries. She looks at it. Then she shudders in Jayson’s arms and starts crying again. Even louder now.

  “Good one, D,” Jayson snipes. “That helped.”

  “I don’t need you getting mad at me,” I say. I keep my voice level so I don’t scare Gracie even more, but I feel my own temper rising too. Somehow, I want all this to be Jayson’s fault. I know that’s crazy, but it’s how I feel right then. “Bounce her a little more gently.”

  That really angers Jayson. A darkness flashes across his face. He just stops. He’s gentle with Gracie, but he holds her out to me. “You try,” he says flatly.

  I take her. She’s screaming and shaking, but I hold her as gently as if I were picking up an active bomb. Jayson turns away from me and huffs back to the couch. His shoulders rise a few times with deep breaths, but then he comes back. “I’m sorry,” he says. He has to raise his voice now just to be heard over Gracie. “We can’t get mad at each other. That just makes it worse for her.”

  I nod emphatically. Meanwhile, I start rocking Gracie by doing deep knee bends. She’s still howling pretty good, but it seems to help. Then I remember what Kid always does, so I give her quick pats on her bottom while I bounce her. That helps a little too, but we’re a long ways from getting her settled. “Where do they keep the pacifiers?” I ask Jayson.

  He nods in recognition, then walks to a drawer in the kitchen. He rummages around, plucks out an orange pacifier that came home with her from the hospital. He starts washing it. I’m about to get angry with him again for wasting time, but I know he’s just trying to be safe with his little sister. He finishes. I stop my bouncing so Jayson can offer it to her. She doesn’t take it at first, but Jayson coos to her a little and keeps gently pushing it into her mouth until she latches on. That stops the crying, but she still whimpers and shakes even as she sucks on the pacifier. We’re not home yet.