Quicks

by Kevin Waltman

  I look at Jayson and raise my eyebrows. Any ideas?

  Jayson starts to say something, then stops himself.

  “What are you thinking?”

  He shakes his head. “Nah. Mom’ll be home soon.”

  “Jayson,” I say, “we can’t just count on her to save us. I don’t want her walking back in on some disaster. We need to step up for her.”

  He sighs. “Okay,” he says. “This is when they usually change her diaper.”

  We go about it silently and solemnly. We’re like white people driving through a bad part of town late at night—sure that any word or sudden motion will bring disaster. Jayson spreads a towel on the couch, then puts the new diaper on top of it. I start to put Gracie down, but as soon as I do she spits out the pacifier and starts crying. I snatch it from mid-air, put it back in her mouth and resume bouncing. I look at Jayson. He nods, knowing the deal—we’re going to have to change her while I hold her. I slow my bounces to long, methodical motions, so Jayson can keep time with me. I hold her with her head back against my belly and her legs toward Jayson. With all of us bobbing rhythmically, Jayson unsnaps her clothes, then undoes the diaper. He holds his breath and pulls it off. We both exhale with relief to see it’s just wet. “Thank God,” Jayson whispers. Then he sets back to work. He wraps the new diaper around her, but gets it on backward. It takes him a few seconds to figure it out, but finally he gets it on right. Then he snaps her clothes back up. Job done.

  By now, Gracie’s pretty calm. I cradle her in my arms again and go back to the knee bends—slow and not so deep now. She looks up at me with those startling, wide eyes and locks onto mine. I run a thumb across her tiny cheek. Jayson hovers over her too, and her eyes shift over to his face. He smiles at her then, softly, starts to sing the song that Kid always sings to her to get her to sleep. It’s a stupid oldie. Some Sam Cooke song that Jayson always makes fun of—but now, it turns out, he knows every word. He keeps singing. I keep bouncing. And, at last, Gracie’s eyelids flutter and she’s asleep, peaceful as can be.

  “Think we can get her back in the swing?” Jayson whispers.

  “Let’s give it a shot.”

  I nestle her into the seat. She starts to stir, but I pat her from underneath the seat, just like I’ve seen Kid do a hundred times. Jayson snaps the buckles back together like an old pro, and we turn it on. Then, for a few seconds, we just watch her swing. We’re attentive to any possible motion, any disturbance. But when it becomes clear we’ve actually done it, we look at each other. Big smiles. I silently pump my fist in the air as if I’ve just sunk a game-winner. Jayson heads back toward the couch, stepping well clear of that squeaky bear that’s ended up on the floor again. I follow him. Once we’re away from Gracie, he turns to me. He’s still whispering, but he says, “I am the man, D! And you the man too!”

  I’m about to respond in kind, but a different voice floats our way. “Oh, you two are big men all right,” it says. We look, and there’s Mom standing by the door, coat slung over her arm.

  Jayson’s face falls into disbelief. “For real?” he asks. “How long you been there?”

  Mom stifles a laugh. “Long enough to see you get religious over a diaper.”

  Now Jayson’s all indignant. “You could have helped us,” he says. “You just stood there and watched us struggle?”

  Mom hangs her coat up. She steps into the room and plops down on the couch. She smiles at Jayson again. “You’re right. I did. But if I stepped in and bailed you out, you wouldn’t feel so proud now, would you?” She waits for Jayson to respond, but for once he’s got nothing to say. She pats the cushion next to her and Jayson sits beside her. She gives his arm a squeeze. “You and Derrick were my babies first,” she says. “And I’ll always be there if you really need me. But, hey, what you two just did? That tells me you’re grown up way more than anything else ever could.” She looks at me now. “You keep wondering why your Dad and I always make you do things the right way even when it’s harder? It’s so you can be the kind of man you can feel good about being. Nothing more than that. And I saw you two. You feel pretty good about yourselves right now, don’t you?”

  Again, we don’t have anything to say to that. Because, again, Mom’s right.

  Mom was right that taking care of a baby takes more of a man than winning a basketball game. But that’s not what I feel in my heart as we sit in the locker room of Bankers Life Fieldhouse. Crowd filling the seats in the arena. Clock out there ticking toward game time. My teammates buzzing about me. Suiting up. Getting taped. Talking trash.

  What it feels like is this. Everything—my whole life—has led to this moment. And I know I’ll have more games somewhere else someday, but it feels like this is the only game. Like Evansville Harrison is the only opponent I’ll ever face. Like my entire career will be judged by the next two hours. If the past few years have taught me anything, it’s that there are more important things than hoops. I’ve seen my uncle lose his car and apartment because of nonsense. I’ve seen my dad laid up from a car wreck. I’ve seen my career almost go up in flames because of an injury. I’ve seen my coach—the hardest driving guy I’ve ever known—walk away from it because his wife got sick. I’ve seen my best friend almost get himself killed. And I’ve seen my baby sister get born. I know, in my head, that all those things are more important than life between the lines. But I run out of that tunnel into the bright lights. Hear that band blast our fight song. See the swirl of colors in the stands. And in my gut it feels like this game matters more than anything else in the world.

  Everyone’s pulse is running a little fast. For once, instead of trying to amp guys up, I take a couple seconds at mid-court just to gather myself. I don’t want to burn up all my energy in warm-ups. I glance toward the other end. There’s Kernantz, Sims, the Evansville Harrison juggernaut. I know this about hoops, too—there are no promises. No destiny. Maybe people wearing Marion East gear think the universe owes us this game or something. But the people in Evansville Harrison gear think just the opposite. In reality, the universe doesn’t care. All you’ve got is thirty-eight minutes to make history bend your way.

  I hunt up Fuller and Jones. We stand off by the hashmark in a little triangle. Murphy gave us the emotional pre-game speech about laying it all out there. We’ve been through so many battles together, there’s not a whole lot left to say. “Whatever happens now, it’s been a ride,” I tell them.

  Jones sneers at me. “Don’t go getting all soft,” he says. “None of this Whatever happens now crap. We gonna run these fools.”

  Fuller nods emphatically. He gives Jones a fist bump, then offers his fist to me. I show him some love, but I can feel these guys are a little over-hyped. I try again to ease them down a notch. “I know we gonna run them,” I say, “but we play like we’ve always played. It’s just one more basketball game. That’s all. Let’s be the senior leaders and stay cool, alright?”

  That meets with approval from Jones. “Aight,” he says. “I feel that.”

  But then he leaves our little huddle and promptly snatches up a ball and fires a twenty-footer. It falls and he hollers for everyone to hear. “Rain! All night long! Let’s get this!”

  Murphy comes out on the court, making his rounds. He gets to me and wraps an arm around my shoulders. “Last one, D-Bow!” he shouts.

  I give a little laugh. “You just sayin’ that because you’ll be glad to have me out of your hair.”

  Murphy shakes his head. “No way, baby. I know it took us a while to click, but I’ve never wished away the best guard in the state.”

  I look him in the eye and serious up for a second. “You’re a good coach, Murphy,” I tell him. But then I scan the floor with him. I can feel the energy rippling off our guys. Too much. It’s not just Jones trying shots from outside his range. It’s almost everyone. So I turn back to Murphy. “You might have to be a great one tonight.”

  Pretty soon there’s no more time for talking. The clock hits zeroes. The place hushes for the a
nthem. Then erupts as they announce starting line-ups. I told myself last night that I’d soak it all in, remember every last detail, but it’s like time races ahead at double speed. Everything’s a blur until I hear my name—last time as a member of Marion East. I explode off the bench and race to mid-court. A quick handshake with Kernantz. The crowd in a frenzy around us. The T.V. lights shining down. The recruiters packing the place to peep the talent. The cheerleaders kicking their legs high. Then a mob of my teammates, jumping up and down in unison. I’m in the middle hollering “Game time!” like I always do, nobody can hear a thing at this point. We break, and then the place settles down while the starters walk to mid-court.

  Then the ball goes up. It is so on.

  Evansville Harrison controls the tip. Immediately Kernantz starts probing our D. Gibson’s a little readier for that burst, so he cuts off drives. Gibson gives it up to the off-guard and I jump in his grill, trying to turn him. He just backs it out, looking for a man to pop open. He fires to the right wing, then it’s a quick entry to Scotty Sims, their best big. He faces against Jones, gives a jab-step baseline, then tries a fade. Too strong. It skims off and Xavier snares it.

  Outlet to Gibson, who pushes. Nothing there with Kernantz back, so Gibson backs it out. He hits me trailing, but I’ve got nothing, so we set the offense. Back to Gibson. To Fuller on the wing. Then Jones baseline. I see it right away—Jones is still over-amped. He puts it on the deck, a no-no for a big. Then he steps back. Back again until his feet are behind the three-point stripe. He launches.

  And hits. Our crowd loses their minds. It’s Jones’ first three-point attempt of his career. He buries it to open up the scoring in the state championship. He trots back down on D, arms raised in celebration. I love the early lead, but that’s about the last way we want to attack Evansville Harrison.

  Kernantz pushes it right back at us. This time he gets Gibson turned. Kernantz snaps it back between his legs and knifes right down the lane. A quick deuce to trim our lead to one.

  I grab the ball to inbound it to Gibson, and I wait a beat before I do. I give him a nice, slow bounce pass so there’s no way he can try to rip it back. “Let’s get things calmed down,” I shout at him. He just nods, knowing. If it comes to it, we can break out the D-Train and D-Bow show, but right now our job is to slow things down a little. Gibson walks it into the front-court and we start our offense. Problem is, as soon as Jones gets a touch, he’s got that look in his eye again. Gibson practically screams at him—“Back out! Back out, big man!”—but Jones is having none of it. At least he doesn’t launch another trey, but he tries to take Sims on the bounce. Kernantz reads it easily. He drops into the paint and plucks the pill away from Jones. Then he’s off to the races.

  Gibson and I both get back, but it takes the two of us to cut Kernantz off from the rim—leaving a shooter wide open at range. Kernantz finds him in rhythm and just like that it’s 5-3 Evansville Harrison.

  Our next trip, Jones actually passes the ball back out of the post. But now that he’s not flicking it up there, the rest of us have a tough time hunting up a look. I know I could get mine, but there’s no sense in forcing this early. Jones already proved that. Finally, Gibson tries a tough runner against Kernantz. It misses. Then Xavier has a follow-up roll off the rim.

  Evansville Harrison ball again, and they come ripping it at us. They get Sims a touch again, but Jones defends him expertly. No look. He throws it back out to Kernantz, who goes to work on Gibson again. He tries driving into the lane, but Gibson stones it. Kernantz backs up, and even Gibson has to give him some space because of that Kernantz burst. It’s all he needs. He clips off a little step-back from eighteen that finds bottom.

  All that love we were getting from the crowd after Jones’ three is gone. The only noise in the place is coming from the Evansville Harrison section. Just a couple minutes in and they taste their third straight title.

  They keep it rolling too. I finally get a bucket to stop the bleeding, but they get another trey and one more filthy Kernantz step-back sandwiched around a Murphy time-out. Kernantz spends the rest of the first quarter setting other guys up. He finally gets Sims going on a lob—though Jones has done a great job on him otherwise—then dials up a few of their shooters for more threes. Then, with the clock emptying out on the first quarter, he freezes Gibson again. He fakes a drive that Gibson has to respect—then drains another step-back to make it 23-9 at the horn. Gibson’s got enough quicks to stay with Kernantz, but he doesn’t have the length to challenge that step-back move.

  Guys slump back to the bench slowly. There are some anxious glances at the scoreboard. Some shaking heads. Some muttered obscenities. Kid reads the body language and comes onto the boards about ten feet. “Get in here!” he yells. “It’s just one quarter. Don’t you dare hang your heads. We gotta dig, boys! Now come on.”

  That gets some chins back up, but when we sit for the break, we know that we’re going to need more than some optimistic talk. We need a different plan. Murphy and Kid step outside the huddle to chat for a few seconds. Then they share a look and a shrug. Whatever they’ve hatched, it seems more like a last-ditch plan than something they have a ton of confidence in.

  Still, Murphy crouches down in front of us and breaks out the clipboard. “On defense,” he starts, “we’re going triangle-and-two.” We know the basic principles, but he breaks it down for us. One guy checks Kernantz. Another checks Sims. And the other three create a triangle zone to defend everything else, always looking to help on Kernantz and Sims rather than guarding anyone else man-to-man. He explains that Jones and Xavier will rotate on Sims to prevent foul trouble. And then there’s the kicker. “Derrick, you’ve got Kernantz.” He glances at Gibson. He doesn’t want hurt egos to get in the way now, so he explains that my size will give Kernantz a little more trouble—and that Gibson can use his quicks to jump passing lanes out of his spot on top of the triangle.

  “Now, on offense,” he says. He pauses, scratches his head. Then he starts walking us through our sets again. I can tell it worries some guys that there’s nothing new to offer here. Finally, Reynolds leans in from behind Murphy. He’s only seen a couple minutes of action, but rather than sulking he’s trying to contribute however he can.

  “Coach Murph?” he says.

  Murphy whips around. “What, Reynolds?”

  “I know we got here by sharing the looks, but I don’t think they can check D-Bow if we clear out for him.”

  Murphy hesitates. He doesn’t really want to rest our state title hopes on a suggestion from our back-up swing man. But then he gauges the looks on everyone else. No protests there. “Okay,” he says. “We’ll keep running sets to get everyone touches. But if we don’t get a good look after a few reversals, we’re flattening out for D.” Then he looks at me. “You ready to shoulder the load.”

  “I got this,” I say.

  We all put our hands in the center of the huddle. “Ain’t nothin’ easy for Marion East,” Murphy says. He grins. “It’s how we do it.”

  Then he slaps the top hand in the stack. “Team!” we all shout.

  We stride back onto the floor. No more slumped shoulders. We know we’ve got to get to work. Our ball first, so we run a set looking for an entry to Xavier. We get it to him, but he’s pushed off the blocks a few feet. I can tell he wants the look—he hasn’t had a shot all game—but he’s grown since early in the season. He kicks it back out to Gibson, who whips it to me out top. Then they spread the floor to let me work. I don’t waste any time. I rip it left, then whip out a spin move at the elbow. I pull up in the paint and fire a 12-footer before help can come. There’s more than a deuce riding on this shot—and when it falls, I feel our whole team rise in spirits a little. Maybe we can get this done.

  For the rest of the half, I’m on. I get to the rim a couple times. Drop a trey. Another pull-up J. Some freebies at the line. And I get my teammates involved too. Every time I beat my man, help has to come. I just revert back to my old point guard mode
, distributing for open looks. So by the end of the half I’m popping the stat sheet—18 points and six assists.

  The other end is trickier. The first time Kernantz gets it and sees me across from him, he attacks. And I’ve been softened up by playing two-guard for so long. I’m just not used to this kind of speed. He whips me a couple times before I adjust. I have to give him space so I don’t get blown away. As soon as I do, he sizes me up for that J he was dropping on Gibson—but when he rises for it, I extend to challenge. I get just a fingertip on the orange to tip it off course. And just like that, Kernantz realizes things are going to be a little more of a grind the rest of the way.

  Meanwhile, Jones takes every move Scotty Sims can throw at him and flat kills it. Sims is going to a high major next year, but right now he can’t buy one against my fellow senior. He does draw a couple fouls on Jones, and then two more on Xavier. So we finish the half small, with our two best bigs riding pine.

  The other guys slowly start to figure out their responsibilities in the triangle. There are some hiccups. We overcommit when Kernantz gets past me. Two guys jump to the same player, leaving another one open at the rim. But we settle in. By the end of the half, the Evansville Harrison supporting cast is still getting some looks—but they’re tough. A step beyond their range. A hand in their face. And they start tucking the ball back in, looking for Sims or Kernantz to bail them out.

  Then, right at the end of the half, we get the kind of defensive play Murphy had hoped for. One of their wing players picks up his dribble. I clamp down on Kernantz so there’s no outlet there. So he floats one back out top. And Gibson, at the top of our triangle zone, pounces on it. He snares it for an easy run-out to end the half.