2. Saturday
After a night of restless sleep, I dangle my leg over the side of the bed, trying to convince the rest of my body to get up. If it weren’t for the game, I would remain in bed. It’s the ideal place to lounge around and feel sorry for myself. But since I need to get in some practice, I get up, find some marginally clean clothes at the bottom of the duffle bag, and then slide into the kitchen for a quick bowl of cereal. Before I head out the door, I write a note to Courtney: Back in an hour.
From Courtney’s place, I take a right onto A1A, away from Ponce Inlet, and spot some hoops at a beachside park a few miles up the road. The court, still empty, faces the beach, and I park my car in the open lot. Below, the waves lap at the shore as cars crowd near the dunes and beachgoers set out towels and coolers for the day.
Growing up, Saturdays, if we did not have a game, were for basketball drills, not relaxing at the beach. After we got up and had a quick high-protein breakfast, my dad would take my brothers and me to the sport court behind our house. There, we’d practice shots until we couldn’t miss. He would stand behind us, trying to get into our heads, putting words there, and to this day, I never shoot hoops without my dad barking at me.
As I head toward the court, two guys, dishing smack to one another, pass me and take the first net, so I head to the far end of the court. Dropping my duffle bag on the metal bench, I plop down and eye the “competition,” but as far as I can tell, their game consists of pushing, shoving, hollering, and an occasional basket.
I lace up my shoes, down some water, and start at the free-throw line. There’s no reason to miss an undefended shot. I sink a few easy ones. C’mon, you should be able to do these in your sleep. I move around the key, trying my luck outside the arc. I make the first shot but miss the second. Shoot until you can’t miss. I toss up a series of incredible three-pointers as I get comfortable with the shot.
Taking a breather, I turn, noticing the audience behind me; one of the guys flicks a nod of approval. I pretend not to notice and slide my eyes toward the ocean, hoping he doesn’t try to start up a conversation. I don’t like to talk when I’m in the zone.
Trying different shots, I move in for some easy layups, slide back for a few hooks, and then end with a few more three-pointers. Confident, I call it good and return to the bench. I sit down, lean over, and pull up my shirt a little, swiping the sweat off my face.
“You live ’round here?” a deep voice asks.
I look up and notice a tall, middle-aged man standing in front of me.
“Hi,” he says with an overzealous grin. “I’m Coach Adamson, but everyone calls me Shorty. I coach the high school girls’ team.” He thumbs inland. “And you—with that incredible three-point shot!—would make a great addition.”
“Well,” I begin, “I don’t live here.”
“Ah, that’s too bad,” he says, shaking his head, sadly. “We, uh, lost a few starters last year, you know?”
“Yeah, I understand,” I say, thinking about senior recognitions at the basketball banquet and how after losing a few key players, coaches can expect a tougher season during the rebuilding year. Our high school boys’ team will definitely feel the loss of my brother Landon, my ex Mike, and a few other top players, so it will be almost impossible for Varsity to advance to State again this year. I take a few sips of water and glance at my watch.
Shorty drops the ball in front of him and then catches it. “What year are you?”
“Senior.”
“Well, good luck with your last season—especially the recruiting.” He starts dribbling the ball toward the basket. “Go with a good solid program—but one that’ll give you the most playing time.”
I nod, but I know all this: I started getting scouts at my games in middle school and already have several programs wooing me and waiting for my verbal commitment. I check my watch, realizing that I need to go. I have to swing back by Courtney’s place before the game, so I grab my duffle bag off the bench. “Nice to meet you, Coach, and good luck with your season.”
“Thanks, you too.” He takes a quick shot from the free-throw line and makes it. “Of course, with that three-point shot, you won’t need any luck.”
“Thanks,” I say, feeling a little confidence seep into the mix of emotions. But then again, basketball is my thing, and it rarely fails me.
*****
The Secrets We Keep Page 4
