The Necessary Hunger

by Nina Revoyr

  Our game with Raina's team was one of those moments for me. I understood, all throughout it, that what was happening was real, and it made me think that nothing before then ever had been. It seemed like everyone felt that way, or at least understood that something unusual was happening—Raina, our teammates, all the people in the stands. There were times when the crowd made more noise than it ever had before, but also times, more significantly, when a huge, loud silence fell over the place, as if the people had seen some feat of miraculous strength, or had witnessed, all together, religion. Late in the contest, they'd start to whisper that this was the greatest game they'd ever seen, and it was, without question, the greatest one I ever played in. The papers would describe it in terms normally reserved for epic battles. The most hardened, disinterested observers—the scouts—would leave the gym that night with tears in their eyes.

  The game was at our place, and I walked into the locker room a little before six o'clock. I put my uniform on slowly, handling my jersey, shorts, and shoes with great care, knowing that this could be the last time I ever wore them. My teammates began to trickle in, and all of them looked the way I felt—determined, and also terrified. I didn't want the personal quality of my emotion to spread, because I didn't know yet whether it would inspire me or cripple me, so I tried to bring the game back down to normal terms, and talk about it in the context of the playoffs.

  "Y'all see this?" I said, pointing to the year-old article taped to the inside of my locker door. "Y'all see what it says? It says we can't stand up to the pressure of the playoffs, we can't win when the stakes are too high."

  My teammates looked at me grimly. Telisa was sitting down, and she nodded, fists clenched tightly on her bouncing knees.

  "Well, the same reporter is gonna be out there again tonight, and when this game is over," I ripped the article down and held it out for all to see, "I wanna crumple this thing up and throw it in his face and tell him that he better think again."

  "Yeah!" yelled Pam.

  "We gonna show those motherfuckas!" yelled Telisa.

  We strutted around the locker room and gave each other stinging high fives. It was only six twenty—still an hour and ten minutes before game time—so we went out on the court to do our shoot-around. People broke off at various points—Q to get her ankle taped, Telisa to go into a corner and pray—but everyone was back and shooting by the time Raina's team emerged from their locker room. I felt my blood beating in my ears. I took several deep breaths and turned toward the wall, so I could close my eyes and try to calm down. I was so nervous that my arms were shaking, and the first shot I took after Raina's team appeared caromed badly off the side of the backboard. This was not good. The best thing to do, I thought, would be to burn off some of my nervous energy and then face the situation head-on. I jumped up and down in place a few times, and then jogged back and forth across the width of the court. Then I made myself look at Raina.

  She was sitting on their bench, staring at the ball in her hands so intently that she might have been trying to hypnotize it. After a few minutes, she stood up and adjusted her uniform, then bounced the ball and walked onto the court. She shot, got the ball back, went to another spot, shot again. Stacy was standing under the basket in street clothes, rebounding missed shots and tossing the balls back out to her teammates. When she saw me she waved and yelled, "Wassup!" But while Raina glanced at me a few times when I pretended not to be looking, neither of us acknowledged the other.

  A little before seven, we went back into the locker room, and Coach Fontaine gave some speech I didn't hear a single word of. What could he possibly say that would be of any use? The outcome of this game was not going to be decided by a coach's strategies and ideas, nor by any diagrammed plays. The real story of this game existed on a plane different from the one our coach had access to.

  At seven fifteen, we lined up and ran onto the court in our official warmup formation, and a few minutes later our opponents came out again too. The stands had filled up by then, and there was a steady buzz of excitement in the air. Neither of our teams had made it to the third round before, and most people who were familiar with us also knew that Raina and I were housemates. Several of our AAU friends were there too, including Theresa, who'd warned me that in light of her team's loss to us, she was going to root for Raina. Letrice was there, and Tracy, with Chris on her lap, and I wished that Rhonda could have come with them. A little pack of college coaches sat at the top of the bleachers, and I was sure that they, too, were intrigued by the drama being played out that night, or at least by what they knew of it. In the exact middle of the stands sat our parents, my father dressed in our team's green and white and Claudia in Leuzinger's blue and yellow. Rochelle and Kim were with them, and farther to the left, in the visitors' section, was Paula. I didn't look up at any of them, and I didn't want them there—what was happening seemed too intimate for them to witness.

  My teammates and I shot layups and free throws, did a three-on-two drill and defensive slides. Then the referees called for captains, and I went to midcourt, where Raina was already waiting. The head ref instructed us to introduce ourselves to each other, but Raina just held out her hand. I stepped forward and took it. And I thought, as we stood there, that I had never really shaken anyone's hand before. I felt all the contours of her bones and the soft, warm skin and the way her thumb and fingers encircled my hand. We gripped each other firmly, and her handshake said the same thing that her eyes were saying—I respect you, you are my friend, but I will do everything I can to defeat you. The referee gave his normal spiel about playing clean and calling time-outs and keeping the rest of our teammates under control. We never took our eyes off each other. When he was done, Raina nodded to indicate that she'd heard. Then, to me, she said, "Good luck."

  We went back to our teams, and the teams headed over to their benches. By then I just wanted the game to begin—I'd be much less nervous once we actually started playing. We went through the introductions, and it was unreal to me; it was incredible that Raina and I were being introduced for the same game. My teammates and I surrounded our coach while he gave us some last-minute general instructions; finally, just after seven thirty, we lined up around the circle for the jump. We all got into our spots, and after what seemed like an interminably long time, the referee threw the ball up and the game had begun.

  Their center, who was a couple of inches taller than Q, managed to tip the ball to Jamelle, the forward who was filling in for Stacy. The crowd gave a large, collective cheer—not because Diane had won the tip, but because the fans, too, were nervous, and glad the game was finally underway. Jamelle passed the ball to their point guard, Robin, who saw that they had no advantage and waited for her teammates to run down and set up their offense. We had fallen back into a two-three zone, because Raina's team was so much faster than ours that it would have been dangerous to guard them player-to-player. They worked the ball around a bit now, seeing how we responded to their movements, until Raina shook free using a screen from Diane and took a wide-open shot off the wing. Swish. So much for her sitting back and letting others determine the flow of the game.

  They had drawn first blood, they had exhibited no early jitters, and now we had to come up with an answer. We did. They came after us player-to-player, and I blew by Keisha, my designated victim, and encountered Diane, who'd come over to block my path. But that left Q alone under the basket, so I dumped it off to her. She made the layup and the game was tied.

  We hustled back on defense but they got another quick score. Diane had been offended, I think, at how badly we'd burned her, and she muscled in for a power layup off of a beautiful pass from Jamelle. I cursed and reminded Pam and Q that we couldn't let her get the ball so close to the basket. This was one of the things we'd talked about for the past several days—but there was a tremendous difference between knowing what had to be done and actually being able to do it.

  On our next trip down, we were more deliberate, running a series of picks for each othe
r and working the ball around the perimeter. Then finally, I got the ball in the left corner, and saw that Keisha was leaving me a foot between herself and the baseline. Big mistake. I was not a fast player, but I had an extremely quick first step, and that is all you need, really, to get by your defender. Now I swung my right leg over to the open space that Keisha was leaving by the baseline, turning my whole body to the left to shield the ball. In one motion I hurled myself past her and dribbled, and by the time she reacted, I was already gone. Jamelle and Diane ran toward me, waving their arms. I head-faked, crouched, and they both flew by me; it was like ducking under a wave. I shot the ball, and let out a yell as it dropped through the hoop.

  That was the way it went for the first five minutes. They scored, then we scored, and both teams were so effective on offense that it seemed like the first team to miss would lose the game. We finally did both miss, of course—them before us—but neither team led by more than two throughout the entire first quarter. We were playing with the intensity of the last two minutes of a game, and all the people in the stands—except for the scouts—kept jumping up out of their seats.

  No matter where I was, whether I could see her or not, I was always conscious of Raina. When they were on offense, I kept an eye on her, trying to deny her the ball when I could, and making sure that she didn't get past me. When they were on defense, I could just feel her. She'd yell at her teammates to make sure they knew where I was, and collapse back on me when she could afford to leave Telisa for a second, so I knew that she was conscious of me too. I kept track of what she scored, and held off from immediately going down after each of her baskets and trying to retaliate with a score of my own. She made some beautiful plays—a reverse layup through the branches formed by Pam's and Q's arms, a falling jumper from the top of the key with Telisa's hands right in her face, a no-look pass to Keisha which made Q jump in the wrong direction. I swore under my breath each time she did something like this, but I also admired the plays, and wished that I could ooh and ah along with the crowd, and that they were happening to anyone but us. She seemed to like what I was doing too. "Nice pass," she said after I'd hit a cutting Telisa for an easy bucket. "Good shot," she said, as she helped me to my feet after I'd been hammered going in for a layup.

  I was not as encouraging of her. While I did help her up once after Q knocked her down, I couldn't say anything appreciative; there was too much at stake. We slammed into each other a couple of times when we were both going after loose balls, and I'd whirl around with my fists clenched and see that it was Raina. Then I'd grit my teeth to quell the hostility I'd normally unleash in that situation, and want to let it out at her anyway. My need to outdo her was as passionate as hate. On the strength of pure fury, I pushed my team to play even more aggressively while Raina's team let up for a short stretch in the second quarter. We took advantage of their lapse and scored on four straight possessions, giving us a six-point lead at halftime. I ran into the locker room, still bouncing with nervous energy. Raina and I both had fifteen points.

  At halftime Coach Fontaine talked about blocking out better on rebounds and keeping up our intensity—as if that would be a problem. I drank several cups of water to stave off dehydration and then called Q and Telisa over for a private huddle.

  "We gotta win this, y'all," I said.

  "We will," said Q. We had our arms draped around each other and our heads bent together; sweat dripped off our foreheads and onto the floor.

  "T," I said, "save yourself on offense if you start to get tired, 'cos you ain't gonna wear Raina out. She's in great shape, and if you runnin low on energy, just pace yourself and keep it for the end. Q, Diane will get tired, so just keep pushin her around when we're on D, and then make her move as much as you can when we're on offense."

  "All right," said Telisa.

  "Got it, homegirl," said Q.

  I had my right arm around Q, and my left arm around Telisa, and now I shook my friends and raised my head to look at them. "Let's make sure this ain't our last game," I said.

  Telisa looked back at me, and I saw several different emotions play across her face. "I don't want there ever to be a last game," she said.

  We shot around for a few minutes to warm back up, and then the second half began. I don't know what Raina had told her teammates at halftime, but they came out playing as if possessed. They poured on their offensive power. Diane made use of her size and set up camp beneath the basket, and the forwards found her three times for easy scores. Keisha took advantage of our preoccupation with Diane and Raina, and got open a couple of times for easy jumpers. When we sank back on Diane or sent somebody out at Keisha, Raina stepped into the open spot and her teammates delivered her the ball. Then she'd either shoot right there or make a quick move to shake off her defender and take it all the way in to the basket. Twice she beat Telisa and came straight at me. One time I reacted quickly enough to cut off her drive and force her to pass, but once she got to me and made a quick spin move, which left me guarding a patch of empty air while she continued on by for a layup. "Fuck," I said aloud, and the ref warned me to watch my language. I glared at him and ran up the court.

  We were playing hard, and not doing badly, but Raina's team was brilliant. They completely overwhelmed us. It was as if we were running along as fast as we could, and their team zoomed by in a Ferrari. All we could do was hang on and not panic and wait for their outburst to end. This was not easy, of course—my teammates looked shaken, and our coach screamed incessantly during the time-out he called for damage control, and even I was beginning to get nervous. Basketball is a game of runs, and often one team plays as if superhuman for a while, and then comes back down to earth while the other team gets its turn to shine. But that's hard to remember when you're flailing in the face of someone else's perfection. We just kept playing as hard as we could, and at one point, I caused us all a minor scare by landing awkwardly on my arm when I dove into the stands for a loose ball. I shook it out, but it still hurt, and it didn't seem to be lined up correctly. I didn't care, though—it was my left arm, it was expendable. At the end of the third quarter, we crawled back to our bench. There'd been a fourteen-point turnaround since halftime, and now we were down by eight.

  "Goddamnit!" Coach Fontaine yelled, and he was so mad he seemed to be foaming at the mouth. "What're you trying to do, give them the game? My grandmother could put up a better fight than you guys, and she's been dead for twenty years!" We all hung our heads. "Don't hang your heads!" he yelled. Then he put his hands to his own head, and I was afraid he was going to sacrifice his few remaining hairs. He didn't, though; he brought his hands back down empty and looked at us. "All right. What we're gonna do is switch to player-to-player. We need to put more pressure on their offense. Q, you take their center, and make sure you deny her the ball. Telisa, you get their point guard. Celine, you get Jamelle. Pam, you take that Keisha girl, and Nancy, you take Raina."

  I looked at him, surprised.

  "I know she's a guard," he said, "but I figure you know her game as well as she does."

  This was probably true, and defense is three-quarters anticipation anyway, so I nodded and said, "All right."

  We huddled, gave a cheer for both our school and our city—"'Wood!"—and walked back onto the court for the start of the final quarter. The crowd noise increased as we prepared to resume play. All the spectators leaned forward in their seats, and that's how I felt too—on edge, excited, sensing that the rout of the third quarter was not the end of the story and that there was more to be written that day.

  We played them even for the first two minutes. They weren't giving at all—it was like trying to move the Great Wall of China with our bare hands—but at least they weren't increasing their lead. They'd also switched to a zone defense, which meant they were probably getting tired. Meanwhile, our player-to-player seemed to be having an effect—they hadn't expected us to spring it on them, and it forced them to reset their offense, and to work harder for everything they got. I did not le
t Raina out of my sight. Coach Fontaine was right—I did know her game; I knew where she liked to cut, and the difference between a head fake and the beginning of a real shot, and the way she slipped down under the big girls to position herself for rebounds. She didn't score in those first couple of minutes, and slowly, so slowly that maybe no one even noticed, the tide began to turn. We chipped away at their lead, scoring a three-point play for one of their baskets and then a basket after they missed, making up the difference one or two points at a time. At four minutes, Raina beat me to the baseline to score her first bucket of the quarter, and then I posted up on the other end and answered her. After the ball came through the net, we stopped and stared at each other, and all of our teammates looked from her to me and back again. A strange hush came over the crowd, and somehow everyone in the building—players, fans, coaches—seemed to understand that from then on, the game belonged to Raina and me.

  The next time her team came down on offense, they made no pretense that anyone else would shoot. They set a double pick for Raina, and I got caught up for a moment, and she had a split-second chance to hit the jumper, which she did. On our end, the same idea. Telisa passed straight in to Q, but Q found me at the baseline and I sank the open shot. Then Raina displayed a move I hadn't seen before and drove past me to get to the basket. Then Telisa fed me the ball on the right wing and I beat Raina for a short jumper in the key. The crowd cheered and leaned forward even farther.