by Carl Deuker
In the locker room after both games, guys devoured the stat sheet, smiling as they saw their soaring numbers. When you play fast-break basketball, points come in bundles. The only player who had struggled was Levi.
I had my mom’s car that night, and after the Hale game, Levi and I drove back to Tangletown. He didn’t talk; instead, he stared out the window into the blackness. From the way he looked—mouth tight, brow furrowed—anyone would have thought we’d lost by fifty. A couple of times I’d say something, and he’d sit up. “What?” he’d ask, his mind somewhere else. I’d repeat whatever I’d said only to get a one-word reply. Finally I gave up and just drove.
As we neared his house, I tried one last time. “Everything okay? At home, I mean. Your parents? Your sisters? Anything going on you want to talk about?”
He wheeled on me. “Why would you ask something like that?”
“I don’t know. You’re getting passing grades; we’re winning, but you don’t seem to be enjoying anything. I know Coach Knecht is on your mind, but if something else is wrong somewhere, and you ever feel like talking about it . . .” I stopped, not sure how to say what I wanted to say. “I guess I’m just saying I’m your friend.”
“Nothing’s wrong, Jonas,” he replied, the edge gone from his voice, but then he turned away from me to stare out the window again.
I was worried about Levi for Levi’s sake, but I was worried about him for me, too. In his e-mails, Coach Richter stressed that team results were more important to him than individual statistics. Making the playoffs would extend our season and give me more chances to impress Richter. But the team couldn’t keep winning without Levi playing like Levi—not against the tough teams that were coming up. Something besides Knecht was holding him back. If I couldn’t get him turned around, that something—whatever it was—would hold me back, too.
15
OUR SUCCESS GOT NOTICED. WHEN I came downstairs the morning after the Hale game, my dad handed me the Seattle Times. “You’ll want to read that article,” he said, pointing to the headline:
HARDING HAWKS RALLY FOR INJURED COACH
The story started with a description of Mr. Knecht’s injury, before recapping his career. Most of the information was new to me. Knecht had been Seattle Coach of the Year three times. Twice in the 1980s Harding had played for the state title, losing both games. At the end of the article, the writer quoted Hartwell: “The team has dedicated the season to Coach Knecht. We’re playing for him, one game at a time, the way he’d have us play.”
I read those last sentences twice. Nobody—not Hartwell, not Levi, not Cash—had said anything about dedicating the season to Knecht, and we definitely weren’t playing Knecht’s style. I didn’t exactly blame Hartwell for saying what he’d said—it was what was expected. Still, it didn’t sit quite right.
After beating Inglemoor and then stomping on Woodinville and Hale, I wasn’t worried about Monday’s game with Eastlake. They had a decent record but nothing sensational and, as the Times had said, we were a team on the rise.
As my mom gave me the keys to her car that morning, she wished me luck.
“We’re not going to need luck this time. We can handle these guys.”
“Don’t be too sure of yourself.”
“You sound like Dad,” I said, and then I was out the door.
The Eastlake game was part of the Martin Luther King Jr. Holiday Hoops celebration at KeyArena, which had been home to the Sonics when they played in Seattle. I thought I’d feel an extra burst of adrenaline when I stepped onto the same court where Michael Jordan and other great NBA stars had played, but it didn’t happen. Our game was the first of the day, with a tip-off time of ten in the morning. When the horn sounded and we took the court, over fifteen thousand seats were empty. I felt like we were playing in a warehouse. The hour didn’t feel right, either; ten was way too early to do anything other than shoot around.
We jumped out to an early lead. A couple of times I thought we’d get our fast break going and deliver a knockout blow, but Eastlake hung tough, mainly because of their depth. The Eastlake coach also had his team play fast, but he ran ten players out against us, and those ten split the minutes evenly. Hartwell used seven, and our subs only spotted us a minute or two. The Eastlake players’ legs stayed fresh while ours grew heavy.
Coach Knecht would have had us walk the ball down, milk the clock, and rest a little on offense so we’d be strong on defense—but Hartwell told us to keep running. We did, but our increasing fatigue made our execution sloppy. Eastlake took advantage, chipping away at our lead. At halftime the game was tied.
During the break, we caught our breath and came out strong in the third quarter, jumping out to a decent lead. Again the Eastlake coach substituted freely, always shuffling rested players onto the court. Hartwell, who had no faith in our bench guys, made even fewer substitutions, but he kept telling us to run every chance we had.
By the end of the third quarter, I was so winded I was leaning over and sucking in air, my hands on my knees, as Hartwell barked instructions. I looked around the huddle and saw Levi, Cash, and DeShawn bent over too. Nick had dropped to a knee. It would have been good coaching to give us a couple of minutes of rest, but Hartwell sent the entire first team onto the court to start the final quarter. “Gut it out,” he screamed. “You can’t let yourself be tired, not now.”
That mind-over-matter talk sounds good, but midway through the fourth quarter, we hit the wall—all of us. Once your legs go rubbery, your shots come up short, and you stop blocking out on rebounds. You don’t move your feet, which makes you foul-prone. Eastlake gnawed into our lead like a dog working on a bone.
When we most needed some breaks, calls started going against us. If one of us plowed into an Eastlake player, it was a charge, and they got the ball. But if their guy smacked into us, the ref called a blocking foul and they shot free throws.
The worst call came at the worst time. We were up by a single point with thirty seconds to play when Eastlake’s forward missed a jumper. In the fight for the rebound, an Eastlake guy tipped the ball out-of-bounds, but the ref saw it the other way, giving the ball back to Eastlake. On the inbound play, their center flashed into the key, took the pass, and banked in an eight-footer over Levi that gave Eastlake the lead.
We had twenty seconds left, and we were down one. Score a hoop and we’d pull out a victory. Hartwell called time and drew up a play straight out of Knecht’s playbook. We were to go into a weave, have Nick set a screen, and then have Cash come off the screen for a jump shot.
It worked: Cash flashed open; I hit him in rhythm. He got a good look at the hoop, released, and missed short—those tired legs again. Then we finally caught a break—the rebound came straight to Levi. He dribbled once, gathered himself, gave a shoulder fake, and rose for what should have been the winning basket. But as he left his feet, an Eastlake guard slapped at the ball. He was a little guy, and he shouldn’t have been able to knock the ball out of Levi’s strong hands, but the ball came loose and rolled toward the sideline. I dived for it, and so did everybody else. While we fumbled it around, the horn sounded, ending the game.
In the locker room afterward, I knew why we lost, knew it in the weariness I felt. They’d come at us in droves, and they’d worn us down. But the stat sheet revealed a second reason: Levi. He’d managed only three points and three rebounds. Had we gotten anything close to a normal game from him, we would have won easily.
16
AT THE START OF ENGLISH class on Tuesday, the phone rang in Mrs. Miller’s classroom. The interruption came just as we’d begun discussing a poem by Robert Frost, her favorite writer. When she hung up the telephone, she scowled and told me to report to Coach Hartwell’s office. “If this is about basketball, then I don’t like it one bit. You get yourself back here as soon as you can.”
My new basketball shoes squeaked loudly as I walked alone down the empty hallways. When I reached Hartwell’s office, I tapped lightly. “Come in, Jonas,” he
said as he opened the door. “This will just take a couple of minutes.”
He returned to the seat behind his desk while I settled into a chair across from him. He had a frown on his face; the Eastlake loss was eating at him too. “I brought you in here because I just got off the phone with your New Hampshire coach.”
I sat up, my heart suddenly thumping.
Hartwell put his hands up to let me know there was no real news. “I called to tell him what a fine player you are, what a fine person you are, and how you’d be great for his team. I also explained why you were on the bench for the first half of the season. I wanted him to hear it directly from me.”
“Thanks, Coach. I appreciate it.” I paused. “Did he say anything about my chances?”
Hartwell looked directly at me, his eyes searching out mine. “He told me that he’s leaning toward the other boy. You’ll need a strong finish to your season, but you’re still in the running. I want him to see how well you’re playing, so I’ve arranged with Mr. Clark to have one of his students film our next few games. He’ll make a DVD of your highlights that you can send off to New Hampshire. Mr. Knecht should have done this for you, but better late than never. Is that okay with you?”
“Yeah, sure. My coach last year did that.”
The room went silent. Was that it? I almost stood to leave, but somehow I sensed Hartwell had more to say, so I waited. He moved some papers around on his desk and then looked back to me. “I wouldn’t normally speak to one player about another player, but I’d like to believe that we’re friends, that I can speak with you in confidence.”
I swallowed. “The other player is Levi, right?”
He nodded. “Yes, Levi. He’s been skipping our tutoring sessions, and his play on the court has been way off. I’m worried about him.”
My chest tightened. I dropped my eyes. “Something’s eating at him, Coach. I’ve tried to get him to tell me what it is, but whenever I ask, he shuts down.”
Hartwell folded his hands. “Do you have any idea what it might be?”
“I think it might have to do with his sister Rachel. I know she fights with his father, but that’s just a guess.”
“So he hasn’t told you anything?”
“No. Nothing.”
Hartwell unfolded his hands and the tension left his face. “Well, whatever the reason, if Levi does poorly in class, he’ll lose his eligibility. That’s what happened to him last year. And even if he does manage to stay eligible, we have no chance against a team like Garfield unless he gets some passion back in his game.”
I squirmed. Was Hartwell blaming me? “I’ve asked what’s bothering him,” I said. “He won’t tell me. I don’t know what else I can do.”
Hartwell waved his hands in front of his face. “Jonas, I don’t expect you to do anything. But with your permission, I’d like to explain to Levi just how important it is for us to make the playoffs. If Levi understands that you need to play more games and put up some numbers to win that scholarship, he just might shake off whatever is bothering him and bring some fire back. It’s a win-win-win situation: good for you, good for him, and good for the team.” Hartwell paused. “So what do you say? Can I explain to him how much these games mean to you?”
I didn’t answer at first. Something about Hartwell’s proposal didn’t sound right, but how can it be wrong to ask a guy to play hard? “Okay,” I said at last. “Just make sure to let him know it won’t be his fault if Monitor College picks the other guy.”
“I won’t make him feel guilty,” Hartwell said. “That wouldn’t help his play at all. And Jonas, don’t feel like you have to be the one to solve Levi’s problems. He’s got his parents, he’s got his church, and he’s on my radar screen. You take care of yourself and let the adults unravel whatever is bothering Levi.”
I nodded, relieved. I stood and started for the door.
“One more thing,” Hartwell said.
I turned back.
He smiled. “At practice today I’m going to tell the guys that you’re co-captain of the team. Don’t worry. I checked with Cash, and he’s all for it.”
17
HARTWELL MUST HAVE TALKED TO Levi about my scholarship sometime during that school day, because Levi worked hard at practice that afternoon. He wasn’t the old Levi—there was no smile on his face or joy in his game—but the focus was back, and he played angry, which is a good way for a power forward to play.
Semester finals were the first week of February, so there were no games during that week. Our last game before the break was on Friday night against Skyline in their gym. We needed to get back on track after the Eastlake loss, but Skyline was a perennial playoff team. Winning wouldn’t be easy. My dad left me a note on the kitchen table. “Get these guys!” it read.
Before the game, the Skyline players were cocky, shooting long three-pointers, joking with one another, acting as if we weren’t worthy to be on the court with them. They were taking us lightly, probably because they knew we’d lost to Eastlake, a team they’d routed twice. But after we got off to a blistering start—scoring the first eight points of the game—their cockiness disappeared.
Their coach called time-out. As we huddled around Hartwell, we could hear the other coach chewing out his players. When they came back on the court, their approach changed entirely. Instead of firing up long jumpers, they pounded the ball inside.
To hold them off, we needed Levi, and for the first time in a long time, he was there. On defense he clogged the middle, blocked shots, and rebounded. When we were on offense, I didn’t involve him too much. A player has only so much energy; Levi was expending his on the other end of the court. Time and again, Skyline would make mini-runs at us, but Levi would have a great block, Cash would hit a three, or I’d sneak in for a lay-up, and we’d maintain our lead.
Midway through the fourth quarter, we were up by six points. Hartwell had subbed more, learning from his mistake against Eastlake, so we weren’t exhausted. As long as we kept our composure, we’d win—or at least that’s what I thought.
Then, in a matter of seconds, everything changed. DeShawn missed a jumper; Skyline rebounded and came downcourt. Instead of setting up a play, Skyline’s point guard—a guy I’d had under control all game long—let fly a twenty-five-footer. He was way out of his range; it would have been an NBA three-pointer. I turned, ready to rebound, but to the astonishment of everybody in the gym, the ball whistled through. The Skyline crowd, electrified, rose to their feet and roared. In the blink of an eye, our lead had been cut in half.
You can taste fear when you’re playing, and that’s the taste that came to my mouth. I brought the ball into forecourt, the roar from the fans growing louder and louder: “DE-FENSE! DE-FENSE! DE-FENSE!” We worked the ball around, with nobody panicking. With ten seconds left on the shot clock, Nick flashed open. I hit him with a solid chest pass. He went up in rhythm, but the crowd noise had gotten into his head. Instead of releasing the ball, he guided it. His shot was flat and short; Skyline’s center pounced on the rebound, made a quick outlet, and they were racing downcourt again.
This time my guy pulled up and let his shot fly from about thirty feet. The second he let it go, I knew—everyone knew. The crowd, which had been holding its breath while that rainbow came down from the sky, erupted.
Swish!
The score was tied with three minutes to play.
Hartwell jumped up, signaling for a time-out. “Use the weave,” he said as we huddled around him. “Just like Coach Knecht taught you. Milk the clock and get a good shot.”
Our time-out quieted Skyline’s crowd a little, and so did our set play. Skyline’s fans still chanted, “DE-FENSE,” but not with the same crazy intensity. As the shot clock wound down, we moved the ball around the perimeter. Then Levi’s eyes caught mine. He hadn’t shown any offense all game, so Skyline wasn’t expecting anything from him. A second after our eyes met, he went backdoor, and I put up a lob near the rim. It wasn’t a great pass, but he snatched the ball and
kissed it off the glass and through. A whistle sounded—foul on Skyline. Levi calmly sank the free throw, and we were back up by three.
After the inbound pass, I got up into the face of the Skyline guard—I was not going to let him sink another three-pointer. I rode him downcourt, giving him no look at the hoop at all. Still, he rose and heaved up another long bomb. He must have figured he was so hot that nothing could stop him, but this time his shot fell five feet short and right into Cash’s waiting hands. I had released downcourt, and Cash heaved the ball to me. I took it on a bounce, made the lay-up, and the game was ours.
Afterward, I studied the stat sheet. My line was a thing of beauty: ten points and ten assists. A double-double—something that doesn’t happen much in high school basketball, and something that would definitely catch Richter’s attention. So would the 5–1 record the team had with me as a starter. Most importantly, we’d moved one step closer to earning a spot in the KingCo playoffs.
My eyes drifted down the page to Levi’s name. He had seven points, four blocks, and twelve rebounds—by far his best game in weeks. He was lacing up his shoes on the other side of the locker room. I thought about shouting, Great game, Levi, and waving the stat page around, but that wasn’t Levi’s way, and it wasn’t exactly mine, either.
18
MY SCHEDULE DURING FINALS WEEK was confusing. There were “A” days and “B” days, lunches as early as ten in the morning or as late as one in the afternoon.
