Swagger

by Carl Deuker

  Levi’s schedule was equally muddled. I wanted to review the health notes with him early in the week to make sure I got it done before I studied for my harder classes. In the hall before school on Monday, I asked him what time would be good. “How about after practice today?” he said.

  Even though we wouldn’t play our next game until Saturday night, Hartwell didn’t go easy on us at practice. “This is going to feel more like a track meet than a basketball practice,” he said that afternoon. “When we start tournament play, we’ll be facing tough games one night after the next. KingCo runs Thursday, Friday, with the championship on Sunday. Once we win that and go to the state finals, we’ll be looking at three more games, but this time it will be three games in only three nights. I’m going to wear you out now so you’re not tired then, and I don’t want to hear any whining.”

  I liked that Hartwell had acted as if he was certain we’d win KingCo one week and then progress to the state finals the next. He was playing a mind game with us, but it always feels good to have a coach give you a vote of confidence.

  That was by far the toughest practice of my life. We ran and ran and then ran more. After fifty minutes I was dripping sweat, and the second half of practice was harder than the first.

  Afterward, Levi and I went straight to the library, pulled out our health notes, and got to it. Predictably, Levi thought he needed to learn absolutely everything, but he trusted me when I told him he could let some things go. After forty-five minutes, he’d mastered more than he needed to pass.

  “How are you doing in your other classes?” I asked.

  He roughly shoved his books into his backpack. “Don’t worry, Jonas. I’ll work with Hartwell enough to keep myself eligible. I won’t let you down.”

  There was a buried anger to his tone that made no sense. I thought about calling him on it, but then remembered what Hartwell had said about not trying to do too much. Instead, I punched him on the shoulder. “When this is all over, how about if we go backpacking again?” I said, laughing.

  It took a while, but finally he managed to smile back. “Sounds good, Jonas. Sounds really good.”

  19

  TUESDAY MORNING I HAD STUDY period first thing, and I used it to check with Sam Fisher, the guy making the DVD of my highlights to send to Monitor College. Fisher, who was in my English class, was always talking about why one short story would make a good film while another one wouldn’t. Film was for him what basketball was for me.

  He showed me what he had done, which was to splice together segments showing me making great passes and sinking baskets. About five minutes into the DVD, he hit the Stop button. “The rest is pretty much the same. That’s what you wanted, right?”

  I shrugged. “I guess.”

  He woke up a little. “Don’t you like it?”

  “Do you?” I asked, not wanting to step on his toes.

  “I think it’s phony, but it’s what Mr. Hartwell told me to do.”

  “What would make it better?”

  “Including some plays you screw up. Show all your reactions, all your emotions. It’d be way more interesting, way more like a real film.”

  “Go for it,” I said, recalling what Coach Russell at Redwood High had said about honesty.

  Fisher’s face broke into a big smile. “All right. I will.”

  Celia had asked to meet me at Zoka for a general study session. When practice ended that day—it was another long, hard workout—on an impulse I asked Levi if he wanted to come along.

  “Other than health, I’m not in any of your classes,” he said.

  “That doesn’t matter. You can go over your stuff while we’re studying ours. It’s easier to work when other people are around, and it’s more fun.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  I ate a quick dinner and then went to Zoka. Celia and I spent an hour sipping hot chocolate, nibbling on pastries, and reviewing chemistry. I fought the impulse to nudge her toward the topics that were on the test and away from those that weren’t. I was glad to finish with chemistry and turn to English and American government.

  We didn’t have the same teachers for those classes, but I asked Celia for advice anyway. “Keep your essays short,” she said, “and make sure your paragraphs all have a topic sentence followed by supporting details. The surest way to get a lousy grade is to ramble on and on.”

  She studied her notes as I read through mine. Every once in a while the main door to Zoka would open. I’d look up, hoping to see Levi, but he never showed. At ten, Celia and I called it a night.

  The chemistry test was first thing Wednesday morning. Butler passed out a packet of papers, and immediately the kids around me flipped ahead to see what was coming, fearing the worst. I did the same, even though there were no surprises for me. When I turned in the test, I knew I’d done well enough to get a B.

  My last exam was Friday afternoon—American government. The essay question was about a man who’d stolen from an old woman’s bank account, used the cash to win money at the racetrack, and then had returned every penny he’d stolen. The thief was caught, but his lawyer said he should be able to keep the racetrack winnings. I wrote that he should have to give up the money because he hadn’t risked anything. The old woman was the person who stood to lose, I argued, so she should gain. I finished before anyone else, but every sentence was crystal clear, which is what Celia had insisted mattered most. I turned in my paper and then sat back down. Finals week was over.

  20

  WE PLAYED LAKESIDE ON SATURDAY night at home. It felt great to be able to concentrate on basketball again. Lakeside was no soft touch, but they weren’t Garfield. Beat them, and we’d qualify for the KingCo tournament. We’d be a low seed, a seven or an eight, but we’d be in. Lose and our season was over.

  Lakeside had one really good player—J. D. Lester—and the other guys were just out there. Lester was a slasher, six four with great ball-handling skills. His teammates set screens all over the court for him, trying to create mismatches. It was a good game plan—at the end of the first quarter we were tied, 11–11, and Lester had been sizzling hot, scoring nine of Lakeside’s points.

  He’d also played the entire quarter.

  I felt good about our chances. He couldn’t stay on fire for a full game, and there was nobody on his team to pick up the slack when he cooled.

  “Make Lester work hard on defense too,” Hartwell instructed. “Nick, he’s guarding you most of the time. Be active. Keep moving, and take the shots that come your way. Make him run his butt off.”

  I kept waiting for Lester to cool off, but all through the second quarter, he stayed red-hot. He hit two three-pointers over Nick, and when Nick got up in his face, Lester drove by him for two lay-ups. What really had me worried was his breathing: the guy wasn’t sucking air at all. At halftime we were down six.

  And we were still down six at the end of the third quarter. Lester had cooled some, but Levi had been our only consistent threat, so they’d started to throw double-teams at him, forcing him to pass. We had good looks at the hoop, but all through the game Cash had been cold, and I wasn’t exactly lighting it up, so Lakeside kept double-teaming Levi.

  Eight minutes to save our season.

  During the break between the third and fourth quarter, Hartwell kept running his hands through his hair. “Let your shots go,” he pleaded. “You’re short-arming them. Free and easy. Just relax.”

  When you’re told to relax, it makes you more tense—or at least that’s how it works for me. Just as we were about to head back onto the court, Levi spoke. “I can shut Lester down.”

  I was stunned; we all were. He’d never spoken up before in a huddle, but what he said made perfect sense. I remembered those summertime one-on-one games at the Good Shepherd Center. I’d had no chance against him. Lester was taller than I was, but he still wouldn’t be able to shoot over Levi or drive past him.

  Hartwell looked doubtful. “Lester’s a guard; you’re a forward. He’s too quick fo
r you.”

  “No, he isn’t,” Levi said, calm certainty in his voice.

  The horn sounded; the ref stuck his head in. “Your players need to be on the court, Coach.”

  “It’ll work,” I said to Hartwell.

  Hartwell chewed on his lip for a moment and then decided. “All right, we’ll try it. Nick, you take Levi’s spot underneath. Box out and you’ll be okay. Levi, don’t foul Lester on his jump shots. If he blows by you and is going to get an easy lay-up, a foul is okay, but not on the jump shot.” The ref leaned in again. “Go!” Hartwell shouted before the ref spoke, and we hurried back onto the court.

  Lakeside inbounded, and their point guard brought the ball up-court. Levi, almost casually, sidled over to Lester, but there was nothing casual about his defense once the ball was in the forecourt. Levi hounded him, doing everything to deny him the ball. When Lester finally got the ball, he was nearly at half-court. Levi backed off a little, but once Lester put the ball on the floor, Levi was back on him. After a few dribbles, Lester picked up his dribble and quickly passed the ball back to the point guard. Instantly Levi was up in his face, denying a return pass.

  Lakeside didn’t get off a shot on that possession, and Levi shut down Lester the rest of the way. Lester couldn’t drive by him, couldn’t shoot over him, couldn’t do anything. As Lakeside’s offense ground to a halt, we gained confidence. Cash missed his first shot of the fourth quarter, but nailed his next two. I made my first, and when I missed my second, DeShawn was there for the offensive rebound and the put-back.

  We didn’t race past Lakeside; we scratched and clawed our way past them, tying the game on a reverse lay-up by Cash with two minutes left—and taking the lead on our next possession when Levi hit a short jump hook. By then Lester had stopped trying to get the ball—Levi had thoroughly demoralized him.

  Lakeside scored a grand total of four points in the fourth quarter, the final two coming with five seconds left.

  We won, 60–54, clinching a spot in the playoffs.

  We had a small celebration after the game, letting out a few shouts and pounding on a few lockers. Levi joined in—sort of. He smiled and high-fived guys, but he didn’t look as if his heart was in it. I had my mom’s car again, so I gave him a ride home. He was quiet in the car, which seemed normal now, staring out the window into the darkness.

  He didn’t speak until I pulled up in front of his house. “This will help, right?” he said before he got out of the car. “With your chance for the scholarship?”

  “It sure will. I can tell the coach in New Hampshire we made the playoffs, and I’ll have at least a few more games to score some points and make some assists. It wouldn’t have happened without you, Levi.”

  We bumped knuckles then. “I’m glad for you, Jonas.” Then he got out of the car and went into his house.

  As soon as I was in my own room, I flipped open my laptop, e-mailed my stats to Coach Richter, and told him we’d made the playoffs. The next morning I had a return e-mail. “Congratulations. I’ll be following the tournament online. When you go up against the best, you find out who you really are.”

  He didn’t come right out and say that my scholarship depended on my performance in the playoffs.

  He didn’t have to.

  21

  I LEARNED FROM THE MORNING Seattle Times that we wouldn’t have to win the district tournament to make it into the state playoffs. Because of its large population, King County was awarded two teams in the final eight. If we could win our way into the final against Garfield—and they were sure to make it—we wouldn’t have to beat them. Second place would be good enough.

  On Tuesday Sam Fisher, the video guy, intercepted me on my way to the lunchroom. “Bring your food to the lab, and I’ll show you the new version,” he said.

  I grabbed a burrito and hustled to the video room. Fisher hooked up his computer to a seventy-inch television, and we watched twenty minutes of a DVD starring me.

  It was a strange experience. When I was actually on the court playing in games, I felt as if I were doing the same things that college players, even NBA players, do. But watching Fisher’s film, my “laser” passes were just passes. On the big screen, I looked more like a scrawny eighth-grader than a muscular college player. I didn’t complain, though. Fisher had done exactly what I’d wanted; Richter would get an accurate picture of me, good and bad.

  After fifteen minutes, lunch period ended. “I used two games to put the film together,” Fisher said, ejecting the DVD. “Thirty minutes total. Is that enough?”

  “That’s enough.”

  “Who’s this for, anyway?” Fisher asked, as he handed me the DVD.

  I explained about the scholarship.

  “That’s cool, Jonas. If you get it, tell me. I can brag to people that it was all because of my cinéma vérité style.”

  The first two games of the KingCo tournament went by in a blur. We beat Newcastle by eight and then were back on the court less than twenty-four hours later to take on Kentwood. In both games, everything clicked. Levi was controlling the boards; Cash was hitting his jump shot; I was distributing the ball. We jumped out to early leads and then Hartwell put Brindle in to milk the clock in the fourth quarter and to keep me fresh for the next game.

  For the previous few weeks, my father had occasionally been leaving work before closing. That night he was reading the newspaper in the front room when I opened the door. “How did you do?” he said, nervousness in his voice. He hadn’t been to my games, but he was following the results.

  I gave him the details of our victory. “Even if we lose to Garfield Sunday night, we’re still in the state tournament.”

  He wagged a finger at me. “You beat Garfield before. You shouldn’t talk about losing.”

  I shrugged. “I know, but—”

  “But even if you lose, you’re still in the state tournament.” He paused. “Congratulations. I can’t tell you how proud I am.”

  There was a moment of silence. “How are things at the Blue Jay?” I asked.

  “Going great. I’m feeling good about my new cleanup supervisor. I’ve finally got a guy who understands how important cleanliness is. I may end up having both a job and a life.”

  “Can you make the Garfield game?”

  “Your mom and I will both be there, and we’ll be at your state championship game too. And for sure we’ll make your first game in New Hampshire.”

  “Don’t jinx me,” I said. “I don’t have the scholarship yet.”

  “You’ll get it, Jonas. Just keep playing hard.”

  A couple of hours later, as I was lying in bed, I thought of Levi’s father. Would he miss the championship game? But even as I asked myself the question, I knew the answer.

  22

  THE DISTRICT FINAL WAS HELD at Hec Edmundson Pavilion on the University of Washington campus. Garfield had a regional reputation, so their fans outnumbered ours. After going through our normal warm-up routine, we returned to the locker room. Hartwell had us line up in the runway, and then the gym went dark. The PA announcer called our names one by one. I ran out of the darkness into a bright spotlight, rock music blaring from the sound system. Cheers rolled down from our side of the stands. The hair on my arms stood up, and I thought my heart would come out of my chest.

  I’d been playing well, but I knew I could play better. In Fisher’s video, I’d seen times when I’d missed open teammates. Not once in Seattle had I gone into the zone like I had in Redwood City. I’d never had the feeling that the game was in slow motion—but sometimes it seemed as if that magical feeling was close.

  After our team was introduced, the Garfield guys entered the arena the same way, except the cheering for them was louder. When the lights went fully on, I spotted the KingCo District trophy, three feet high and glittering, sitting on the scorer’s table. Behind the scorer’s table sat a line of reporters. Photographers ringed the court. I looked for my mom and dad in the packed stands, but there was no way I’d find them. If
the KingCo championship game was this exciting, what would the state title game at the Tacoma Dome be like?

  Garfield had three top-notch AAU players, guys who traveled the country in the summer playing against the best. The spotlight, the trophy, and the cameras—none of it seemed to faze them, but the pregame razzle-dazzle amped me up. I started the game playing too fast, trying to make miracle passes by threading the needle when my guy wasn’t open. And when I wasn’t making bad passes, I was taking bad shots. Twice I drove into the lane and threw up dipsy-doodle shots that caromed wildly off.

  Garfield had a solid game plan. From the opening tip, they pounded the ball at Levi underneath. On every play at both ends of the court, somebody pushed him or gave him a forearm as they ran by. The refs let the first few bumps go, and once that happens, they have to let them all go.

  Garfield took an early lead, but that didn’t stop them from smacking Levi around. I could see anger rising in his eyes, a dangerous fury that would have surprised me a month ago but didn’t surprise me now. I looked over at Hartwell. Did he see it?

  In the second quarter, Garfield guys kept elbowing and shoving Levi, trying to get under his skin. He’d shoved back a couple of times and, as usually happens, the refs called fouls on him. That just increased his rage.

  Garfield’s lead was eight near the end of the quarter when Cash missed a jumper from the free-throw line. Levi was in position for the rebound, but a Garfield guy hit him from behind with a forearm that sent Levi into the first row of seats. It was an obvious foul, but the underneath ref must have been blocked from seeing it because he didn’t blow his whistle. Levi righted himself, his face red with fury, and raced downcourt to play defense.

  Garfield’s guard, running the fast break, had held up briefly at the free-throw line before turning on the jets to drive to the hoop. Levi, coming full speed the length of the court, caught up with him just as the guy skied for the lay-up. While he was in the air, Levi smacked him—bringing his arm down hard on the guy’s head.