The Wizenard Series

by Kobe Bryant

  “Come on!” Reggie shouted. “This isn’t even basketball.”

  Naturally, his shadow didn’t respond. Reggie growled and attacked again.

  It didn’t go well. His shadow stopped every attempt—sometimes cleanly and often not. The shadow wasn’t Reggie’s only challenge either. Fairwood seemed to be conspiring against him: the floor slanted upward, the hoop disappeared, the floorboards stuck. Sometimes an invisible wall forced Reggie back toward the defender, even when he had a clear opening the other way.

  At one point, he tried to catch his breath, dribbling the ball at the top of the arc. Then his hands began to tingle. Then sting. He looked down and yelped. The ball had caught fire—rippling orange and red flames tinged with emerald green. He panicked and tossed a wild three-pointer, watching dejectedly as it missed both hoop and backboard and hit the far wall.

  The next play he went for a layup, and his hand was slapped, jarring the ball loose.

  “Come on!” Reggie shouted. “Foul!”

  Reggie retrieved the ball and turned back to the hoop . . . and his nose promptly smacked off a wall. No. The floor. The hardwood now ran straight up on a 90-degree angle, and the hoop was leaning out overhead. His shadow stood on the vertical floor as well, clearly unbothered by the physics. In fact, it just beckoned for him to attack again.

  Reggie fell to his knees, letting the ball roll away. It was impossible. He would have to fly to get to the hoop, and he was so tired, he could barely walk. Reggie pressed his forehead against the hardwood wall and felt sweat trickle along his jaw.

  “Why does this game hate me?” he whispered.

  With a soft creaking of wood, the walls and floor returned to their usual positions. A second later, the front doors burst open. Twig, Peño, and Lab walked in, talking and filling the gym with laughter. Reggie stood up, forcing a smile.

  Peño nodded. “What up, Reg?”

  “Nothing,” Reggie said quickly. “Just shooting around.”

  “Well, hopefully you’re saving some buckets for tomorrow,” Lab said. “We need them.”

  Peño and Lab went to the bench to change their shoes, while Twig walked over and gave Reggie props.

  “Ready for another day of craziness?” Twig asked.

  “Always,” Reggie said shakily, meeting Twig’s bony knuckles with his own.

  “You good?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  Reggie recalled Gran’s words and tried to shake them away. He was fine. He had to be.

  Twig eyed him suspiciously. “Was it a grana vision—”

  “Reggie!” Peño called, interrupting. “I’ve been thinking of a new nickname for you.”

  Reggie sighed, though he was happy for the distraction. Twig was still watching him suspiciously, checking around the gym as well for any signs of danger.

  “Not again,” Reggie said.

  “It’s just unequal. Yours is just a short form . . . not a nickname. I mean, he’s Twig.”

  “He hated his nickname,” Reggie protested.

  “I like it now,” Twig said. “Was it another hole—”

  “And there’s Rain,” Peño continued, “me, of course, and Lab, and Cash—”

  “And Vin, Jerome, me . . .” Reggie said. “They have short-form names too.”

  Peño waved a hand in dismissal. “I’m working on those. So, listen, here’s what I’ve got so far. You ready?”

  “No,” Reggie said.

  Twig was already snickering beside him.

  “Perfect,” Peño replied, ignoring him. “Okay, so . . . and give it a chance . . . the Scarecrow.”

  Reggie stared at him. “The what?”

  “Well, you’re skinny, and you have a scary look sometimes—see—and . . . okay, fine.”

  “Was that it?” Reggie asked, starting after his ball.

  “Of course not! The Crane? Like the bird? I know we don’t have them, but I saw a documentary and . . . Okay, fine. Buckets? Honeybee? Like a Badger. Well, I thought that was good. Okay, here it comes. You’re going to love this. Check it out: Reggosaurus Rex.”

  Reggie turned back to him, not even bothering to respond.

  Peño sighed. “I’m going to go get changed now.”

  “Good call,” Reggie said, biting back a smile.

  “You sure you’re good?” Twig asked a last time.

  Reggie gave him props again. “I’m fine.”

  He thought of his gran’s words: Saying that doesn’t make it so, no matter how many times you say it. Sometimes he thought Gran knew more about him than he did.

  Twig hurried off, and Reggie tried to fall back into his usual shooting routine. As before, the rim was only there from the corners and the mid-range twos. He wanted to scream as one shot after another missed. Once again, he would have to stay well after practice to get his five hundred makes.

  When the entire team had arrived, Rolabi started them with laps. As ever when the whole group was together, they all experienced the same visions: running up and down hills, leaping across ever-expanding holes, climbing over rising hardwood walls . . . but sometimes he saw strange things happen to one player only. Cash would have to break through a barrier. Peño would have to jump for a high ladder. But whenever he asked Twig about it, the answer was the same: he couldn’t see it.

  So why was Reggie able to see everyone else’s grana? And if he had that extra ability, why was his own grana so . . . useless?

  After the laps, they went straight into an equally tiring run-through of their systems. On defense, they moved between man and eleven different zones. On attack, there were seemingly endless variations of the Spotlight Offense to be used in any given scenario. It was a lot to remember, but Reggie had them all memorized . . . for all positions.

  And as with the last practice, Rolabi stayed right on Reggie. He made Reggie demonstrate every difficult play. He told Reggie to lead off each drill without instruction. He loudly explained every single mistake. Reggie held his tongue and worked. He ran. He kept up with everyone else. It still wasn’t enough for the professor. The gym shook with his lectures.

  “If we play defense without our hands ready, we are tigers without claws.”

  “Every basket from an offensive rebound is worth ten points. Giving up the rebound is a failure of position.”

  “Miss one more layup and you will take a hundred after practice.”

  When practice finally finished, Reggie sat at the end of the bench, waiting for the others to leave. He felt a weight sitting on his shoulders. Grana had given up on him. Rolabi had clearly given up on him too. In fairness, he had given up on himself. But, for all that, their season continued tomorrow night. It was another game. Another chance. It was unlikely, but there was a chance.

  Maybe he could finally make this one count.

  --

  THE EAGLES

  If you are fully present in every moment, time will be your ally.

  WIZENARD PROVERB

  THE EGLINTON EAGLES stalked into Fairwood Community Center like grim sentinels. They wore matching blue-and-white tracksuits, matching chalk-white shoes, and even matching closely cropped haircuts. They were notorious dunkers and highfliers like their namesake, but they were also quiet and cool and obviously arrogant. They looked at the gym and the spectators and the Badgers most of all with barely concealed distaste. Reggie watched them, his skin prickling.

  It was always like this with outside teams . . . like the Badgers were beneath them.

  A few of his teammates made remarks or called out challenges. Reggie stayed quiet. He figured it didn’t make much sense to talk until they’d proved something—and considering they had lost eight games in a row dating back to last season, they had a lot to prove. Rain must have felt the same way, because he was still shooting elbow jumpers, completely oblivious to the Eagles. The others noticed and
slowly rejoined the warm-up.

  Reggie certainly wasn’t proving anything. Grana was taunting him even on game day, and he could still only see the hoop from the dreaded corner three or its evil sidekick, the mid-range two from the wings. And as before, it disappeared only for him, and no one else commented on it. As a result, Reggie had spent most of his warm-up chasing rebounds. He plodded back to the corner now and put up another three—and hit the side of the backboard. His cheeks burned. The gym was filling with spectators, not to mention the visiting team, and he hoped desperately that no one had noticed that horrendous attempt. He could imagine their laughter.

  “Please don’t do this to me during the game,” Reggie said. “Please. Please.”

  “You talking to yourself again?” Twig asked, jogging by him.

  “I don’t even know anymore,” Reggie muttered.

  “Locker room,” Rolabi called, already ducking through the door.

  It was a normal-size door. He just wasn’t a normal-size man.

  Reggie followed the others inside, giving the gym a last, whispered Please. They filed into the locker room and perched on the benches ringing the walls, staring up at the professor.

  “You are afraid,” Rolabi said matter-of-factly.

  Reggie saw a few players exchange quick looks. He could feel the tension too. Everywhere, legs were bouncing, eyes were wide, hands fidgeting. It was a dangerous place to be a fingernail. He was afraid. Reggie had always “disappeared” on game days, and now the hoop had too. He was wondering if he should feign illness or something. What if he couldn’t see the rim on a wide-open layup and he airballed it?

  But that too felt outlandish. He had to play ball. This was game day.

  “Fear is your opponent today, and every day,” Rolabi said. “Fear empowers us, but only when we meet it. Today you fear your own assumptions. You assume the arrogant are superior.”

  “They’re really good—” Lab said.

  “They are. And if you fear them before we start, then there is no need to play.”

  Rolabi let the silence hang over the room.

  “The fear of others is only a reflection of our own self-doubt,” Rolabi continued. “That is a journey you know well. If you bring your weaknesses out there, then you arm your opponent.” He started for the door. “Today you face fear. Defeat it, and the score will reflect your victory.”

  “We can do this,” Peño said, jumping to his feet. “Let’s shake up the league.”

  Big John stood up and slapped his chest. “We own this house.”

  Reggie jumped up too. Adrenaline coursed through him.

  “Badgers on three!” Peño said. “One . . . two . . . three . . .”

  “Badgers!” Reggie shouted with the rest, throwing his arm up.

  He ran out with the team, grinning.

  This could be it, he thought, caught up in the excitement. This could be my day.

  * * *

  Midway through the third quarter, Reggie hadn’t stepped on the court once. In fairness, he could see why. It was a close game, and Rolabi had trimmed the bench accordingly. Only Big John and Jerome were getting any real minutes from the bench. Vin had played a few possessions, but he had turned over the ball twice to the hard-pressing Eagles, and Peño had gone right back out again, exhausted as he was.

  The Eagles were highly favored, which was usual for teams outside the Bottom. They had been wearing their insufferable smirks right until tip-off. But they weren’t smiling now. The Badgers were up by two, and the Eagles were struggling against their well-organized defense—a rapidly shifting zone, which was stifling their high-flying wing players. There were no lobs today. No dunks. There was not much space to work with at all, in fact, and Reggie could see the Eagles players getting frustrated.

  He was itching to play, but he knew it wasn’t likely. He watched as Rain made another layup on a backdoor cut. As usual, Rain was playing brilliantly. The game seemed to warp and flow around him like ocean currents swirling around a rock. It was still early, but it already felt like the assumed victory was slipping away from the Eagles. Agitated, they attacked again, swinging the ball along the perimeter. But Rain was ready. He had four steals already, and he pounced for a fifth. Or . . . he tried. His opponent charged into him, colliding shoulder to shoulder, and the ref blew his whistle.

  “Foul on number seven, West Bottom Badgers.”

  “What?” Rain shouted.

  “Bull—” Peño started.

  Rolabi turned to him, and Peño instantly fell silent.

  Reggie shook his head. That was Rain’s fourth foul, and at least the third questionable call he’d taken—these refs were from another town outside of the Bottom as well, and there seemed to be a very clear bias against the Badgers, and Rain in particular. The bench grumbled.

  Barely a minute later, Rain drove into the lane, was hit by another defender, and was called for a charge. The spectators erupted with boos. The Badgers shouted. But Rain was out.

  As he stormed over to the bench, still talking to the official, Rolabi called a time-out and gathered the team. Despite their agitation, everyone fell silent as he loomed over them.

  “We face many difficult obstacles on the road,” Rolabi said quietly. “At times, all we can control is our own reaction. Fortunately, that is the most important detail of all. And each challenge is a chance to build fortitude. We will need it.” He turned back to the court. “Rain played well. But if our team has but one wheel, we can only drive in circles. Reggie, you’re up.”

  Reggie swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Yes, sir.”

  “You got this,” Rain said. “Take it home.”

  “Right,” Reggie said weakly. “Thanks.”

  The team headed back onto the floor, and Reggie fell in behind them. His hands clasped and unclasped at his sides. He tried to breathe. The team needed him. This was his chance to contribute something. He needed to perform. He needed to.

  You are so going to blow this, he thought glumly.

  Twig patted his shoulder. “Go get it, bro.”

  The Badgers fell back into a 3-2 zone as the Eagles inbounded the ball and charged up the court.

  The opposing shooting guard was a wiry, agile player named Raj, and Reggie knew right away that he was in trouble. Reggie tried to keep a low, open stance, but Raj was lightning quick, and Reggie struggled to stay with him. After firing off a pass, Raj faked left, and Reggie overstepped to block him. Realizing his error, Reggie tried to recover and go right, but his upper body was still swaying left. Raj got the ball again on the cut, dribbled into the paint, and popped the jumper.

  Reggie grimaced and ran up the court. His first play, and he’d blown his coverage.

  “Three!” Peño called as he dribbled over half-court.

  “No Rain, no chance,” Raj said. “You about to get smoked, boy.”

  Reggie flushed. “No we’re not.”

  Nice smack talk, Reggie thought. You’re as quick with that as you are on your feet. Ugh. Focus!

  The third variation was simple: the shooting guard cut to the basket, using a screen from Twig to get open. But while everyone was watching Rain—Reggie, in this case—Lab crossed along the baseline and hopefully got open for the corner three. It was usually an effective play.

  Reggie took off into the paint as planned, using the screen. Raj was right on his shoulder as planned . . . but Reggie was not Rain. The rest of the Eagles paid him no mind whatsoever, and Lab was guarded tight all the way across. So, Peño threw a bounce pass down to Reggie instead.

  “Get a bucket!” Peño shouted.

  Reggie turned, trying to take the ball to the hoop and hoping desperately that it would be there. It was—but it was the size of Gran’s old wedding band, barely big enough to fit a marble.

  “No,” Reggie murmured, feeling his heart sink. “Not now.”
r />   He realized much too late that he wasn’t protecting the ball. Raj stripped it and drove up the court again, and he vaguely heard Lab shouting, “What are you waiting for, Reggie?” Reggie sprinted back, his cheeks blazing, while Raj played a give-and-go and easily laid it in for the tie.

  “Take the shot, Reggie!” Peño said.

  Reggie felt like he was breathing through cotton. He sprinted up the court again, sparing a quick look at Rolabi—hoping he, at least, might know what grana was doing to Reggie. But the professor just stared back at him, expressionless as always.

  Rain was waving him on from the bench. “You got this, Reggie!”

  He’s right, Reggie thought. Just relax.

  Reggie tried to calm down. But his lungs didn’t listen. They filled and squeezed on their own. His limbs tingled as his blood abandoned them for the bass drum in his chest. Even his eyes seemed to cloud. Everything was moving so fast. The noise was deafening. Shouts and squeaking shoes and calls from his own teammates. He had been in this moment a thousand times in his head. He was here when he was daydreaming at school. He was here when he was shooting rolled-up socks into his trash can. But whenever he got here in a real game, the moment grew beyond him. He was crushed by the weight of it.

  He was sure he imagined it, but for a moment, he thought the floor began to tilt inward like a cone, and his shoes seemed to slip along the hardwood. The long fall was waiting for him.

  No, he thought firmly. I can do it. I can do it.

  Even to him, it sounded more like a plea.

  Peño went left this time, getting the ball to Lab on the wing. But it really didn’t matter where the ball started—the Spotlight Offense meant that everyone had to move. Cash stepped out from the block, and Reggie used him as a screen, cutting toward the open free-throw line. Lab saw him and passed the ball. Reggie caught it, then stopped sharply, letting Raj sprint past.

  Reggie now had the ball, and space, and a decision. Should he get the ball to Twig, who was still posting up down low? Take the jump shot? Or drive right to the rim for a strong layup?