The Wizenard Series

by Kobe Bryant

  When he was ready, he walked toward the hoop, pounding the ball in time with his steps as always. He was excited to drain some shots. He needed to see the ball go down. Then half the lights blinked out. Reggie’s shadow stretched out across the floor, and he had enough foresight to jump back as the shadow rose.

  “Figured you’d be here,” Reggie said. “You’re part of grana, obviously. So are you here to help? The parrot did, eventually. And the sticky floor. But so far you’re kind of a jerk.”

  His shadow just stood there. In truth, Reggie was talking to himself more than anyone.

  “So what’s the lesson? What are you trying to teach me?”

  He dribbled the ball methodically through his legs.

  “Right. Well, I guess I have to beat you to find out.”

  He tried a quick, half-hearted fake to the right and was promptly bodychecked. He flew onto his tailbone, sending a lance of pain up his back, and then rolled away in surprise as his shadow tried to stomp on him. Reggie pushed himself up, searching for his ball.

  It was now sitting behind the shadow, about twenty feet away.

  “What is wrong with you?” he shouted.

  Naturally, his shadow didn’t reply. It just got low, blocking the way to the ball.

  “This isn’t a lesson! I have a game Friday. I need to play better. Help me!”

  His voice leapt around the gym, echoing again and again, getting louder instead of quieter, and changing slowly as before, a single word at a time, until all he could hear was:

  Do I want this, do I want this, do I want this—

  “Stop that!” Reggie said.

  He tried another fake and was hit again. This time his body twisted in midflight, and he landed face-first, his cheek smacking off the hardwood with enough force to rattle teeth. He stared sideways at the gym for a moment, dazed, then stood, listening to the now-fading words:

  Do you want this, do you want this, do you—

  “Yes!” he shouted.

  He turned to the shadow. It looked taller than him, somehow. Broader. Stronger. Didn’t everyone? His shadow was clearly waiting for another fake, crouching and primed on its toes.

  It didn’t get a fake this time.

  Reggie charged directly at the shadow, shoulder down, and plowed right into its midsection. Then he started to push. The shadow slid back, fighting desperately for balance, soon equaling him in strength. But Reggie drove one foot after the other, pushing the shadow back toward center court. His legs ached with the strain. One slow, steady step. Then another.

  Do you, do you, do you—

  With a last explosion of effort, Reggie shoved the shadow back and dove atop the basketball, gathering it to his stomach like he was protecting a baby. He lay with it huddled in his arms, curled up, panting, and waiting to be attacked. But Fairwood was empty again, and he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, still panting, completely spent. All the fluorescent panels were fully lit. The echo was gone; maybe for good. He clearly wanted to be a baller. That was obvious.

  Was that the test with his shadow? How many times did he have to prove his desire?

  Deep down, he suspected he was missing something.

  * * *

  He stopped at the statue on the way home. He stared at it, feeling the same hatred as always. The same loss. It wasn’t just that his parents were gone. It was that they had been taken. It was that this man could take them and live his life and have statues built of him, and Reggie had to sit and watch. His parents’ murder had bored a hole through him, and it was still growing, draining him.

  He began to chuck rocks at the figure again, feeling a grim satisfaction as one after another pinged off the bronze. Finally, he sat down on the curb. The statue loomed over him still. He thought back to Gran’s words. To his “festering wound.”

  She was wrong. It felt good to blame Talin, and right, no matter how many times Gran said otherwise. Vaguely, he knew he didn’t have proof. But he knew it in his gut. He would prove it.

  “I suppose we all have our hobbies.”

  Reggie started and turned to find Rolabi standing beside him, gazing up at the statue.

  “Oh, Professor. I . . . didn’t see you.”

  “You didn’t think I existed outside of the gym, did you?”

  Reggie paused. “It crossed my mind.”

  “Well, I live far from here, so don’t be too alarmed. But tonight I felt like taking a walk.” He glanced down at Reggie. “The Bottom is far from Argen, but there are always eyes watching.”

  Reggie flushed and looked away. “Professor . . . can I ask you something?”

  “You can.”

  “What is grana? How does it really work? Is it possible my mother knew about it?”

  Rolabi stood there for a moment, still studying the statue. “All of us know grana, or at least the possibility of grana, whether we realize it or not. And for each of us it is different. It is always a reflection of self.”

  “You must have written that book Twig found,” Reggie muttered.

  “It is natural to wish to know all, to understand all, immediately. The unknown is uncomfortable. But the patient search for knowledge, the reward of discovering it oneself, is important. Be careful in creating your own knowledge to explain the unknown, Reggie. It may be misleading.”

  “My mother left me something—”

  “Then she left it for you. To find meaning in for yourself.” Rolabi turned to him. “I advise you not to return here to throw stones. You hurt yourself far more than you hurt him.”

  Rolabi started across the intersection, moving quickly with his long, smooth strides.

  “Sir, the team met today—”

  “I will see you Monday at practice,” Rolabi said without looking back. “Be ready.”

  Reggie shot a final, hateful glare at the statue and started home. As he did, he reflected on Rolabi’s words, and one line in particular: It is always a reflection of self. That wasn’t in either of the books—the textbook or the children’s story—and it nagged at him. It felt important.

  When he got home, he showered and crawled into bed, feeling the ache across his body.

  “Well, Mom and Dad,” he said quietly, “I think this is going to be quite the week.”

  14

  ENOUGH

  Compromise is a part of life. But not when it comes to dreams. For those, one must seek the stars or nothing.

  WIZENARD PROVERB

  YOU SAW ROLABI outside of the gym?” Twig said incredulously. “I kind of thought—”

  “He only existed here?” Reggie said. “I know.”

  They were shooting around before Monday practice, and Reggie had pulled him aside to relate the strange encounter. He told him what Rolabi said as well, emphasizing the one line about reflecting the self.

  “Makes sense to me,” Twig said. “The reflection part, anyway.”

  Twig had alluded to some sort of vision about mirrors during training camp, but never elaborated further, and Reggie didn’t press him on it. From what he could tell, his teammates had each experienced some sort of deeper vision when they caught their orbs—Twig said it was basically the center of his fear. Reggie had gotten no such vision, just a flash of his parents far away.

  “I guess if we play our best, grana will be good?” Twig said.

  “Maybe,” Reggie said. “But I don’t need help if I’m already playing good. There must be something else. I couldn’t control it with words or thoughts. So, maybe it’s something else.”

  “Like what?”

  Reggie sighed. “I have no idea. I brought your book back, by the way.”

  Twig shook his head. “You keep it. Do us all a favor and figure out how grana works.”

  Rolabi strode through the doors of the gym and waited until the full team had gathered in front of him at center co
urt.

  “We are O and five,” Rolabi said. “Three teams in the conference are already five and O, including the Titans. We are unlikely to catch any of them, but four teams go to the playoffs. Two more teams are currently three and two . . . a significant head start. We have seven games left. What does this all mean?”

  “It means we can’t lose again,” Rain said quietly.

  Lab nodded. “If we want to go to the playoffs, we need to win out.”

  Reggie saw a few players shift, looking dubious. Winning seven straight games would be hard enough . . . but they still had some of the top teams in the conference remaining on their schedule. Just this Friday they were traveling to Milton to play the southeast conference’s biggest star, Oren Laithe, and the defending champion Marauders. They were a “super team,” of the southeast conference’s best players—recruited basically as toddlers—of which Oren was the brightest prospect of all. They had placed fourth in the nationals. It was the hardest matchup of the year.

  “Super,” Big John said.

  “Unlikely,” Rolabi replied. “Unless we believe we can. Without doubt. Without fear.”

  Reggie turned to the banners on the north wall. Decades of Bottom teams . . . and not one had ever made it to the nationals. Not even one. A divisional runner-up before the new open system had been implemented was the all-time record, and that was only good for seventh place in the overall conference. The Badgers were trying to do the impossible, and they were starting from an 0-5 hole. It seemed even beyond the reach of dreams. And they were counting on him.

  If Rolabi agreed.

  “Starting this Friday, every game is a must-win. Every half. Every quarter. Every possession is a must-win. It won’t be easy, and any victories will start with sweat. Laps. Go.”

  “Professor?” Rain said. “We would like to suggest a change.”

  Reggie felt his stomach clench. This was it. How would the professor react?

  Rolabi turned to him. “Do not suggest. Present.”

  “I would like to move to point,” Rain replied. “I believe I can be effective there. And we all agreed that Reggie is ready to step in at the two. It’s a big backcourt, and we can both score.”

  Reggie glanced at Rolabi, fighting the urge to chew his nails. Some coaches might take offense to lineup suggestions . . . especially for a player he had just benched. Would he get mad? What would that even look like? Rolabi scanned the team, then turned at last to Reggie.

  “Good,” he said at last. “But even a great plan will take us nowhere without work. Laps.”

  Reggie let out a breath. He was getting his shot . . . and he wasn’t sure if it was making him more or less nervous now. It didn’t really matter. Today, he just had to work. The team started around the gym, and Reggie fell in beside Rain. The Badgers’ newest point guard looked over and grinned.

  “Ready?” Rain asked.

  “I think so,” Reggie replied.

  Rain clapped his chest. “No thinking required, bro,” he said. “Just let it out.”

  “Listen, I just wanted to say thanks—”

  “Thank me by playing hard on Friday,” Rain said.

  The team slowed after twenty laps—by now they all knew they had to each hit a free throw to move on—and Rolabi threw a ball to Reggie. The professor’s face was completely expressionless.

  “One free throw can win games,” he said. “And one can lose them.”

  Reggie walked out to the free-throw line. He felt his nervousness growing with every step. He stepped up to the line and took a deep breath. The hoop was small again—far too small to score on. Reggie felt a flare of panic and tried to relax, dribbling the ball slowly to find his rhythm. If grana really was a reflection of self, then panic probably wouldn’t help.

  Sure enough, the hoop grew with each breath, like he was inflating a balloon.

  Before today, he had mostly thought about letting himself down. Now the team had put their trust in him. They’d told him they believed in him. He felt the pressure of that creep in.

  What if I blow my chance? What if the fog comes back Friday?

  What if I let them down?

  His throat dried up. His chest tightened. The calm fled.

  When Reggie put up the shot, the hoop was barely big enough to slide a pin through. The ball bounced away, and he heard a groan from the team. They would have to run five more laps now. Reggie ran back to join them, and the doubts swirled, and the laps grew harder. Every direction was uphill. His shoes felt like cinder blocks. Five short laps soon felt like five hundred.

  When they stopped, Rolabi threw him the ball again.

  “All talk of winning and plans means nothing. One must face the moment.”

  Reggie managed a nod and walked to the free-throw line. The hoop was fluctuating again. Small to large. Ten feet away, then twenty. The ball seemed to grow heavier with every dribble.

  He missed the shot. Then another.

  When he walked up the fourth time, the whole gym seemed to be going mad. The floorboards were warped. The hoop was tiny. The ball was a gray stone.

  He lifted the ball, knowing even before he shot it that the pressure was too much.

  Grana is a reflection of self. He repeated the words. There was no point in shooting now, so he dribbled the ball, breathing in and out. He didn’t try to command grana or ask it to change. He just let the anxiety fade away and inhaled deeply, and the hoop began to grow.

  He thought about their exercise with the daisy—they still did it twice a week. They just sat and watched it grow, focusing on the details, letting time slow. He did the same with the rim.

  Then he slowly rose up and drained the free throw.

  “Live in the moment and you will never miss it,” Rolabi said quietly. “Two-on-ones. We’ll need transition baskets against the stout Marauders defense. They are well organized in the half-court, and so we must be ready to run.” He turned to Reggie. “Reggie, you start on defense.”

  Reggie barely had time to run down the court and turn around before the two attackers were on him. It was a drill designed to work on passing and finishing at the rim—the defender had little chance of stopping two players unless they made a blatant mistake.

  Rain and Twig didn’t, and after a quick give-and-go, Rain easily laid the ball in.

  Reggie prepared to swap in as an attacker and transition the other way with Twig. The attacker who scored—Rain in this case—stayed back on defense, while the remaining two charged back up the court to take on a new waiting defender and so forth.

  “The defender stays,” Rolabi said loudly. “He stays until he has ten stops.”

  “Coach—” Rain said.

  “Ten stops,” Rolabi repeated.

  Reggie frowned and got into his stance. Ten stops was a lot in this drill—he had seen it go a hundred times without a miss. What was Rolabi playing at? Was he offended by their suggestion? Was he trying to prove that Reggie didn’t have what it took? Heat rushed to his cheeks. If that’s what Rolabi was after, he was going to be disappointed. Reggie was ready.

  “Come on, then,” he whispered.

  The drill started again. One wave of attackers after another swept toward him, using give-and-go plays, lob passes, or just pure brute strength to get past him and score again and again. He was crossed by Rain so badly that he tripped. He was sent flying by a Cash pivot on the block. Twig actually dunked on him after a lob, leading to yet more cheers, though he did apologize.

  “Don’t say sorry,” Rain interjected. “Do it again. Do it until he stops you.”

  Reggie just nodded and turned to face the next wave. “I got this.”

  He refocused. He stayed on his toes and kept his back straight and managed to grind out a few stops. But it was hard. It was two-on-one every time, and he could only do so much. Soon, Reggie had faced 100 attacks. Then 150. He stopp
ed counting.

  After what seemed like hours, Reggie had accumulated nine stops, most from missed jumpers when the attackers got bored of taking it to the hoop. But the ninth had been ages ago, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get the tenth and a merciful end to the drill. It seemed to be getting harder. Sometimes the floor slanted against him. Once, he ran into an invisible wall. At another point he forgot about his footwork, and his feet sank into the floorboards.

  “That’s enough!” he whispered after Cash laid one in. “That’s enough.”

  It was like every gift came with an attached punishment: He filled in for Rain, and the gym filled with fog. He worked harder than ever for a week, and he sat on the bench. He got named a starter by the team, and now Rolabi was trying to break him. The world refused to let him stand.

  Reggie doubled over as the next two attackers charged down the floor: Jerome and Lab. More sweat poured onto the hardwood. His hands shook on his wobbling knees. It was enough.

  Reggie lifted his head, seeing Jerome and Lab approach through the haze of sweat. He watched as they passed the ball back and forth. Felt the vibrations in the maple slats. Tasted salt on his lips. They were confident. Careless. Jerome threw it to Lab, Lab threw it back, and Jerome went in for the easy layup. But Reggie had been waiting for the obvious play.

  He threw himself across the block, swatting the ball and colliding with Jerome in the process. Jerome hit the ground, staring up at Reggie in surprise as the ball bounced away.

  Reggie stared back at him, hands clenched. “Ten.”

  “Water break,” Rolabi said.

  Reggie pulled Jerome up, and Jerome grinned. “Bring that out on Friday, boy.”

  “I told you: he’s a dog when he’s angry!” Big John said, laughing.

  Reggie started for the bench, slowly letting his hands unclench. That had been even more intense than his drill with Rain. He had simply decided that he would not be scored on again. It had overwhelmed his doubts and his fatigue and all those anxious thoughts swirling around: the decision to win. It was like a raging current. If you chose to win, truly, you had to be all in. Reggie downed his water bottle in one protracted gulp. That mind-set was what he needed.