by Kobe Bryant
Rain stepped out from the group and tapped his chest. “I’m ready.”
“Me too,” Big John said.
“Let’s go!” Peño shouted from the bench. “Carry me to the playoffs, boys. Literally.”
The rest of them shouted and cheered and slapped their chests. All but one. As the shouts died down, Rain turned to Reggie, who had been standing silently, lost in his own thoughts.
Rain walked up to him. “You ready?”
It was a loaded question for Reggie. How many times had he asked himself the same question in the mirror? Or before games? He thought he had been ready, and he had been disappointed.
Was this different? Had he done enough?
He met Rain’s eyes. “I’ll show you tomorrow.”
“Wind sprints,” Rolabi said loudly. “Show me now.”
They launched into the wind sprints again, and Reggie slapped the floor with each turn, pushing through his legs until they felt like jelly.
“Not one more loss!” Rain shouted, running back into line.
“Not one more!” Peño called from the bench. “Let’s go!”
Reggie took off again, smacking the floorboards, letting the frustration pour out of him.
He had lost so much. And even now, the world was threatening to take more.
“Not one more,” he whispered.
When practice ended, Reggie was the last to leave as usual. As he stood, his shadow appeared before him, gesturing to the floor. Reggie was tired. Sore. But he stepped onto the court anyway.
“Offense or defense?” Reggie asked, rolling his shadow the ball.
His shadow threw it back.
“All right, then,” Reggie said. “Let’s go.”
It soon became clear that today was different. They fought for every movement. His shadow jockeyed him, swatted his arms, shoved him, elbowed him. His lip split under a hard blow.
Reggie worked harder. He was blocked and fouled, but he scored as well, and they fought mercilessly. His shadow grew ever worse: vicious and violent and cruel. He thought no opponent would ever be as malicious as the one he played now . . . this silent, faceless shadow. His shadow.
Reggie paused as he dribbled at the top of the key. His shadow.
He thought about all the battles he’d fought with it during training over the last few months. And was it just training? He thought back to the last games he’d played in. The doubts gnawing at his belly. The fears. The voices in his head. Every game, Reggie told himself he wasn’t enough. That the chance had passed. That he didn’t have it. That he would just fail again.
It’s me, Reggie realized. I’ve been playing against myself. In practice. In the games. Everywhere.
He stared at the ball, thinking. The encroaching fog. The passed-up shots. The belief that someone else, anyone else, had to be better than him. Reggie had created that hard reality. He had chosen to live in it.
Reggie turned to his shadow and nodded. “Thank you. But it’s time for me to play against someone else.”
The shadow nodded back and disappeared.
* * *
When Reggie got home from practice a few hours later, P rushed over to him.
“It’s worse.”
He stepped around her and hurried over to Gran. She was curled into a ball, swaddled in three blankets, shivering. He knelt down beside her, pressing his hand to her forehead. It was burning hot—clearly the cough syrup had done nothing. Her eyes blinked open, watery and red, and she managed a smile, though even that seemed draining.
“How was practice?” she said.
“We need to go to the doctor—”
“You know that’s not an option,” she said weakly.
Reggie scowled. “We can worry about the bills later—”
“I will not saddle our family with bills,” she said firmly. “Nonnegotiable.”
He debated his options. He could carry her to the nearest clinic. They could worry about the rest later. But deep down, he knew the clinic would turn them away if they came without cash in hand.
There were few clinics in the Bottom, and they were crammed and cutthroat.
Reggie sat down on the floor beside Gran and slipped his hand into hers, feeling his fingers stick against the clammy heat of her palm. P settled in next to him. They listened to Gran’s raspy inhalations, like the wind through fall leaves. Reggie’s heart ached.
“A good night’s sleep is all I need,” she whispered, closing her eyes.
He exchanged a worried look with P, then forced a smile, trying to reassure her.
“Let her get some rest,” Reggie whispered. “She’ll be better tomorrow.”
They sat on the floor, backs against the living room chair, P leaning against his shoulder. Gran was asleep on the couch across from them. She stirred only for coughing fits, shuffling walks to the bathroom, or tiny sips of water.
It was nearly eleven and probably time for bed. But Reggie had stayed to watch over Gran, and P had joined him, and he had just draped a blanket over her. She shifted beside him, her eyes red from crying.
He had tried to tell her Gran would be fine. But P was used to disappointment.
“Agatha still giving you a hard time at school?” he asked softly.
“Sometimes.”
“You still listening to her?”
She paused. “Sometimes. It was worse this week.”
“What did she say?”
“The usual,” P said. “It just hurts more this week.”
He looked at Gran. “Yeah.”
“What if something happens, Reggie?” she whispered. “We gave her the only medicine we have. If that doesn’t work, what are we supposed to do?”
“It’ll be fine. Trust me.”
He could imagine Gran’s response to that: No matter how many times you say it . . .
P was quiet for a moment. Then she moved closer.
“We had a race today,” she murmured. “Twice around the track.”
“For gym class?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
She grinned. “I won by like ten seconds. Smoked all the boys too.”
“I don’t doubt it for a second.”
“Coach asked me about the under-sixteen team again. Said I should at least try out.”
Reggie shifted to look at her. “And?”
“And I said no,” she replied quickly. “But it was nice of him to ask.”
Reggie leaned back again, hearing the longing in her voice. The fear of failure.
“What are you going to be when you grow up, P?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Okay . . . what do you think you’ll be?”
She hesitated. “I don’t think I’ll be anything.”
He pulled her closer, feeling a ball form in his throat. She had already given up at eight years old. Reggie knew that words wouldn’t change anything now. He had to show her that you could work for something, and bust your butt, and get it. He had to show her out on that court.
And for all the other reasons tomorrow’s game mattered, that one mattered the most.
* * *
He lay on the floor in the darkness all night, listening to Gran’s shallow breathing. The hours seemed endless. P was sprawled out a few feet away, sleeping soundly. It was just him and the moon. As he lay there, he made a promise to himself.
“I will change this,” he whispered. “Help her through tonight, and I will fix this. This isn’t our destiny. This isn’t how my family falls apart. Give me tonight. I’ll give them the rest.”
He wasn’t sure who he was talking to. Even the old gods had abandoned the Bottom.
“Please,” he said as Gran’s breathing slowed again. “Please.”
He fell asleep much later, when the sky had begun to li
ghten.
Reggie woke to orange sunlight and instinctively turned to Gran. She was lying flat on her back, eyes closed, her whole body still. His heart squeezed, and for a moment, he couldn’t move. Then her chest rose gently with the swell of breath, and he went to her side. Reggie scanned over her, noticing that her blankets were drenched . . . but cool. He laid a hand on her forehead and felt the same. Damp but cool. Desperate relief flooded through him.
“At least you got a little sleep,” she said softly.
“I got lots of sleep. How do you feel?”
“You really are a bad liar,” she said. “The fever broke. Sweated out. This old bird has got another day in her.”
“Many days.”
She smiled. “Many. Now get some rest. You can skip school for one day, I suppose.”
Reggie took her hand. “That was a very long night, Gran.”
“Yes,” she said. “And what a beautiful morning it is now.”
He smiled, and they sat there for a while, enjoying the rising sun, P still sleeping soundly on the carpet beside them. Reggie wondered about his promise. He wondered if someone had heard him.
Either way, he had a job to do.
“Big game tonight,” she said. “What time does the bus leave?”
“Four. It’s like a three-hour drive or something. We’ll be home late.”
“I can’t wait to hear all about it.”
He leaned against the couch. “No team from the Bottom has ever won an away game.”
“Well, everything has to start somewhere.”
Reggie thought about that for a moment, then stood up and started for his bedroom.
“Where you going?” she asked.
“To get my bag,” Reggie said. “I was going to get another practice in.”
She smiled. “Your parents would be proud, Reggie. Your mom . . . she is watching somewhere, ready for the game.”
“I just hope I can make her proud,” Reggie said.
“She wouldn’t care if you were good, Reggie,” Gran said. “She would care that you tried your hardest.”
He smiled back. “Well, I can give her that, at least.”
* * *
Reggie sat down with Gran and P for their very early dinner—roast chicken, rice, and beans. When Gran went to the bathroom, P stared at him.
“You all right?” P asked.
“Yeah. Why?”
She shrugged. “You seem weird.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know. You just do.”
“I’m fine.”
She frowned and went back to her dinner. “Did you find some money or—”
“What?”
“You look like you’re holding in a smile.”
He laughed. “I’m just excited for the game tonight.”
“You . . . are?” she asked. “I don’t want to be the one to say it, but—”
“I sat the entire game last week. I remember.”
“So why are you excited?”
“Because it’s a new week. A new game. It’s exciting.”
She stared at him for a moment. “Can I feel your forehead—”
“P! I’m fine.” He wiped his mouth and leaned back. “Talk to Agatha today?”
“If you mean ignoring her while she said mean stuff about me, yes,” P said.
“That you need to give up on soccer?”
She paused. “Yeah. Pretty much.”
“Good.”
“Good?” she said, frowning.
Reggie nodded and went to wash his bowl. “Yeah. Good. I’ll see you after the game.”
“You sure you’re feeling okay?”
“Yeah,” Reggie said quietly. “I am.”
* * *
That evening, Reggie stood alone in a pristine locker room. They had traveled to Milton in their usual run-down bus, gradually feeling the roads smooth beneath the tires, the land stretch into green, and the suburbs of the wealthier regions blossom around them like a huge stone garden. Though they had attended many away games, the team was still glued to the windows, amazed at the wealth that lived outside the Bottom. Reggie lay his head against the glass and watched it roll by, his mind elsewhere, his entire body primed and waiting for the big game.
And, beneath that, nervousness. Fear of failure. He realized he would not be able to banish it entirely before tonight. Maybe it would always be there—the little tingle of doubt. But he needed to play through it. He needed to rise above it. If he didn’t, his grana would reflect his fear.
“Five minutes,” the bus driver called from the front.
Twig glanced at Reggie. “This is it.”
“You ready?”
Twig pretended to box the seat in front of him. “Ready as ever. Going to be a tough one.”
“Sounds about right for the West Bottom Badgers,” Reggie said.
Twig grinned. “My thoughts exactly.”
The bus pulled to a stop, and the Badgers walked out in front of a beautiful steel-and-glass gym. Trees lined the entryway. New cars filled the parking lot. Reggie didn’t care today. He just filed into the gym with his team, all under the condescending eyes of the lucky people born outside of the Bottom. He heard the jeers and comments. The cruel laughter. Reggie ignored that too. His fight was on the court. That was his entire world for the next two hours.
They gathered in the locker room, and Rolabi looked out over the team.
“You know what to do. All that matters now is who wants it more.”
The team cheered, letting “Badgers!” ring through the cavernous space, and then streamed out.
Reggie turned to the door, taking another deep breath.
It was time.
17
THE GAME
When someone chases their dream, watch closely. Their effort will throw off sparks, and perhaps your kindling is waiting.
WIZENARD PROVERB
REGGIE CLOSED HIS eyes for a moment and listened to the sounds of anticipation. Cheers from the hometown Marauders fans. Shouts from both sets of players. The first whistle like the shriek of an eagle, calling the West Bottom Badgers onto the court. And his heartbeat below it all, thudding methodically, gaining speed.
The Milton Marauders were already taking their spots on the floor, waiting with predatory grins. They wore all-black jerseys with a red swashbuckling sword for a logo, layered over matching black T-shirts. Every player was oversize for his position. These were the conference’s top recruits, and Oren Laithe stood at their center—six foot two, broad shoulders, ripple fade, and a scar that passed through the right side of his lips and deepened when he smiled. That smile was not so much taunting as deeply assured, like he was looking down from far above at whatever creatures had emerged from the Bottom and readying his boot.
Reggie felt that little spot of anxious fear growing in his belly, and he reminded himself that it didn’t matter who he was playing tonight . . . as long as it wasn’t himself.
Reggie lined up across from his check—a rangy, skilled shooting guard he remembered from last season. They called him Jay Day, since he rarely missed a jump shot. Jay Day turned when he saw Reggie get into position, and then looked him up and down with obvious disdain.
“I don’t even have to guard Rain today?” he said. “Man . . . I was hoping for a little sweat.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Reggie murmured.
“Ready?” the head ref asked, stepping in for the jump ball.
“Of course,” Oren said, lining up across from Twig. “Let’s get this over with.”
The ref threw the ball up, but Oren was a touch late. Twig won the tip, and the Badgers launched immediately into the Spotlight Offense with Rain at the top, calling out the first play.
“Six!”
Reggie got to his spot on the wing. Ti
me seemed to have sped up again. The crowd and the squeaking shoes and his own pounding heart over it all. But today, he kept breathing. In and out. Stoking the fire. He had to be realistic. He knew he wasn’t able to jump higher today. He wasn’t faster or smarter or more skilled than he was yesterday. Today, the only change was that he was going to play the Marauders . . . not himself. But maybe, just maybe, that evened the odds.
Down low, a double screen played out. Lab used Cash as a lumbering diversion and caught the ball on a back cut, laying it in for a quick two-point lead. The crowd quieted, clearly surprised even at that small victory, and he heard the Badgers cheering from the bench. Peño was shouting a battle cry. Reggie allowed a grin . . . but the rest of the quarter wasn’t nearly as positive.
There were hard fouls. Constant smothering defense. Insults. But most alarmingly, the Marauders began to pull away. They were fast. They were strong. And Oren was dominant.
He looked like he was twelve going on twenty—only Cash could match him physically. The problem was that Cash was slow on the lateral step, and Oren put up twelve points early in the first quarter . . . including three mammoth dunks, which was a rare occurrence in Elite Youth League ball.
Every time, the gym exploded with noise.
Reggie was starting slow, but efficiently. He kept Jay Day in check and managed to knock down a few mid-range jumpers of his own, all from spots he usually avoided. He’d made about five thousand of them in the last few weeks, so it was starting to feel pretty comfortable. But his baskets were not nearly enough, and the Badgers were slipping fast.
As usual, Rain was playing inspired ball—this time facilitating the game with lightning-quick passes and hard drives—but he needed help. Soon.
“Come on, Cash,” Rain urged as the Marauders attacked again. “Keep him out.”
Oren had the ball on the far wing, and Cash was tentatively approaching him, eyes flicking around for screens. But Reggie knew that wasn’t the game plan—Oren wanted Cash one-on-one. Oren was too fast for him. And right on cue, the Marauders’ center cleared the lane.
