Foul Trouble

by John Feinstein

  “I watch a lot of games,” Konchalski said. “And, for some reason, people are willing to pay to find out what I think about what I see. It’s a real scam, actually.”

  Frank Sullivan laughed. “This coming from the one guy in this business who isn’t trying to scam anyone,” he said. “Guys, Mr. Konchalski writes the HSBI Report, which is, without question, the most respected high school scouting service there is.”

  “What was it Seth Davis called you a few years ago?” Danny’s dad asked.

  “Oh, stop,” Konchalski said, actually appearing to blush.

  “ ‘The only honest man in the gym,’ ” Sullivan said. “That’s what he called you.”

  “Exaggeration,” Konchalski said. “But I do try to tell people what I honestly think.”

  “So, Mr. Konchalski, what did you think today?” Terrell asked—surprising Danny, because if there was one thing Terrell was not insecure about it was his ability to play basketball.

  “I thought you both did some things very well,” Konchalski said, again impressing Danny by addressing both of them. “Terrell, you’re a little bit of a black hole when you get the ball, especially inside. Ball goes in to you, it’s never seen again most of the time. If you pass it back out of those double-teams more often, your teammates will get great shots and they’ll love you for it.”

  Terrell was listening intently. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. I know there isn’t much defense played in these camps, but I saw a couple of games you played this winter. You’re not guarding anyone at all. You’re just playing for steals and blocks. I know Coach doesn’t want you in foul trouble, but at the next level, you’re going to have to play defense. You need to start working on that now.”

  Danny had never heard anyone—not even his father—talk to Terrell this way about his game. Most of the time people just gushed. Terrell had scored 41 points and had had 14 rebounds. And yet Konchalski was talking to him about what he was doing wrong. He looked at Terrell for a reaction. If Terrell was upset, he didn’t show it.

  Konchalski turned to Danny. “I really like your feel for the game, Danny,” he said. “But your defense could use some work too. You play the passing lanes well, but you guard with your hands—that’s why you had four fouls in a game where the refs called almost nothing. You need to guard with your feet. Get in position, and you won’t need to use your hands so much.”

  “Yes, sir,” Danny said, nodding. Foul trouble had been a problem for him in the past.

  “And don’t be a hothead,” Konchalski said. “You can’t help your team win sitting on the bench.”

  “Amen to that,” Danny’s dad said.

  “Hey, we did win the game,” Danny said.

  “Yes, you certainly did,” Konchalski said. “Terrell, you’re now officially the sensation of the camp. If you think you had people trying to get close to you before today, just wait until tomorrow.”

  “You mean it gets worse?” Danny asked.

  Konchalski laughed. “Today was like a play opening in New Haven. Tomorrow you’re going to be on Broadway.” He turned to Danny’s dad. “Andy, how many agents did you have to deal with today?”

  “Just one—that guy Judson, who’s pals with Tommasino,” Coach Wilcox said.

  “Paul Judson is the Pope compared to what you’re going to see after word gets around about today,” Konchalski said. “All the bird dogs for all the agents. The bad, the bad, and the ugly—there are no good—will be reporting back. You’ll notice it right away when you get here in the morning.”

  Danny, Terrell, and Coach Wilcox looked at one another.

  “On that note,” Frank Sullivan said, “how about we go eat? I’m sure you’re all starved.”

  “Starved is right,” Terrell said. “And a little bit scared.”

  “You should be,” the only honest man in the gym said. “You should be.”

  FIVE

  Tom Konchalski’s prediction that things were going to get more intense proved to be correct. Only they didn’t have to wait until the next day.

  After dinner at a Houston’s in a nearby shopping mall, they drove to the Teaneck Marriott, which was two miles and about a hundred traffic lights from the gym. Brickley apparently had some kind of deal with Marriott, because half the teams were staying in the Teaneck Marriott and the other half were in a Marriott a couple miles—and, no doubt a hundred more lights—down the road.

  As soon as they set foot inside the lobby, Danny began to understand what Konchalski had been talking about. The place was teeming with people—all of them, it seemed, in sweat suits of some kind. If there had been a giant sign outside the hotel that said “Terrell Jamerson arriving here tonight at 8 p.m.,” there could not possibly have been more people waiting for him, all of them calling his name at once.

  Danny saw a look of genuine terror cross Terrell’s face. So did his dad, who stepped directly in front of Terrell, turning himself into a human shield. But there was only so much he could do, because people were coming from all directions.

  One guy stood out, if only because he was bigger than the others, probably about six foot eight, Danny guessed, and clearly still in playing shape. “T-man!” he said loudly, his voice somehow standing out from the cacophony around him. “You were great today, man. Ate that Whytlaw kid up at the end. Did Chuck reach you? He wanted your cell to give you a call.”

  While Coach Wilcox was explaining to several of the other worshippers that Terrell needed to get to his room and get to bed because the Rebels were playing at 9:00 the next morning, Terrell looked at the big guy—who was wearing a jet-black sweat suit with an Athena logo stitched neatly on the chest—and said, “Chuck?”

  “Barkley,” the big guy answered. “Some of the coaches called him today after your game. I think it might have been K or Graber—not sure. He wanted to check in with you in case you need someone to lean on who’s been there.”

  Terrell was staring wide-eyed at the guy. “Charles Barkley?”

  “Yeah, man. Give me your cell, and I’ll pass it to him. He’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

  Before Terrell could answer, Danny stepped in. Terrell always bailed him out on the court, so he made it his job to help off the court. His dad was now telling someone that Terrell most definitely did not want Spike Lee to make a point of coming out to see him this weekend.

  “I have a better idea,” Danny said. “Why don’t you give Chuck’s number to Terrell? That way he can call him tomorrow when he’s got some downtime between games.”

  The big guy was looking straight down at Danny as if he had tried to reach into his pocket for his wallet. Which, in a certain sense, he had.

  “T, who’s this—your valet? Your walk-around guy?”

  “I thought you saw the game today, A-man,” Danny said. He always felt bolder when he knew someone just out-and-out hated his guts. “I play point guard.”

  “Who the hell is ‘A-man’?”

  Danny pointed at the logo on his jacket. “Athena. Isn’t that your name?”

  A-man was now looking at him as if he was nuts. Danny knew exactly what Athena was: It was one of the fastest rising shoe and apparel companies going, challenging Under Armour in the top-of-the-line category. Everything Athena made was expensive. Danny guessed the outfit A-man was wearing cost at least $500 retail. Although he was fairly certain A-man hadn’t paid retail.

  “You’re funny, little point guard,” A-man said. “Why don’t you go to your room and let the grown-ups talk?”

  “He is going to his room. And so is Terrell.”

  It was Danny’s dad, who had always had good peripheral hearing.

  A-man looked at Coach Wilcox for a second, then smiled. “That’s all good, Coach.” He threw his arms around Terrell and gave him a hug as if he were a father sending his son off to college. “I’ll see you in the morning, my man. We’ll hook you up with Chuck.” He nodded at Coach Wilcox, ignored Danny, and walked away.

  There were others milling arou
nd, waiting to give Terrell a handshake or a slap on the back, but the message had been delivered that Terrell was heading to the elevators and his room. The good news was that Brickley had done pre-check-in for everyone and room keys had been part of their camp packet, so there was no need to stop at the front desk.

  When they finally made it to the elevator, Danny’s dad turned to Danny, pointing a finger. “We’re going to have to deal with this all week,” he said. “Don’t pick fights with everyone. Terrell can take care of himself.”

  Terrell laughed. “Coach, I’m not so sure you’re right. I need all the help I can get.”

  Coach Wilcox nodded as the elevator stopped at the fifth floor and they got off. “I know. And you’re going to get it. But your point guard needs to cool his jets—on the court and off it.”

  “It’s that hockey thing with him,” Terrell said. “He always wants to drop the gloves.”

  “Yeah, well, he needs to stay out of the penalty box,” Coach Wilcox said, causing both boys to laugh.

  They had reached their rooms: Coach Wilcox was in 507, and Danny and Terrell were across the hall in 508.

  “Get a wake-up call,” Danny’s dad said as he slid his key card into the door. “We need to be out the door at eight.”

  They both nodded.

  When they opened the door to their room, sitting on one of the beds was the biggest fruit basket Danny had ever seen. The envelope on it said “Terrell Jamerson.”

  “Open the card,” Terrell said.

  Danny popped the envelope open. The note was typed neatly. “From all your friends with the Charlotte Bobcats. Great going today. Keep it up all week.”

  “So…the Charlotte Bobcats,” Terrell said. “Who sent it?”

  Danny held the note up in the air. “It’s signed ‘Mike,’ ” he said.

  Terrell’s eyebrows knitted into a question mark. “Mike?”

  “Yeah,” Danny said. “As in: the owner of the Bobcats. Most people call him Michael. Or Mr. Jordan.”

  Terrell’s eyes went wide, and he sat down heavily on the empty bed. “Shut up.”

  “I know.”

  “Michael Jordan sent me fruit?”

  “How do you like them apples?” Danny smiled.

  “I don’t know. Open it up—let’s have some.”

  Danny ripped open the cellophane and tossed Terrell an apple, then took another for himself.

  Terrell could barely chew, he was smiling so hard. “Sweet,” he said, juice dripping down his chin.

  Day two started early. The lobby was quiet except for a few players from other teams with 9:00 a.m. games. Andy Wilcox was sitting with a cup of coffee, reading the newspaper at a table with a spectacular view of the parking lot. “You guys need to hustle through the buffet so we can get going,” he said as they started to sit down.

  “None of Terrell’s fan club around?” Danny said.

  “Quit it, Danny,” Terrell said.

  “Yeah, Danny, quit it,” his dad said. “I’m guessing the people you are referring to don’t get up this early.”

  Apparently not. The only ones waiting for them when they pulled into the parking lot at the gym were the dudes. Even they seemed a little bit sleepy. Maurice was sipping from a giant Starbucks cup. “Hey, Terrell—you’re going to tear it up today, dude. You should have lunch with us between games,” he said as they headed for the back-door entrance.

  “Yeah, maybe,” Terrell said. “I’ll have to check with Coach.”

  The place was alive with players warming up and coaches huddling with one another to talk. Most of them, Danny noticed, were clutching cups of coffee. He felt as if he needed a jolt of adrenaline himself, but he knew he’d get one when the game began.

  As Danny and Terrell crossed the court to the hallway that led to the locker room, Paul Judson, the slick agent they’d met the day before, was blocking their path.

  “Morning, guys,” he said, trying to sound casual.

  They both returned the greeting, and Danny kept moving, hoping that would be the end of the exchange. No such luck. Judson had positioned himself in such a way to make it pretty much impossible for Terrell to get around him and through the doors that led to the hallway.

  “Terrell, I hope you have a few free minutes later today,” Judson said. “There are some folks who saw the game yesterday who’d really like to meet you.”

  Before Terrell could answer, Danny jumped in, playing the role of his father. “We’ve got a tight schedule today,” he said.

  Judson gave him a smile that looked more like a smirk. “I know the schedule,” he said. “I’ve already talked to Billy T., and he’s fine with Terrell taking a few minutes.”

  Before Danny could answer, Terrell did. “Coach Wilcox decides my schedule, not Mr. Tommasino,” he said. “I’ll talk to him after we play this game. It’ll be up to him.”

  Judson didn’t seem thrilled with that answer, but it was enough to get Terrell and Danny past him and into the hallway.

  “Man, this could get old fast,” Terrell said as they walked to the locker room.

  “You okay?” Danny asked.

  “Fine,” Terrell said. “I just want to play some ball.”

  Once again, the area around the court where they were playing was packed. The Rebels were playing a team from Ohio that must have been invited as some kind of favor to the coach. Danny’s estimate was that the best player for Team Tire (they were from Akron) might have been about the eighth best player on the Rebels. The fact that he was able to go past the point guard at will whenever he wanted to told him early on that it was going to be an easy morning.

  Terrell scored 32 points in twenty-four minutes. Danny actually had 16 and 12 assists, plus, most important to his dad, only one turnover. With the score 70–35 after the third quarter, Coach Wilcox ordered his players to make at least five passes before shooting on every possession to slow the game down. When Jay Swanson grabbed a rebound and went the length of the court with ease to dunk on the hapless Tires—who were looking very tired at that point—Coach Wilcox called time-out.

  When the players reached the huddle, their coach was red-faced. “Swanson, you need to understand something,” he said, his tone low but full of anger. “I don’t care if we win this tournament or if we don’t win another game. So don’t think being one of the best players means you’re going to play. Because if you ever disobey an instruction like that again, I promise that you won’t play the rest of that game or in the next one, either. I told you guys five passes!”

  “But, Coach, no one stopped me—”

  “No one on that team has stopped anyone all day. You don’t humiliate helpless kids like that. It isn’t their fault that they don’t belong here.”

  “It’s not my fault, either, Coach.”

  The horn blew, ending the time-out. Swanson stayed in the game. Danny knew what his father was doing. Rather than bench Swanson, he wanted to test him. The next time the Rebels got the ball, Danny quickly snapped a pass to Swanson, who had come open on the wing. Swanson instantly passed the ball back to him without so much as a glance at the basket. Message received—at least for the moment.

  As soon as the game ended, Terrell was whisked away by Billy Tommasino and the now-familiar coterie of security people. When Danny’s dad asked Tommasino if he or any of the other players had been requested by the media, Tommasino gave him a disdainful look. “Coach, the media really isn’t that interested in you.”

  He turned to follow Terrell and the security guys across the court. Danny looked at his dad. “What do you think that was about?” he asked.

  “My guess is your conversation with Judson before the game was quickly relayed back to him.” Danny had let his father know what had happened before the game began.

  “But it was Terrell who told Judson you were in charge of his schedule, not you.”

  His dad smiled. “Danny, what do you think the chances are that any of these people are going to get mad at Terrell about anything?”

>   “Mmm,” Danny said. “If it makes you feel better, I find you very interesting.”

  “That does make me feel better,” his dad said. “Come on, you get into the shower while I go make sure Terrell isn’t getting devoured by the wolves in there.”

  As they walked back down the hallway, Danny was convinced he heard howling all around him. The wolves weren’t baying at the door; they were in control of the door.

  SIX

  Danny was hoping to get in and out of the shower and back to the gym. The Orange Crushes were playing in one of the 10:30 games. The buzz in the locker room that morning was that there were three teams that people had already decided were head-and-shoulders above the others in the camp: the Rebels, the Crushes, and a team from Mississippi called the Riverboats, which had two players who were being recruited by everyone in the country.

  The Riverboats had also played a nine o’clock game, and as Danny was pulling off his jersey, someone dressing in the same row was pulling on a Riverboats T-shirt. Seeing Danny looking at him, he smiled and put out his hand. “Alex Mayer,” he said.

  “Danny Wilcox,” Danny said, taking Mayer’s hand.

  “I know who you are,” Mayer said. “Watched the second half of your game yesterday. I’d have done the same thing to that kid—what’s his name, Swanson?—that you did.”

  “I lost my cool.”

  “Can’t blame you. That was some finish, though. Your guy Terrell is the deal.”

  “Yeah, he is. I almost feel sorry for him right now, though. He can’t turn around without five people in his face wanting to be his new best friend.”

  Mayer laughed. “I can only imagine. Even at my level it can get pretty obnoxious.”

  “Who’s recruiting you?” Danny asked.

  “Ah, you know—the usual suspects.”

  “ ‘Usual suspects’?”

  Mayer shrugged, clearly a little embarrassed. “Yeah. I guess I’m down to Duke, North Carolina, Kansas, and UCLA. I decided against Kentucky because they recruit so many one-and-dones. I’d like to have a chance to get to know my teammates.”