Foul Trouble

by John Feinstein

  “One-and-done” had become as much a basketball term in recent years as “jump shot” or “slam dunk.” The NBA had established a rule saying that players had to go to college for at least one year before declaring for the draft. So now a lot of the elite players did just that—one year of college. Kentucky coach John Calipari had made one-and-dones his specialty.

  Danny realized that Mayer must be one of the two stars from the Riverboats he had been hearing about. Mayer was probably six foot three, but he had long arms.

  “Quite a list,” Danny said.

  Mayer shrugged again. “Actually, the kid who’s playing up front with me this week is the one everybody wants. He might not be as good as Terrell or Omar, but he’s not far behind. He’s good enough to be a one-and-done, but he says he wants to stay at least three years wherever he goes.”

  Danny knew who Mayer was talking about because the player’s name was impossible to forget: Michael Jordan. He was originally from Greenville, North Carolina—a town not far from where the real Michael Jordan had grown up—and he had moved to Covington, Kentucky, for high school. Danny had seen a SportsCenter feature on the fact that the entire state of Kentucky was obsessed with Coach Cal’s recruitment of the “new” Michael Jordan.

  Naturally, Jordan was being recruited by all the usual suspects also, including North Carolina, the real Michael Jordan’s alma mater.

  “Is Jordan going to go to Kentucky?” Danny asked.

  “Don’t think so,” Mayer said. “Same reason as me—even though he’d be a lottery pick if he left after one year. He has a pretty good sense of humor about it all. Told me he might go to Duke just to make North Carolina fans root against Michael Jordan.”

  That was funny, Danny thought.

  “So you guys could end up together,” Danny said.

  “Maybe,” Mayer said. “We’ve had more than a few coaches approach us about being a package deal.”

  “I’m guessing you’re talking about a real deal,” Danny said.

  Mayer rolled his eyes. “Seems like it. To be honest, it’s hard to know, exactly. No coach will ever offer you anything directly—they’re too smart to be that obvious. It’s always one of those guys hanging from the rafters of this building every day. I had a guy I thought was a friend try to get me to visit a school I wasn’t interested in. When I told him no, he started begging me and finally told me he’d been offered ten grand if he got me to visit.”

  “Ten grand just to visit?”

  “Yup.”

  “So I’m guessing this guy became a close friend after people started recruiting you.”

  “Yup. Lesson learned. Then there’s this guy Judson. I’m sure he’s hit on you guys, right? He’s all over us. Told Michael yesterday he would love to help the two of us choose a school. He said he likes to think of himself as an ‘educational consultant.’ ”

  Danny laughed out loud and then noticed he was getting looks from some other players in the locker room. “That’s sort of like Kentucky calling their one-and-done guys ‘student-athletes,’ right?”

  Mayer was nodding in agreement when someone called his name. “Alex, we gotta go do this thing with Tommasino.”

  “Danny Wilcox, Michael Jordan,” Mayer said.

  Jordan, who looked to be about six foot six, extended a huge hand and said, “Terrell Jamerson’s point guard, right?”

  Danny laughed. “Actually, that’s my full name, Danny Wilcox, Terrell Jamerson’s point guard.”

  “You could be called a lot worse,” Jordan said, smiling.

  “You got that right.”

  Jordan looked at Mayer. “Ready? They’re outside waiting on us.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Mayer said. He looked at Danny. “We have to go do some video promo thing about how great the camp is. Not sure how Tommasino talked our coach into it…”

  “I am,” Jordan said, shaking his head.

  Mayer took his phone out. “Give me your cell,” he said to Danny. “I’ll send you a text, and then we’ll have each other’s numbers.”

  As they left, Danny looked at the clock. He needed to take a really fast shower. The time had been worth it, though. The more people he talked to, the more he learned about the world he, his dad, and Terrell were now living in. And what a strange world it was.…

  Danny’s dad was waiting for him outside the locker room.

  “Did you take a shower or write a book while you were in there?” he asked.

  “I could write a book about this place,” Danny said.

  “So where’s Terrell?” his dad asked.

  “Isn’t he with you?”

  “He was. I talked to him after his press conference. He said he was going to shower. That was fifteen minutes ago. You didn’t see him in the locker room?”

  “No, but maybe I missed him—although I don’t see how. It isn’t that big in there.”

  They walked back inside together and called Terrell’s name. One of the players from the Akron team was walking out as they were walking in. “You looking for Jamerson?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Danny said.

  “I saw him come in about ten minutes ago. He changed his shirt and went back out.”

  Danny and his dad looked at one another quizzically. Why would Terrell not shower? And where had he gone? “Let’s go back onto the court and see if he’s there,” Danny suggested. “If not, I can call his cell.”

  “Or text,” his dad said, which made Danny laugh, since his dad couldn’t send a text if his life depended on it.

  They walked back outside. The 10:30 games were under way, and the place was packed. Still, picking Terrell out would not be that difficult. Chances were good he’d be surrounded by all sorts of people.

  Except he wasn’t anywhere to be found. They bumped into Frank Sullivan and asked him if he’d seen Terrell.

  “Yeah, a few minutes ago,” Frank said. “He was going out the side door with those kids who were hanging around yesterday. Maybe someone else too—I’m not positive.”

  Danny’s dad pointed at the phone in Danny’s hand. “Call him right now. Tell him wherever he is to get his butt back here.”

  Danny was dialing before his dad finished the sentence. The phone went straight to voice mail. Not good. He waited for the tape and left Terrell a message: “Terrell, call me right away,” he said. “We can’t find you.”

  As soon as he hung up, he typed a text with the same message. Seeing what he was doing, his dad said, “Tell him if we don’t hear back from him in fifteen minutes, he’s not playing tonight.”

  Danny paused when he heard that. “Dad, that’s kind of extreme, isn’t it? It’s just the dudes. We don’t have a practice or a meeting or anything to go to, right?”

  His dad looked grim. “I hope it’s just the dudes. Terrell knows he has to be careful who he runs off with—especially around here.” He pointed at the phone. “Tell him.”

  Danny shook his head. “Sorry, Dad,” he said. “If you want to discipline one of your players, that’s for you to do. I shouldn’t be your middle man.”

  Coach Wilcox had always been very careful to try not to put Danny in a position where he was isolated from the other players on his team because he was the coach’s son. This was the first time he had asked Danny to do anything like this.

  For a moment, his dad said nothing. Then he took his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed. “Terrell, it’s Coach Wilcox,” he said in a tone that let Danny know he was talking to voice mail. “I don’t know why your phone’s turned off, but I need to hear from you very soon. Danny and I are going to Houston’s for lunch with Tom Konchalski and another scout you should meet. I expect you to meet us there by noon. Call me for a ride if you need one.”

  “So you changed your mind about the game tonight?” Danny asked.

  “His phone’s turned off, so I can’t be sure when he’ll get the message.”

  He turned and began walking in the direction of the door. Danny followed. He had known that the games here wo
uld be intense, but he hadn’t thought that lunch would be also.

  The only honest man in the gym was waiting for them at Houston’s. He was with an older man who had jet-black hair that was clearly dyed and thick black glasses.

  “Danny, this is Howard Garfinkel, the man who invented summer basketball,” his dad said when they arrived at the table. “I can tell you for certain he is not one of the only honest men in the gym.”

  “Come on, Andy, let me up already,” Garfinkel said. “I gave your player a five-minus twenty years ago and you’re still holding a grudge?”

  Danny was completely lost. He shook hands with Garfinkel, whose name he recognized, though he wasn’t sure why, and said, “Mr. Garfinkel, nice to meet you.”

  “It’s Garf,” Garfinkel said. “No one calls me Mr. Garfinkel. Konchalski’s the only one who calls me Howard, and no one calls me Howie.”

  “Except if they give you a good horse,” Tom Konchalski said.

  “That’s different,” Garf said.

  “Garf started the first national basketball camp forty-five years ago,” Konchalski explained as the Wilcoxes sat down. “Five-Star Camp in Honesdale, Pennsylvania. All the summer ball you see played now is because of Garf.”

  “You can’t blame all of it on me,” Garf said. “Our camp was a real camp. Kids learned fundamentals. We had all the best coaches come in to do clinics. Knight, Smith, Valvano, Pitino, Krzyzewski—all the greats. We had station thirteen every afternoon.”

  He was wound up now, waving his arms.

  “And in forty years I never once put a number on a kid’s back.”

  Danny noticed that both Konchalski and his dad helped Garf finish the sentence about never putting a number on a kid’s back. Clearly, they had heard the speech before.

  “What’s station thirteen?” Danny asked.

  His father and Konchalski both groaned.

  “You have a game at seven tonight,” Konchalski said. “There isn’t enough time—”

  “When I started Five-Star, I wanted it to be a teaching camp,” Garfinkel interrupted. “I didn’t want kids to come up, show off their skills for the college coaches, and go home. I wanted them to learn. So every single morning they had to go through twelve stations before they played a game. We did fundamentals: dribbling, passing, shot-fakes, moving your feet on defense—everything.

  “Then in the afternoon, after they played a game, they had to go to station thirteen. That’s where that day’s clinician—like I said, all the best coaches—would be. You think a kid isn’t going to listen to Bobby Knight tell him he doesn’t know how to set a screen? All the greats—I mean, all the greats: Moses Malone, Ralph Sampson, Michael Jordan, Charles Barkley—will tell you about station thirteen.”

  “Michael Jordan knows about station thirteen?” Danny said, truly amazed.

  By now his dad and Konchalski had their faces in their hands.

  “Are you kidding?” Garfinkel roared. “Andy, you didn’t teach your kid anything about basketball, did you? Let me tell you about Jordan before he got to Five-Star. He was nothing…”

  Mercifully, a waitress showed up at that moment.

  “Can I get anyone a drink?” she asked.

  “Black coffee and tell me where I have to go to smoke,” Garf said.

  “That would be out the front door,” she said.

  “Our society is crumbling,” Garf said as he slid out of the booth. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Should I keep your coffee hot, sir?” the waitress asked.

  “No,” Garf said. “Just keep it coming. Tom, you know what I want to eat.”

  He practically ran in the direction of the door.

  “He’s eighty-two and feeling every minute of it,” Konchalski said. “Except when he needs a cigarette or has a horse to bet on. Then he moves like he’s twenty-five.”

  By the time Garf returned, Konchalski had ordered him a cheeseburger and French fries and was explaining to Danny how Garfinkel really had been the first person to discover Jordan when he went to Five-Star at the end of his junior year of high school.

  “Now kids get discovered in seventh grade—or sooner,” Konchalski said as Garfinkel slid back into the booth. “Terrell is an exception because he’s a late bloomer. That’s why so many people are scrambling now—he’s fresh meat.”

  Danny noticed his cell phone was vibrating. He saw that it was Terrell and said, “I’m going to take this outside.”

  As soon as he was out of earshot he answered, “Where the hell are you?”

  Terrell laughed. “I’m in the same mall as you, man. Take it easy. We’re at Morton’s.”

  “Morton’s? The steak place?”

  “Oh yeah. I just had the biggest porterhouse you’ve ever seen.… ”

  “Who bought you the porterhouse? You know my dad is flipping out?”

  “Why? I’m just with Maurice and the guys. We’re going to hang out for a while, and I’ll be back at the hotel in another hour or so.”

  Danny was shaking his head even though Terrell couldn’t see him. “Maurice and the dudes did not just buy you a Morton’s steak, Terrell,” he said. “Who else is there?”

  “Just this guy, Eddie J. He works with Mr. Tommasino, who set us all up. It’s cool. He’s not an agent or anything. Tell Coach not to worry.”

  Danny took a deep breath. “You need to come over here to Houston’s, Terrell. We haven’t eaten yet.”

  “No, man, I’m stuffed. Tell your dad I’ll be back at the hotel by three. We don’t play till seven.”

  It had now gone from he’d be back in an hour or so to he’d be back in three hours. Danny knew this wasn’t good. And he didn’t trust anyone named Eddie J. “You should at least talk to him, Terrell,” he said.

  “You talk to him for me,” Terrell said. “I have to go. I’ll catch you later.” He hung up.

  Danny stared at the phone. He noticed that he was sweating profusely. It wasn’t from the heat.

  SEVEN

  Terrell had walked into the mall to call Danny without saying anything to the others at the table other than “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  When he returned, he could see that dessert—he had ordered a sundae—was being served. He slipped back into his seat and quickly grabbed a spoon.

  “What’s up?” Maurice asked, pointing at Terrell’s phone, which he had put down on the table.

  “Had to check in with my coach,” Terrell said, figuring it wasn’t a great idea to bring Danny’s name up if he didn’t need to.

  “ ‘Check in’?” Maurice said. “Is he your coach or your parole officer?”

  That drew a laugh from the rest of the table. Terrell knew how Maurice and the other guys felt about the Wilcoxes, and he understood. Coach Wilcox was polite but not exactly friendly, and Danny was always in their faces about something.

  “We have another game tonight,” Terrell said. “He just likes to make sure everyone knows the schedule.”

  “Hey, Terrell, you can tell him if you’re with me, there’s no way you’re going to miss game time,” said Eddie J. “If that happened on my watch, my boss would fire me in about half a second.”

  More laughs. Terrell spooned some of the sundae—which was huge. “Coach is just looking out for me,” he said, smiling so everyone would see he didn’t think any of it was a big deal.

  “I’d look out for you too if I was him,” said Anthony. “Take you off the team, the rest of those guys couldn’t beat us.”

  Of all the dudes, as Danny called them, Anthony was the one who made his disdain for the Wilcoxes most obvious. Maurice danced around it a little because he knew that Terrell and Danny were close. Anthony didn’t care. But he also didn’t care much if Terrell gave it right back.

  “Anthony, man, I’ve seen your game,” Terrell said. “Danny Wilcox could eat your lunch. And Swanson’s kind of an idiot, but he’s a big-time player.”

  “Yeah, the Swanson kid’s got game,” Anthony said, conceding half the point.
r />   Terrell figured it was enough and focused on his sundae. He liked the dudes. He had met them soon after arriving in Lexington when he decided to check out the summertime hoops at the local rec center a few blocks from his house.

  There were four outdoor courts—only one of them with nets hanging from the rims. This was clearly the place where the best players hung out and Terrell had stood off to the side to get an idea of how high the quality of play was in that court.

  The first person to speak to him that day was Maurice. “Dude, what are you, like six eight?” he had said, looking up at him as if he had never seen anyone so tall.

  “More like six seven,” Terrell had answered.

  “Well, I’ve got next,” Maurice said, meaning that his team would play the winner of the game currently going on. “Can you play?”

  “I’m not bad,” Terrell said, knowing at a glance that he would easily be the best player on the court.

  “Then come on. We need a fifth. One of my guys didn’t show today.”

  “You sure? I just got here. I can wait a while.”

  “I’m sure. If you can’t play, we’ll know soon enough. I’m Maurice.” He put out his hand.

  A couple of minutes later, the game was over and Maurice was introducing him to the rest of his crew. “This is Anthony, Chao, and Sky,” Maurice said.

  Terrell nodded at all of them.

  “He’s Terrell,” Maurice added. “He’s with us for now.”

  They had taken the court against a team that had four African Americans and a gangly white guy who was a little taller than Terrell. There were no handshakes or nods and no referees. The other team simply inbounded the ball, and the game began.

  One thing Terrell knew for sure about schoolyard ball was that the new guy always got tested right away. Sure enough, as soon as the ball was in play, the tall white guy whom he had been told to guard took up a spot to the right of the key with his back to the basket. He put up his hand to call for the ball. He caught it, and before Terrell realized what was happening, he took a hard step backward, right into him. In a real basketball game it would have been an obvious offensive foul. But this was a schoolyard, and there was no such thing as a foul. Terrell wobbled for a second and saw the guy turning to shoot. He caught himself, jumped straight in the air, and blocked the shot. He still remembered the stunned look on the guy’s face.