Terrell shook his head. No. He did trust his mom. They might not always agree, but he knew she wanted what was best for him. Coach Stephenson, though…there was maybe just a tiny seed of doubt in his mind.
FIFTEEN
Danny picked Terrell up a few minutes after ten. Terrell had been offered cars by more people than he could remember. Most had offered to “loan” him a car. A couple of them had said they would like to give him a car because they knew he was the kind of guy who wouldn’t forget the favor and would pay it back when he was in a position to do so.
He had politely turned them all down. His mom, who was a history teacher at Concord High School, had told him she would try to buy him a used car for his birthday in January, but he didn’t really want her to do that. And Danny was more than willing to drive him anywhere.
Danny had bought his car with money he had made working summers and weekends at the golf club. He hadn’t worked that much this past summer because of all the basketball tournaments, but by September he’d amassed enough to buy a used Honda. It had 157,000 miles on it when he’d bought it, and Terrell was sure he’d added another thousand in the past month.
As Danny pulled into the back parking lot at school, they noticed a host of TV satellite trucks parked near the door they normally used to get to the locker room. Seeing them, Danny kept going and swung around to the front lot, which was virtually empty on a Saturday.
“What’re you doing?” Terrell asked.
“They’re all camped out waiting for you at the back door,” Danny said. “So we’ll go in the front.”
“It’s locked on Saturday.”
“I know. But I have a key.”
Sometimes it paid to hang out with the coach’s son.
“So we’re sneaking in the front door,” Terrell said, laughing.
Before they went on the court, Coach Wilcox gathered everyone together in the locker room. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t seen one another all fall—they informally played pickup every afternoon and worked out individually with Coach Wilcox and his assistant, Joe Kress, who was an English teacher but helped out with the team because he loved basketball.
But today was the first day under the high school rules in Massachusetts that teams were allowed to hold a formal practice. It was also the first day since the end of July that Terrell would be talking to the media. Coach Wilcox had told everyone—even ESPN, who had asked to come to do a feature on Terrell and his recruitment—that he was off-limits until practice began. The temporary reprieve from the spotlight was over.
“Okay, fellas,” Coach Wilcox said. “You know there are going to be a lot of cameras and a bunch of media types out there this morning. We also know they aren’t here because they think we’ve got a shot at the state championship.”
Everyone laughed.
“So we have to stay focused, because that’s what we care about. This team, all of us together, is going to do great things this year. And we’re going to do it by working hard every day. I’ve told the media folks that if they don’t stay out of the way, I’ll clear the gym. So don’t concern yourselves with them. For the next two hours I want your full effort and full attention on the court. We’ll worry about the media after that.
“So, let’s start with our layup drills the way we always do and then get to work.”
They came together around Coach Wilcox and put their hands in.
“On three,” Coach Wilcox said.
They counted to three and yelled, “Work hard!”
Terrell had known there would be a lot of people waiting for them when they made their way up the stairs from the locker room to the gym. Even so, he wasn’t prepared for what he saw—or what he didn’t see because of the glare of the TV lights—when he reached the court.
It wasn’t just the media, although they were hard to miss. Terrell counted at least thirty camera crews plus all those carrying tape recorders and notebooks. But there were also fans. The Lexington High gym seated about 1,800 people, and it must have been three-quarters full. Terrell saw some familiar faces, fans who came to the games, but they were outnumbered by newcomers.
There were no college coaches—thank goodness—because October was a period when they weren’t allowed to travel for recruiting. But he saw enough suits and expensive sweat suits to know that a lot of the agent types and shoe-company reps and hangers-on he had encountered during the summer were also present. “It’s like we’re back in Jersey again,” Terrell murmured to Danny as they each went to take a basketball from the ball rack at midcourt.
“Worse,” Danny said. “They’ve invaded our territory now.”
Terrell sighed. He looked around the court where his teammates were forming layup lines. For the next two hours, at least, he would be safe inside the white lines of the court.
They went through the basics you would expect in any first practice. There were three new players, all sophomores, who had to learn the offense and whom Coach Wilcox had to remind about defensive responsibilities. But only one starter from last season had graduated, so the other players on the court were already a cohesive team. Monte Torre ran great screens. And Tommy Bonk was a much better shooter than his name implied.
Two national polls had placed Lexington in the top five teams in the country, behind traditional powers like DeMatha of Maryland, Saint Anthony’s of New Jersey, and Simeon of Chicago. Seeing Lexington’s name mixed in with those names was amazing. The USA Today poll, which had ranked Lexington number four, gave a thumbnail sketch of each team. The one for Lexington: “Two words say it all: Terrell Jamerson.”
Terrell thought that was unfair, especially to Danny, whose stock had soared at the end of the summer. Before the summer tournaments, he hadn’t been in anyone’s rankings. Most of the high school scouting services ranked the top five hundred players in the country and then the top one hundred at each position. Danny had gone from nowhere to as high as number ninety-four nationally in one poll and number twenty-seven among point guards.
Tom Konchalski didn’t rank players in HSBI. He just gave them grades, with a 5-plus being the highest possible grade. Only three players in the country had been given a 5-plus by Konchalski at the end of the summer: Terrell Jamerson, Michael Jordan, and Anthony Johnstone, a South African who had moved to the United States as a high school junior and was playing at Oak Hill Academy in Virginia—another perennial national power. Danny, who had been rated a 4 by Konchalski at the end of his junior year, was now rated a 5-minus, which meant he was one step shy of being considered a lock for high-school All American.
The practice seemed to fly by, at least for Terrell. When he was playing, everything made sense. He made sense. At six feet seven inches, Terrell was often uncomfortable. Classroom desks were too small. Doorways were too low. His elbows were always knocking into things. But in the gym, his long arms were an asset. His big hands were perfect for palming a basketball. And his long, powerful legs propelled him high above his defenders. Here, on this court, in purposeful motion, he was perfect.
Much too soon, he was standing with his teammates at the center jump circle listening to Coach Wilcox tell them that he was pleased with the way they had practiced, but they had “miles”—his word—to go on defense. Terrell suppressed a grin. Danny had told him that to his father the perfect game would be one where his team never had the ball to start a possession. It just played defense and tried to win by getting enough turnovers to outscore the other team. Now that was basketball.
Coach Wilcox finished by reminding them that they would be taking the team picture at 3:30 on Monday before practice. “So if you want to look good in a photo you’ll probably show your grandkids, you might get a haircut later today and shave on Monday morning,” he said.
Finally, he called over Mr. Robertson, who taught senior history but also was in charge of the weekly student newspaper, the Patriot.
Coach Wilcox explained that Mr. Robertson was acting as “our public relations guy” and then asked him to explain wha
t was going to happen once they were finished with their meeting.
“Terrell, at the far end of the court there’s a podium with a microphone,” Mr. Robertson said. “That’s where you’ll go. You can see that the camera crews are setting up over there right now. The rest of you guys just fan out and see who wants to talk to you. If after about five minutes no one has sought you out, you can head for the showers.
“One thing: Some people may ask for your phone number or email or Facebook address. Don’t give it to them. Tell them if they need to contact any of you about anything, they can contact me or Coach Kress. I’ve given them a sheet with our contact info on it.
“Questions?”
There was one, from Carson Simpson, who backed Danny up at point guard, although his most important role on the team was to keep everybody laughing. “Mr. Robertson, since we’re spending all this extra time talking to reporters, can I turn in my paper on Napoleon on Tuesday instead of Monday?”
This drew a laugh from the entire team—especially the other four seniors.
“No,” Mr. Robertson said, but he had a big smile on his face. “My guess, Simpson, is you’ll be heading for the showers in about five minutes. You should have plenty of time.”
Terrell couldn’t resist. “What about me?” he said. “I’ll probably be here longer than that.”
“Which is why I’m really glad you have the rest of the day today and all day tomorrow to finish,” Mr. Robertson said.
“But it’s Patriots and Jets tomorrow,” Danny blurted out. “We have to watch that.”
Mr. Robertson turned to Coach Wilcox. “Your team is ganging up on me, Coach,” he said.
“They have a point about the Patriots and Jets,” Coach Wilcox said, unable to resist a grin.
“Tell you what,” Mr. Robertson said. “I’m going to send out an email to everyone in the class. If the Patriots win, papers aren’t due until Tuesday. If they lose, you better get ’em in, because I’ll be in a very bad mood on Monday.”
The seniors clapped and everyone else laughed. Terrell wondered what the media, who were all standing around the court waiting for them to finish, imagined was going on.
They huddled and put their hands in. “On three…Pats win!” Coach Wilcox said.
They yelled, “One, two, three, Pats win!” in unison and headed for their assigned places. The fun part of the day was over.
Mr. Robertson escorted Terrell to the podium, leading him through the gauntlet of cameras and notebooks. Chris Pullman, who worked on the tech crew for school plays and assemblies, was standing next to the microphone. “I already checked it for you, Terrell,” he said. “The mike’s working. Andrea is out there with a wireless for people to use to ask questions.”
“Thanks, Chris,” Terrell said. “I appreciate it.”
Mr. Robertson was standing at the mike asking for quiet. “Folks, just for the sake of keeping this civilized, I’m going to ask you to request the wireless mike from Andrea”—he pointed to where Andrea was standing next to a reporter—“and then, when you have the mike, to ask your question and pass it on. So now, as Ed McMahon would say, ‘Here’s Terrell.’ ”
Terrell stepped gingerly up to the microphone.
The guy standing with Andrea had the mike now, and Mr. Robertson pointed at him.
“Terrell, I’m Pete Thamel from Sports Illustrated,” he said. Terrell had to admit that was a pretty impressive starting point—someone from Sports Illustrated. “There’s been a report floating around that you’ve pretty much decided you want to go to Duke. Can you give us some idea of how true or not true that may be?”
Whoa, Terrell thought. Nothing like a nice easy first question.
He paused, trying to make sure he chose his words carefully. “I think people know I had five schools come to my house,” he said finally. “Duke, North Carolina, UCLA, Mass State, and the University of Atlanta. I like them all. I still have two visits to make—Mass State and Atlanta—and after that I’ll make a final decision.” He decided that was a good place to stop. Someone else had the mike.
“Terrell, any truth to the story that you and Danny Wilcox are going to go to school together as a package deal?”
Terrell thought he saw Mr. Robertson take a step in his direction as if to cut off the question—or the answer. But he was happy to answer on his own. “If you’ve seen Danny play, you know he doesn’t need to go anywhere with me as a package deal. The only school on his list that’s the same as mine is UCLA. We both really wanted to see LA.” That got a laugh. “But neither of us has decided anything yet.”
The next few questions were pretty basic: What was he looking for in a school and in a coach? What was the best part of this sort of attention? The worst part of it?
“Doing this,” Terrell said in response to that question, drawing more laughter.
“Two more questions,” Mr. Robertson said after almost thirty minutes. Terrell noticed all the other players had finished talking. He noticed Danny standing out near midcourt. Bobby Kelleher was with him. Good.
The second-to-last questioner had the mike. “Terrell, do you have a girlfriend?”
Again, Terrell saw Robertson starting to wave his hand as if to ward off the question.
“No, I don’t,” Terrell said quickly. “But if you hear that Beyoncé is available, tell her she can give me a call.”
That got a big laugh. He was almost starting to enjoy this.
“Last question,” Mr. Robertson said, pointing at a guy who had to be what Danny called a TV talking-head. He was too well groomed and coiffed to be anything else.
“Terrell,” the guy said, clearing his throat for effect. “As you probably know, I’m Ronald Archer, anchor of The Top One Hundred, on ESPNU. What I’d like to ask is if you can explain to me and to our cameras why your coach has refused to allow you to appear on our program? All the other top high school stars not only appear but often they practically beg us to come on the show.”
“I guess you should ask my coach that question,” Terrell said. “But it sounds like you have so many stars already, you don’t really need me.”
That got a big laugh too, although Terrell figured that had as much to do with the stunned look on Ronald Archer’s face as the cleverness of his answer. Still, he couldn’t help thinking that he was starting to get good at this.
“Okay, thanks, everyone,” Mr. Robertson said, taking the mike. “Thank you for coming to Lexington High School. I’m sure we’ll see you back here again.”
Mr. Robertson had him by the arm. “Walk with me across the floor to the locker-room stairs,” he said. “If you stop, people are going to try to grab you for one more question.”
Before Terrell could take a step, an attractive young woman with a camera crew in tow was blocking his path. “Terrell, can I get you for one more question?” she said.
“If he stops for you, he’ll be here another half hour,” Mr. Robertson said.
“But you never called on me during the press conference,” she said in a pouty tone. “I should have a chance to ask one question, just like everyone else did.”
Terrell definitely would have called on her. “It’s okay, Mr. Robertson, I’ll do this and you can tell the others I’m doing just this one question with Miss…”
“Van Engstrom,” she said. “Amber Van Engstrom. I’m from WJYE in Atlanta. Call me Amber.”
She was, Terrell had to admit, pretty dazzling. Very tall, with jet-black hair, dark brown eyes, and, for now at least, a big smile.
“Okay, Amber,” Terrell said, trying to sound cool. “Fire away.”
She turned to her cameraman and sound guy, took a mike from the sound guy, and said, “Ready?”
They both nodded.
“Terrell,” she said as the camera light came on, “can you tell us the exact nature of your relationship with a man named Raymond Leach?”
For a split second, the name didn’t register at all with Terrell. Then he remembered: Leach was the guy who’d bro
ught the NCAA officials running after he’d bought lunch for Terrell, Danny, Michael Jordan, and Alex Mayer back in New Jersey. He had also tried to join them one night at dinner during a tournament they had played in down in Orlando. There he’d been told in no uncertain terms by Danny and Alex Mayer that he wasn’t welcome.
“If you’re talking about who I think you’re talking about, he showed up at lunch one day in New Jersey during the camp there, and I think I met him again for about ten seconds at a restaurant in Orlando,” Terrell said.
“That’s it?” she said. “You didn’t actually have dinner with him in Orlando? Or let him buy you dinner?”
Now Terrell was getting worried. Leach had bought lunch in New Jersey. But that wasn’t what she had asked him. He took a deep breath. “No, Amber. Like I said, I was having dinner with some other players, and he walked over to our table and acted like he was pals with one of the guys. That guy wasn’t very happy to see him, though, and so he left.”
Amber started to ask another question—maybe about the lunch in New Jersey?—but Mr. Robertson cut her off. “You said one question,” he said. “You’re way past one.”
Amber wasn’t going to let anyone see her sweat, that was for sure. The camera swung from Terrell to Mr. Robertson.
“Who exactly are you, sir?” Amber asked. “Does Terrell have something to hide?”
“I’m the person telling you this interview is over,” Mr. Robertson said. He smiled as he said it, making it clear he wasn’t going to be baited.
She signaled to her cameraman to turn the camera off.
Without saying another word to Amber, Terrell headed in the direction of the locker room. He would be safe—he hoped—in there.
SIXTEEN
Danny and Bobby Kelleher had been standing close enough to hear Terrell’s exchange with Amber, but as Terrell approached, Kelleher nodded at Danny and headed for the door.
Foul Trouble Page 13
