Foul Trouble

by John Feinstein

  “A phone call? Who from?”

  “Here’s the thing. You need to get your pit-bull point guard to stop being rude to people.”

  “What?” Terrell said, jaw dangling.

  Maurice moved closer to him. “There are important people here who want to help make you rich, Terrell. Don’t let the Wilcoxes get in the way of that. They’re not the ones with millions at stake here. You are.”

  Terrell started to ask, How much have you got at stake, Maurice? but thought better of it. Instead, he said, “I hear you. I’ll talk to Danny. But those guys need to give me some space, especially when we have important games to play. Which we do—starting tonight.”

  Maurice nodded. “You go ahead. We’ll be there to cheer you on.”

  The other dudes hadn’t said a word the whole time. Now they all pushed forward for hugs and handshakes. Terrell escaped a few minutes later and breathed a sigh of relief when the elevator doors closed.

  So…Danny was rude one day and the dudes got called in to run interference the next. Very interesting. He figured Athena would be picking up the tab for the dudes’ stay.

  As the elevator pinged and opened on his floor, Terrell had a sudden thought: Had someone paid for the dudes to come to the camp, back in July? To get him away from the Wilcoxes? To set him up with Eddie J.? He had zero proof, but in his gut he knew it was true. And somehow he found it as depressing as anything he’d discovered so far.

  Not surprisingly, that night’s game was a lot more difficult than the opener had been. The reason was Jay Swanson.

  Norwalk High School was a lot like Lexington. It had one true star and a number of solid players who understood that their best chance to win was to get the ball to the star. Terrell had leafed through the tournament’s media guide, which included the statistics for every player on all eight teams. Swanson’s numbers were actually better than his. He was averaging 29.6 points per game to Terrell’s 26.4. Terrell was out-rebounding him, 13.8 to 8.4, but Swanson was a guard. Swanson was also averaging 7.7 assists a game, better than Terrell’s 4.5. Both teams were now 10–0 after their first-round wins. Terrell was impressed.

  Coach Wilcox decided to start the game with James Nix guarding Swanson. James was a little taller and just about as quick, and he had picked up Coach Wilcox’s defense quickly. Even so, both Danny and Terrell were on alert to double-team Swanson anytime he made a move in the direction of the lane. “If we’re lucky, his ego will get involved, and he’ll force shots instead of finding the open man,” he had said. “Either way, he’s too good to ask anyone to guard him one-on-one.”

  The plan made sense, except for two things: Swanson began the game acting as if the lane was radioactive. He kept coming around teammates screening for him near the three-point line, catching, and shooting. By the end of the first quarter he had made four out of five three-point shot attempts and had two other jumpers from inside the three-point line. He hadn’t been to the foul line, because Nix hadn’t gotten close enough to foul him. Norwalk led, 22–20.

  “No need to change anything,” Coach Wilcox said. “We’re getting good penetration on offense, and Swanson can’t keep making those shots all night. Just keep doing what we’re doing.”

  So they did—and Swanson kept making shots. He had 28 points at halftime, and the score was tied, 39–39. By the end of the third quarter, with the crowd oohing and aahing every time he touched the ball, he had 40, and Norwalk had the lead again, 60–59. Terrell hadn’t been bad himself with 26, and Danny and Nix had chipped in 12 apiece.

  Swanson was still hot in the fourth quarter. When he scored his fiftieth point on a three from the corner with Nix practically tackling him, Norwalk had the lead one more time, 83–81.

  Coach Wilcox called time-out with thirty-four seconds left. “I swear to God, I’m tempted to play for one, if only so Swanson doesn’t get to shoot again,” he said in the huddle. “But we can’t do that.”

  He called a play called Circle, which meant that Terrell would start the play in the low post and pitch the ball back to Danny or James when the ball came in to him. Danny or James would have the option to shoot if they were left alone, but, if not, Terrell would circle back to the outside, get the ball back, and then use a screen to start a drive to the basket. If the defense collapsed on him, he could pass. If not, he would try to tie the game with a layup or by getting fouled.

  The play ran as scripted. Terrell passed out of a quick double-team to Danny, but Swanson was all over him. Terrell circled outside, got the ball from Danny, and drove the left side of the lane with what looked like the entire Norwalk team racing to meet him. He saw Nix in the far corner with his hand up and he found him. Without any hesitation, Nix stepped into a three and drained it with 6.8 seconds left for an 84–83 lead.

  Now Norwalk called time-out.

  There wasn’t a soul in the packed gym who expected anyone to take the last shot other than Swanson.

  “He’s going to take the inbounds and go end to end,” Coach Wilcox said. “I want everyone inside the lane except Terrell. If he passes to someone, fine, we’ll take our chances. Terrell, you’ve got him.”

  “Me?” Terrell said.

  “Yeah, you. I don’t care how close he gets to the basket, you have got to stay in front of him. Just get those long arms up and make him shoot the ball over you. And do not foul. He doesn’t miss free throws.”

  They walked back on court with the place buzzing with anticipation. Swanson was standing almost on top of his teammate who was going to inbound the ball. As they waited for the horn to tell the officials to resume play, Swanson looked up and saw Terrell was on him. “Now, this,” he said, “is an honor.”

  “For me too,” Terrell replied.

  Swanson grinned. “How much fun is this?” he asked as the horn ending the time-out sounded.

  As soon as the official handed the ball to the inbounder, Swanson darted to his left to take the pass. Terrell scrambled to get back as Swanson sprinted across midcourt. The ball looked like it was connected to his hand on a string as he dribbled.

  As Swanson crossed midcourt, Terrell heard Danny’s voice above the din. “Screen!” Danny screamed, and Terrell darted to his right just an instant before he would have collided with Norwalk’s burly center, Thomas Jones. That move gave Swanson a half step on him, and he wheeled in the direction of the key, Terrell trying to accelerate to catch him.

  Danny, in spite of his father’s orders, came out to slow him down. That move forced Swanson to dribble to his right, allowing Terrell to get back in front of him.

  Basketball instinct and the sounds of the crowd told Terrell the clock was close to zero. Swanson knew it too. As he approached the foul line, with Terrell slightly on his heels, he rose up to shoot. Terrell reacted quickly, jumping toward Swanson but not straight at him, not wanting to foul. The ball cleared Terrell’s fingers by no more than an inch and everyone turned to see where it was headed.

  Terrell was convinced it was going in. The ball did a 360° spin around the rim, hung there for an instant, and just slid off the left side of the rim. Terrell saw Swanson go down into a crouch, burying his head in his hands—as much in shock as in disappointment.

  Terrell’s teammates had their arms in the air and were rushing in his direction, but he went over to Swanson, leaned down, and helped him to his feet. He noticed that Danny was right behind him. “Turns out Coach Wilcox was right,” Terrell said.

  “What do you mean?” Swanson said.

  “He said you couldn’t keep making those shots all night and he was right—you missed one.”

  Swanson smiled wanly and gave Terrell a hug.

  Danny hugged him too. “You’re a hell of a player,” Danny said.

  “You know what?” Swanson said. “So are you.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Terrell and Danny were having breakfast in the hotel dining room the next morning when they saw Jay Swanson approaching their table. “Mind if I join you guys?” he asked.

&nbs
p; “Have a seat,” Terrell said. “How’s your arm?”

  “My arm?” Swanson said.

  “I thought it might be sore from all those shots you made last night.”

  Swanson laughed as he sat down. “My arm’s fine. The rest of me is pretty sore. I’m afraid Alex Mayer may school me tonight.”

  Mayer’s team, Starkville Academy, had lost to Oak Hill in the second semifinal. Terrell, Danny, and their teammates had watched the first half and had left with Oak Hill leading, 41–27. They had been surprised to hear that the final score was 80–76, until they learned that Michael Jordan hadn’t played in the fourth quarter because he had rolled an ankle on the last play of the third.

  Starkville would play Norwalk in the third-place game at five o’clock before the Minutemen took on Oak Hill for the championship at seven.

  “You know I haven’t seen Alex for five minutes since we got here,” Danny said. “How’d he play last night?”

  “Had thirty-seven,” Swanson said. “You’ll see him in about another minute. I ran into him in the lobby and told him I was coming in here to see you guys. He said he’d stop by.”

  “How’d you know we were here?” Terrell was starting to feel as if everyone knew his every move.

  “I ran into your coach buying a paper. He said you’d just come in.”

  Almost on cue, Alex Mayer, dressed in what looked like the latest model Athena tracksuit, walked into the dining room. There were handshakes all around, and he sat down after asking a waiter to bring him some coffee.

  “Nice playing last night,” Terrell said.

  Mayer laughed. “If Michael had faked his injury a little bit earlier, we might have won and gotten to play you guys. Instead, I have to spend the night chasing the mad bomber here.” He nodded at Swanson.

  “Faked his injury?” Terrell said. “What are you talking about?”

  Mayer shrugged. “He doesn’t want to play against you, Terrell. His stock went down a little when you outplayed him in New Jersey, and he doesn’t want to take any risks. You kick his butt again, he might not have quite as many suitors.”

  “I’m guessing you aren’t talking just about colleges,” Swanson said.

  Mayer laughed. “Hardly. Heck, he’s claiming he’s going to North Carolina and they don’t pay anybody. It’s the same guys chasing you, Terrell—the so-called money managers, the agents, the equipment guys. He’s even got some production company that wants to do a reality series with him during his freshman year.”

  “Speaking of getting paid, that’s a nice outfit,” Danny said.

  Terrell was surprised it had taken Danny this long to bring it up.

  Mayer took a long sip of his coffee. “Yup, it is,” he said. “No sense letting the parade pass you by, I figure.”

  “That’s not what you were saying last summer,” Danny said. His eyes were narrowed in a way familiar to Terrell. He was angry.

  “That was last summer,” Mayer said. “Things change. Man, everyone around me is cashing in—including whichever coach I’m going to play for in college, who’s going to be making seven figures while I help him win games. So why shouldn’t I cash in too?”

  “Maybe because it’s against the rules?” Swanson said, surprising Terrell. “There are a lot of things in life that aren’t fair. Is it fair that we get our butts kissed all the time because we can play basketball, but the really talented kids in the band get nothing—in fact, are considered geeks?”

  “What are you talking about with the band?” Mayer said. “People pay to see us play. The band’s the sideshow.”

  “I know, it’s different. You’re right. But it’s not really fair.”

  Terrell and Danny looked at each other. It was almost as if Mayer and Swanson had somehow swapped personalities since the summer.

  “Jay, what happened to you?” Danny asked. “At camp, I honestly thought you were on the take.”

  Swanson nodded. “I was. But I realized after a while that those guys thought they owned me. And a while after that, I realized they kind of did. Which sucked. So I backed out. The money will be there down the road if I make the NBA.”

  “What if you get hurt?” Mayer asked. “What if you become Omar Whytlaw?”

  “Then all the money in the world won’t really matter, will it?” Swanson said. “Look, Alex, I’m not busting on you at all. I totally understand where you’re coming from. I just got sick of that scene.”

  Not surprisingly, the championship game was a bust. With Michael Jordan sitting on the bench, Oak Hill was no match for Lexington. It still had a number of good players, but no one who could guard Terrell. And when they tried to double- or even triple-team him, Terrell was alert enough to find his shooters—notably, Danny and James Nix. The final score was 79–62. Terrell was named tournament MVP, and Danny and James were picked to the all-tournament team, along with Jay Swanson and Alex Mayer, who had both had big games in Norwalk’s victory in the consolation game.

  After the game, Terrell did all the media interviews, including a fairly lengthy one with someone from ESPN. Coach Wilcox had told them that ESPN was planning to televise Lexington’s season-ending game against Waltham in late February as part of a “high school showcase night.”

  The college coaches weren’t allowed to talk to them because it was an evaluation period—no contact allowed—so they had to settle for positioning themselves so that their top recruits could see that they were there, watching every play.

  The bad news was that all the hangers-on weren’t restricted from talking to them. Terrell noticed Jordan chatting with Billy Tommasino and a couple of other guys in suits. No surprise there. Mindful of Kelleher’s warning to not scare people off, Terrell spent a few minutes making nice, accepting congratulations, and listening to the “If there’s anything you need…” refrain for about the millionth time. When he saw Danny standing under one of the baskets talking to Tom Konchalski, he used that as an excuse to break away.

  “Mr. Konchalski, I didn’t know you were here,” he said as he walked up to the group that consisted of Danny, his father, and the only honest man in the gym.

  “Terrell, you played wonderfully,” Konchalski said. “The improvement in your passing since July is noticeable.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’ve been working on that since you mentioned it. Of course, it’s a different game if Jordan plays.”

  Konchalski shrugged. “Sure it is. But from what I’m hearing, he wanted no part of you. If I’m a college coach, that would tell me something about him.”

  “You think anyone recruiting him will back off if they think he ducked Terrell?” Coach Wilcox asked, clearly surprised.

  “No, I don’t,” Konchalski said. “You can’t overlook a talent like that. But it’ll be on the mind of whoever ends up coaching him next year.”

  “Who do you think that will be?” Danny asked.

  “I think he wants to go to Kentucky,” Konchalski said. “I think he believes John Calipari is the best coach you can play for if you’re going to be one-and-done because he’s had so much experience with it. But I think the people around him are pushing him to Atlanta.”

  “What about North Carolina?” Terrell said.

  Konchalski shook his head. “Don’t see it. Roy’s loaded anyway. He doesn’t need that kind of headache.”

  Across the court Terrell could see Jordan surrounded by a coterie of suits—one of them being Paul Judson, another being David Forcier, the financial planner they had met the other day. He could also see the dudes, standing near the door—waiting expectantly, no doubt, to talk to him.

  “I’m exhausted,” he said. “Danny, you gonna walk with me to the bus?”

  Danny raised an eyebrow but then nodded. “I’ll make sure everyone’s on the bus and call you. Okay, Dad?” he said.

  “Good idea,” Coach Wilcox said. He looked at Konchalski. “Early flight in the morning.”

  Konchalski nodded. “Never fun.” He shook hands with Danny and Terrell just as Tom
Bogley, the Norwalk coach, came over to say hello. Clearly, everyone in high school basketball knew Tom Konchalski.

  Terrell and Danny started across the gym.

  “What was that about?” Danny asked. “You need an escort or something?”

  In reply, Terrell nodded in the direction of the dudes. “If you’re in a mood to piss somebody off,” he said, “now would be a good time. I just don’t want to deal with these guys tonight.”

  Danny grinned. “Happy to oblige,” he said.

  Maurice led the parade to congratulate Terrell, followed closely by Chao, in the ever-present “Yao Rules” T-shirt. Terrell wondered if anyone had told him that Yao Ming had retired. “Dude, you’re killing it,” Maurice said as he gave Terrell the obligatory hug.

  “It’s too bad Jordan no-showed on you,” said Felipe, the new dude, whom Terrell found to be less of a pain than the others.

  “He was hurt, I guess,” Terrell said, shrugging.

  “He was scared, man,” Chao insisted. “Dude’s a wimp.”

  “But he’s gonna be a rich wimp,” Maurice said. “Terrell, there’s a really good burger joint right down the road from here.… ”

  This was Danny’s cue to jump in. “He can’t,” he said. “Bus is leaving in about five minutes, and we have an early flight in the morning.”

  “Daddy make you the assistant coach, angry boy?” Maurice said, flaring at the sound of Danny’s voice.

  “What if he did?” Danny said in a tone laced with sarcasm. “Either way, what the team is doing is none of your damn business.”

  “Terrell is my business,” Maurice said.

  “Yeah, that’s how you see him, isn’t it?” Danny shot back. “As a business opportunity…”

  Without warning, Maurice launched himself at Danny. It was the culmination of months of bad blood.

  Maurice had the advantage of forward momentum, surprise, and sheer, pent-up anger. He took Danny down while everyone stood frozen, too stunned to move. Danny recovered quickly and was able to use his size—he had about five inches on Maurice and at least twenty pounds—and strength to push Maurice off him, regain his balance, and put him in a headlock.