“Five years ago you couldn’t walk around here for all the crackheads,” he said. “And in the evenings I used to worry about the players getting home safe.”
“Yeah, well, things change,” I said, knowing how lame I sounded.
The thing was that I didn’t like House, but I knew I had to get along with him because that was the way things were, as Fletch said. House was the coach and I was the player. So I was running up my little truce flag and I guessed he was running up his, but I still knew what I was going to do when I got on the court, and he wasn’t going to change that.
The inside of La Taqueria was sharp. They had photographs on the wall of these old-time Mexican dudes with belts of ammunition around their chests and pistols in their belts. All the tables were dark wood with red-and-white place mats. I thought Jocelyn would have dug it.
House ordered chicken enchiladas, salad, and rice, and I got tacos, refried beans, and salad. We also ordered iced tea.
“So how are things going?” House asked me.
“Okay, I guess,” I said.
“You looking forward to the Warrick game?”
“I look forward to every game,” I said.
The waitress brought the iced tea, and House dumped sugar in it without even tasting it. I tasted mine and it was already sweetened. I figured the dude was nervous.
“You looking forward to the game?” I asked House.
“I am,” he said, “but I was kind of puzzled about the way the team dynamics seem to be shaping up.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You seem to be unhappy about something,” he said.
“Yeah, well, you know, you’re changing the way we play,” I said. “We were doing all right during the first half of the season, and we did all right last year. I don’t see why we’re changing now.”
“Why do you think we’re changing?” House was sipping his tea, and I knew it had to be too sweet.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Hey, you’re a man, I’m a man,” House said. “If you have something to say, you should spit it out.”
What I figured was that he wanted to have it out with me. I was going to be cool with it, lay it out careful, but I didn’t like that “you’re a man” stuff.
“Yeah, okay—look, as soon as Tomas and Colin showed up, you started running the team around them,” I said. “Everybody sees it. The whole team is talking about it, even Tomas—but you keep running into your office like you don’t hear it. You want to get to square business, then you know the same thing I do.”
House leaned back in his chair and looked around the restaurant. There were a few other customers, and the waiters were setting up their tables.
“You know what surprises me, Drew?” House turned back to me. “What surprises me is that you think you’re pushing yourself. You think that you’re out there trying your best to win because it’s the best thing for the team, right?”
“Yeah.”
“But do you know what every college coach asks me about every good black player who comes along?” House spoke softly. “He asks me if the player can be coached. In other words, can he fit into a college system. When I asked Fletch what he thought of your game…”
“Yeah, what did he say?”
“He said he didn’t want to talk about it that much,” House said. “But he did say you were a really good individual player. I got the feeling that he doesn’t think you can fit into a team plan.”
The waitress brought the food and set it down. It smelled good. The busboy brought over a tray with little cups of sauces and a bowl of chips.
“Fletch said that?” I asked.
“Not in so many words,” House said. “But word gets around to the scouts. You know what I mean?”
“The way you’re sounding is like I shouldn’t put too much faith in my game,” I said.
“I’m not saying that you shouldn’t believe in your game, but I am saying that you need to look over your shoulder once in a while, too.”
The food suddenly didn’t look too good. We talked a little more, mostly light stuff about school and what was going on in the world, but my heart wasn’t in it. The dude had left me when he talked smack about my game. I was glad when he paid the bill and gladder still to watch him walk away toward the office when we were back in school.
I have never ever liked anybody who went to Warrick High for the Arts. They were all working too hard at being different. But Warrick was in our division, and they could always get somebody on the court who could play ball. They had one skinny white dude who could shoot the eyes out of the basket. Ruffy said it was the same guy every year.
“They keep him down in the basement. One year they’ll throw a few freckles on him, and the next year they’ll change the color of his hair or mess with his eyebrows, but it’s the same dude.”
The way to stop dudes like that was to muscle them. Go to a man-to-man on offense, back them into the paint, and score underneath. Then just beat them to death on defense. Don’t let them play their game, or they would weird out the gym and leave you looking stupid.
We had already lost to FDA, and Warrick was not supposed to be a powerhouse. A loss to them would put the whole regular season in retard gear.
We got to Warrick and they had their freaky-looking cheerleaders—four white girls, two sisters, and an Asian girl—out front waiting for our bus. They all had red hair, dark makeup that was two seconds from goth, and about a yard of attitude.
What they had different this year was this big cornbread brother at center.
We warmed up and I tried to be cool, but I could feel myself getting worked up. House never wanted us to look at the team we were going to play, but all of us kept sneaking looks over at Warrick and the new guy everybody was talking about at center. He looked strong, black, and ready. Dude had the longest arms I had ever seen on a human being.
“He’s listed at six-eleven,” Colin said. “I think he’s seven feet easy.”
Abdul said he played against him in Marcus Garvey Park. “He’s strong,” Abdul said. “Plus he’s funky smelling. I don’t think the guy ever washes.”
“He got any moves?” I asked.
“Nothing, but when he backed into me, his butt was in my chest,” Abdul said. “That’s a funny feeling, man. Some dude is bent over and backing his butt into your chest.”
The one-minute buzzer went off, and House called us together. “This is a slow team,” he said. “They rely on rebounding and set plays. We’re going to have to box out on the boards big-time, and make our plays on offense. We can’t win a shootout with these guys unless we out-rebound them, and with this guy Tyrone Scott at center, I don’t think that’s going to happen. Ruffy, you have to do your best to keep him off the boards. Tomas and Sky need to help out when they can. Colin and Ricky need to stay on top of their guards. Anybody coming off the bench needs to remember we’re trying to play team ball. Okay, put your hands together.”
I put my hand out, but the set was stinking up the place. I wasn’t starting.
Ruffy came over to me and put his arm around me.
“Hey, you ain’t starting, I ain’t playing,” he said.
“No, don’t let him take our game,” I said. “You go on and start. Give me some time to think it through.”
“Whatever you say, and whenever you say it, I got your back, Drew.” Me and Ruffy slapped hands, and he turned to go out to the center of the court.
I felt like pure D crap. I didn’t think any of the regular team wanted to see me sitting. But I wasn’t sure.
Fletch sat next to me on the bench. “How deep is your game?” he asked.
“It’s deep enough to—” I turned to answer him and he held his hand up. “Why you ask?”
“Just something you need to be thinking about,” he said. “I’m glad to see you keeping your cool. If somebody is trying to take something from you because it makes them feel good to play with your head, the best answer is a smile.
You know what I’m saying?”
I didn’t know what he meant and I wasn’t keeping my cool. I could feel the tears coming, or wanting to come, and nothing Fletch said would change that. Plus I was thinking about what House had said in Tacky’s and wondering if Fletch was playing mind games with me.
The game started with the jump ball. Ruffy couldn’t get up anywhere near Scott, and they controlled the tap. I knew the brother bringing the ball down—Marquis Webb. He was tough but short. He brought the ball down, and all the time Ruffy was fighting in the center. Their big man was doing a swim movement on Ruffy, using his arms to get in front of him while using his feet to back him in. The way he moved, with his legs apart and slow, I figured he was going to be the kind of player who parked in the lane and stayed there all day unless the refs came up with some three-second violations.
Ruffy was trying to keep him out, but Scott backed in deep enough so when the ball came in, he could just turn and muscle up a deuce.
Colin brought the ball down for us, and House was already calling out a play from the sidelines. I thought that was lame because the team hadn’t even got into the flow yet. Sky and Tomas tried a switch pick and Scott ran into it, but Sky got boxed in and Colin threw the ball away.
Warrick came down again and Marquis brought it inside fast to Scott, who whipped it out to the white guard, number 14. I swear that fool was going up even before it reached his hands. He went straight up, brought the right elbow into a perfect line with the hoop, and let go a beautiful arc. Ricky watched it as he boxed him out, but he didn’t need to because that ball didn’t touch anything but net.
Ruffy looked over at me. We both knew that number 14 was their shooter. Colin brought the ball down again and passed it in to Ruffy. Ruffy tried a hook and Scott slapped it away. Ricky got the loose ball, put a move on number 14, and went around him. Scott stepped out, and when Ricky went for the dunk, Scott had both hands on the ball. The home crowd started screaming as Scott wagged his finger at Ricky.
The whole first quarter was the Scott show, with his knocking away our shots and snatching bounds with one hand. But it was their number 14 who hit three threes and a layup to lift them to a 20–9 first-quarter lead.
House put in Ernie Alvarez for Ricky, but I knew it wasn’t going to make a difference. We were still running set plays, and the guys looked like they didn’t know what they were doing.
During the second quarter Ruffy was forcing Scott farther and farther out. It was strength against strength, and Ruffy was out-muscling their big man. When Scott started complaining to the ref that he was being pushed, I figured we had a chance. But number 14 hit three more threes, and at the half they had us 37–22. Fifteen points was hard to overcome against anybody, but it was really hard against a big man who had picked up only two fouls in the first half.
They had a scoreboard with all the players listed. I saw that Tomas had scored two points.
On the way to the locker room Fletch touched my arm. I asked him how come I still wasn’t playing.
“House thought it was going to be an easy game. That Scott didn’t do anything against Bryant,” Fletch said. “We lose this game, you might lose your season.”
“Yo, man, you sound like you putting it on me,” I said.
“Does it sound that way?” Fletch asked.
Fletch walked away, and I just felt like all of a sudden I was carrying a truck on my back. I felt so tired. It was like my whole life was spinning around me and I wasn’t digging on any of it.
“We’re not playing sharp ball out there,” House said. “We’re leaving the perimeter open for the three, and we’re not getting enough offensive rebounds.”
“Hey, coach, we’re not leaving that dude open.” Ricky spoke up. “He gets the ball off so fast, you can’t get it. He knows he’s going to shoot when he’s getting to a spot. He’s not setting up, he’s just all touch and burn.”
“He’s getting too many open shots,” House said. “I can count them and I can see when they’re coming up. You’re out there on the floor—you should see it, too.”
I was down as we warmed up for the second half, but then Fletch came over and told me I was going to start.
“How come?”
“Why do you care?” he asked. “You don’t want to play?”
“Yeah, I want to play,” I said. “What’d you mean, if we lose today my season might be lost?”
“You can’t lose more than two games and hope to get into the playoffs,” Fletcher said. “And we haven’t played against Boogie yet. Not in a real game.”
I wanted to say something about what House had run down in the restaurant, about how my game wasn’t going to make it for me, but at the same time I didn’t. It was like saying that your mind was someplace else because your old lady was messing around and didn’t love you anymore. I wanted to believe in my game, no matter what anybody else said, or what doubts I had.
I was excited to walk out on the court. Number 14 was kneeling, pulling up his socks, when I got to him.
“Hey, white boy, I’m going to eat you up this half.”
“Hey, black boy,” he said, standing, “how come I’m the one with the knife and fork and you didn’t even start the game?”
Yeah. Right. I was ready. The ball went up and Scott slapped it toward their backcourt, but Ricky, who was starting with me, cut across and picked it off. I took off for the hoop and Ricky let the pass go just right. The ball bounced ahead of me just inside the foul line, I got it on the rise, and went up for my first deuce of the game.
The whole team came alive. We dogged Warrick into mistakes, and our fast break was kicking strong. In two minutes we had scored seven baskets to their one and were trailing by three when they copped a time-out.
“Let’s keep the ball under control!” House said. “They’re probably going to stay in a man-to-man defense, so we can work our inside plays deep. Drew, don’t get wild on me!”
I looked away from House. He was still trying to get back to his weak plan. He made some more noises about us needing to be on the alert for transitions. That’s what we had been all about when we were on the court, and he knew it. Fast breaks don’t come out of thin air.
Warrick came out in a more settled way, slowing the game down. I knew they were still watching the scoreboard figuring to nurse their little lead. They backed Scott into Ruffy with their big man yelling at the refs that Ruffy was fouling him. Refs don’t like that, so they called a three-second violation against him.
Ricky brought the ball down, and I saw they had switched to a two-two-one zone, daring us to go inside against Scott. I took up the challenge. Ricky picked 14 for me at the top of the key, which wasn’t a big deal because he wasn’t playing any real D. Their forward came over late, and I went by him right at Scott.
Scott was big, with long arms, but he must have been playing against chumps, because when I got to him he was standing straight up. No way he was going to have any leap, and I knew it as I took off over him. When I came down, he was looking up at the basket.
Their fans were oohing and aahing and I was feeling good. If I had been in the playground, I would have been talking, but I didn’t want to say anything and draw a technical.
Ricky was getting the ball around, and at the end of the third quarter we were up by six and it looked like it was time for cruise control. They had the ball at the beginning of the fourth quarter, and number 14 brought it down slow. Ruffy was killing Scott in the pivot, and Tomas and Sky were rebounding tough. I went out toward 14 to stop the ball and saw him dip his knees and shift for a shot. He was fast on the gun, but I was faster in the air. But what he did was a high crossover and a quick step around me.
Twisting in the air, I reached for him and tried to get my first step going before I came down. I got my foot on the ground a half step behind 14 and was trying to plant my back foot when he cut across my path, making me stop so I wouldn’t foul him, then brought the ball between his legs back outside.
W
hen I turned, I was off-balance and stumbling and he was going up for a shot. I didn’t even have to look to know he wasn’t going to be touching anything but net. The dude had turned me completely around and almost had me on the floor.
That got their team going, and they staged a comeback with 14 leading the way. But we were holding on and playing well.
Tomas could work his man inside. He was playing against this brother who was deep into his game, moving and throwing elbows. He could get up high, but Tomas was controlling his space around the boards and coming up with his share of rebounds. He was hesitating on offense, but he was getting the ball out to me and Ricky.
I got this feeling that I was right where I wanted to be in the world. On the court, playing in a tough game, just as good as I needed to be. What was going to happen, who was going to win or lose, depended on who had the most heart, the most game. There were no numbers to worry about, no books to read, just me and what I knew: the court, the hoop, the sound of the ball on the floor.
“Yo, yo, Drew.” The refs had called a time-out, and Ricky had my arm. “That white guy ain’t got nothing but an outside shot. He’s not going inside.”
“He doesn’t have anything but that one shot and the moves to get open, but he’s kicking my butt with it,” I said. “You want to hold him?”
“No, man.” Ricky smiled. “I don’t like holding white guys.”
We were playing strong and together, and they were relying on two men, number 14 and Scott. Ruffy had taken Scott out of their offense, but he was still kicking it on defense and keeping the score close. The traffic at the top of the key was brutal. They were running me into picks like they had a schedule. If I had run into a school bus, I wouldn’t have been surprised.
Ruffy was calling them from the center at first; then it got to be so many it was funny.
“Pick left! They’re doubling! Slide! Go through!”
The game got down to thirty seconds and they had the ball. We were up by two and 14 was bringing the ball down again. I wanted to foul him, give him the two from the foul line right away, and then go for the win, but we didn’t have any time-outs left so I couldn’t do it. I knew 14 was happy to have the ball. He looked confident even though his team was a deuce down. I was hoping he would bring the ball in to Scott, because if he did, Ruffy was going to clobber the big man and put him on the foul line.
Game Page 6
