Play Makers

by Mike Lupica

  Ben said, “Now I like the Knights even better than the Packers.”

  They nearly didn’t make it to Kingsland with a chance.

  The Rams were better than Hewitt, by a lot, even without Sam, had a match-up advantage at just about every position on the floor. At least until both their guards, the one Ben was guarding and the one Darrelle Clayton was guarding, decided to pick this particular day and this particular game to start making shots from everywhere except the boys’ locker room.

  It didn’t matter that some of the shots looked like no-look heaves, and a couple of them banked so high off the backboard Ben thought they had actually hit the basket support. They kept going in, enough of them, anyway.

  “They’re, like, still unconscious,” Sam said to Ben during a time-out, early in the fourth quarter, the Rams down by eight points, feeling like they were not just running out of time, but out of season.

  “If we don’t figure out a way to stop them, we’re not just gonna be unconscious,” Ben said, “we’re gonna be dead. Along with our shot at the championship game.”

  “Not happening,” Sam said.

  “And you know this … because?”

  “Because you’re not gonna let it happen, that’s why.”

  “You make it sound so simple.”

  Sam grinned. “Nah, the way they’re shooting, it’s gonna be really, really hard. But that will only make it so much sweeter after you figure it out.”

  “How?”

  Sam shrugged. “Figure it out.”

  That is exactly what Ben McBain did.

  He got Coach to switch him to Darrelle’s guy, and Darrelle to switch to his, just to shake things up. And even though they had both been picking their guys up under the Rams’ basket, they dogged them even harder now, making them work for every inch, bringing the ball up the court, gambling and going for steals every chance they could, willing to give up fouls if they had to. And even when the Hewitt guards would get the ball over halfcourt, they guarded them even more closely, if that was possible, daring them to drive, taking away any chance at them making the kinds of prayers they had been making all game long.

  Trusting that if they did get beat, Coop and Shawn and even MJ would cover for them, making their lives just as miserable if they got anywhere near the basket.

  They kept shooting from the outside, though, forcing the shots now, acting shocked when they stopped falling. And when they’d miss again, Coop and Shawn were owning the boards, making outlet passes like pros, starting one fast break after another, Ben in the middle with the ball almost every time.

  “Figure it out,” Sam had said, and he had, and now it was the Rams who couldn’t miss, the Rams who went 16–2 on the Hewitt Giants the rest of the game, the Rams who won the game they needed to stay alive.

  The Rams who weren’t dead yet.

  Coach drove them in his old van: Ben, Sam, Coop, Shawn. And MJ Lau, who’d not only played himself into the starting lineup now, but had become a better all-around player than Ben thought he ever would be, all his hard work somehow dragging his talent along, forcing it to catch up.

  One more thing to make Ben feel good about the season, no matter how it ended up:

  Coach had asked him to help make MJ a better player, and Ben believed he had, the whole thing starting as simply as possible, Ben showing MJ he wasn’t afraid to pass him the ball.

  Coach always said that basketball didn’t really become a beautiful game until somebody made the first good pass. And somehow that had happened with the first few good passes Ben made to MJ.

  No one was ever going to compare him to Kevin Durant as an outside shooter — so far he’d only made three non-layups that Ben could remember — but he wasn’t afraid to shoot if he was open now.

  Wasn’t afraid, period.

  Ben wasn’t kidding himself, as well as they had played lately, they weren’t nearly as good as they would have been with Sam. Still: They were better than Ben thought they would be, and MJ Lau was a huge part of that.

  And now they were walking into Kingsland’s small, old-fashioned gym, one that even had a running track up in the balcony, one with hardly any space behind the baskets, the worst lighting in their league, maybe six rows of bleachers, tops, on either side of the court, the place looking to Ben as if it belonged in the movie Hoosiers.

  None of them cared, it was the only place they wanted to be right now, because this small, old gym held their chance to still make the championship game.

  Kingsland needed to beat Parkerville, the Rams needed to beat Darby next week.

  Then play Darby the week after that for the title. It was a crazy, outside chance. But all the chance they had.

  Coop said, “When was the last time we came to a game we weren’t playing?”

  They were in the last row of bleachers behind the Kingsland bench, backs against a brick wall.

  “Lily,” Ben said. “Her championship game in soccer.”

  “I mean before that,” Coop said. “A guys’ game.”

  “Maybe never,” Sam said. “But we had to come. Imagine what it would have been like not knowing, waiting to find out.”

  Both teams were in layup lines. They watched without saying anything until Shawn said to Ben, “What do you really think? About this game?”

  “You don’t want to hear,” Ben said.

  Coop said, “Then don’t say it.”

  Ben said, “He asked. It’s something Coach always says, about the best player.”

  Coach Wright nodded, eyes still on the court.

  “When everything else looks even,” he said, “go with the best player in the game.”

  “Robbie,” Coop said.

  “You know what really bothers me?” Sam Brown said. “How different things would be if Robbie didn’t make that lucky shot against us?”

  MJ said, “You mean like mine against Kingsland?”

  “Crazy stuff happens in sports,” Coach said. “It’s why we play, it’s why we watch. Why we care.”

  “What’s really crazy?” Sam said. “We’re here.”

  In the next moment, so was Chase Braggs.

  The game clock was running in reverse, under five minutes to the start of the game, when Chase and Jeb Arcelus and Ryan Hurley and Darby’s coach, Mr. Coppo, came walking through the double doors behind the Parkerville basket.

  “What are they doing here?” Coop said.

  “Maybe they want to scout these teams in case they play one of them for the championship,” Ben said.

  “Or,” Sam said, “maybe the Brag Man somehow found out we were coming and didn’t want to pass up the chance to annoy us.”

  Coach, who was at the end of the row, leaned toward all of them down, his face serious, like it was a time-out during one of their games and he wanted to make sure he had their full attention.

  “No matter what happens today, during the game, after the game, no matter how it comes out, what we do not do with those guys is engage,” he said. “Got it?”

  They all nodded.

  “We sit up here, we root quietly, we hope it falls our way in the end,” Coach Wright said. “If it doesn’t, it doesn’t. We walk out of here as a team and remember we’ve got one more game. Against those guys. And know that we’re gonna play it like it’s the NCAA finals, even if all we’re playing for is pride, and the chance to keep them from going unbeaten.”

  “Don’t worry, Coach,” Coop said, grinning. “I’ll keep everybody under control.”

  “Gee, there’s good news,” Coach Wright said.

  The Darby guys sat on the other side of the gym, up behind the Parkerville bench. Ben thinking that it was a lot more fun being them today, knowing they were already in the championship game, knowing it made no difference to them who won today at Kingsland.

  Or maybe it did.

  Maybe Chase and his boys were on the Parkerville side to root for them. Chase more than anybody. Knowing that if they won the Rams were out of the playoffs.

  He knows t
hat if they win, I lose, Ben thought.

  He told that to Sam, in a voice just barely loud enough for Sam to hear.

  “You’re probably right,” Sam said. “You know my mom’s German, right? There’s some fancy word she’s always using, one that means that it’s not enough for some people to succeed, their enemies have to fail, too.”

  “I think it should be two words in American,” Ben said. “Chase Braggs.”

  It turned out he had no idea how hard it was to sit and watch a game that meant so much to him, but one he had absolutely no control over, none.

  This wasn’t anything like rooting for one of his favorite teams in pro sports. Today was different. Oh man, was it. This wasn’t just Ben wanting the game to come out right for him. It was much more than that. He wanted it to come out right for Coach, and for his teammates. For Sam, especially. He knew that the Rams weren’t any kind of sure thing to beat Darby even if Kingsland won today — heck, they hadn’t beaten them yet, not even in the preseason — but he just wanted to have the chance. He wanted to leave this old gym with a chance.

  More than anything, he wanted to have some way of controlling the outcome.

  Only he didn’t.

  Ben couldn’t will the ball into the basket for the Kingsland Knights, couldn’t put rebounds into their hands, couldn’t get them a good whistle when they needed one.

  He could only watch.

  When Robbie Burnett drove the lane right before halftime, scored and got fouled and made the free throw that tied the game, Ben turned to Sam and said, “Watching like this is no fun.”

  In a low voice Sam Brown said, “Tell me about it.”

  “Sorry,” Ben said. “You know better than anybody.”

  “Something else I know? It won’t get any easier the second half.”

  “I actually thought about going outside and taking a walk, like I do when it gets tense during a Packers game sometimes.”

  “Does it ever help?”

  “Hardly ever.”

  “Hey,” Sam said, “look at it this way: Game’s tied. Coming over here we would have signed up for a tie game at halftime.”

  “I know,” Ben said. “It’s still killing me to watch.” He turned and looked right at Sam and said, “Did it ever get easier this season?”

  “Harder.”

  “How’d you do it?”

  “You’re gonna laugh,” Sam said. “But I kept telling myself they’re just games.”

  “And you waited all this time to tell me?” Ben said.

  “And the whole time, my dad kept telling me that if spraining my ankle and missing one season is the worst thing that ever happens to me in sports, well, I’m good.”

  Ben put his fist out, Sam bumped it. Ben said, “Yeah, you’re good.”

  Every once in a while during the second half, Ben would look over to where Chase and the Darby guys were sitting. Sometimes they weren’t even watching the game, other times they were talking and laughing, like this was a game on television and they were in the room, but only about half paying attention to it.

  Don’t get mad at them, Ben told himself.

  It doesn’t matter to them the way it matters to us.

  To me.

  The game was still tied going into the fourth quarter, Ben having given up hoping that Kingsland would go off on a rip, put some distance between them and the Patriots, build up a ten- or twelve-point lead, just so he didn’t have to keep hanging on every possession and every shot.

  No such luck. Not that kind of game. Nobody had been ahead by more than four points from the start.

  And when somebody finally did pull away, it was the wrong team.

  Best player, wrong team.

  In the end Robbie Burnett won the day the way Ben had been afraid he would, taking down the Knights, taking down the Rams at the same time. Not a thing Ben could do about it, or his coach, or any of his teammates. Just had to sit there and watch it play out the way it did, nobody able to stop Robbie, the game in his hands, the ball in his hands, a great player playing himself and his teammates past the Kingsland Knights and into the championship game.

  It started when he made a three, just under four minutes left. Then came a steal, and a breakaway layup. A Kingsland miss, and then another three.

  Parkerville by eight, just like that, Ben feeling as if the whole thing had happened in a few seconds.

  Kingsland tried to run its offense, get a good shot, did get one, an open look for their center. Who missed. Robbie came down, dribbled off some clock, got fouled finally, made two free throws.

  Parkerville by ten, two minutes left.

  “Still time,” Coop said, as if he thought he had to say something.

  “No,” Ben said. “There’s not. They’re done, we’re done.”

  Kingsland didn’t score again until right before the horn. Parkerville 42, Kingsland 30. All the time Ben had been thinking and stressing on Chase Braggs this season and Robbie had done just as much to knock them out of the championship game, done it with his crazy shot against Ben and the Rams, done it by taking charge this way against the Knights.

  The difference between him and Chase was that Ben liked Robbie Burnett, which is why when the game ended, he was right there to shake his hand, tell him great game, wish him luck against Darby in a couple of weeks.

  “You beat those guys,” Ben said.

  “Gonna try,” Robbie said, shoulder-bumped Ben before he walked off.

  When Ben turned around, Coach was standing there, saying, “What do you say we blow this town?”

  “Fine by me,” Ben said.

  Chase Braggs and the Darby guys were standing by the double doors, waiting while Mr. Coppo congratulated some of the Parkerville players. Coach Wright and the rest of the Rams walked past the Darby kids with nods, just wanting to get out of there, Ben just slowing down long enough to say hey to Ryan Hurley, a guy he’d always liked from football.

  As he did, Chase managed to get between Ben and the doors.

  “Do not engage,” Coach had said.

  Chase said, “Tough one for you guys, huh?”

  Ben shrugged. “We put ourselves in this position.”

  He tried to go around Chase, but Chase Braggs took a step to his right, not making a big show of what he was doing, but doing a great job of cutting Ben off, like Ben was making a move to the basket and not the parking lot.

  “Lily told me what you said about me,” Chase said. “Well played.”

  “Wasn’t playing anybody,” Ben said. “Just telling the truth. Listen, I gotta bounce.”

  Chase wasn’t done.

  “Must be tough for you, not making the championship game, everybody says you almost always win at everything.”

  “Nobody does in sports,” Ben said.

  “I do,” Chase said.

  And Ben couldn’t help himself now, he laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Chase said.

  “Lot of stuff, actually,” he said. “Listen, our team does have a championship game. Next Saturday. Against your team. And after we win it, you’re gonna have to ask yourself a question.”

  “Really?” Chase said. “Like what?”

  “Like what would have happened between our teams this season if the sides had been even,” Ben said.

  Then he was out the door, out to where Sam was waiting outside. They’d all lost a chance at the championship game today. Sam had lost his chance to just play this season.

  Before Ben could say anything, Sam said, “Least I had a shot, dude. All you can ask for is a shot.”

  Still the best player on the team, even now.

  Lily came by for breakfast: Chocolate-chip pancakes that she made for both of them, two huge stacks when she was done, as if she was fueling up for the Darby game right along with him.

  When they had cleaned up, Lily said, “You good to go?”

  “I am,” Ben said.

  “For real?”

  “For real, Lils. I can’t wait to play this game.”
>
  “It’s not the kind of last game you thought you’d be playing against them.”

  “Nope,” he said. “Not gonna lie. I wanted to play them for the championship. But it’s like I’ve been saying all week, and Coach has, and everybody: This is our championship game. I don’t think Parkerville has a chance to beat them in the real championship game, but I think we can.”

  “Will that be enough?” Lily said, just the two of them, her on one side of the kitchen table, Ben on the other, Lily wearing her lucky “Big Ben” T-shirt, the one with the famous London clock on the front. “You wanted to take them down pretty bad all season.”

  “Now I want it just as much,” he said. “But in a good way. Not just because we can be the ones to knock them out of an undefeated season. Because if we beat them today, without Sam, we have the right to walk away thinking that if the sides had been even, our best would have been better than theirs.”

  Lily smiled. “I don’t want to pop your balloon, but it’s not like they have a whole lot to play for today.”

  “You’re wrong,” he said. He smiled. “I know that hardly ever happens, but you’re wrong. They’re gonna want to rub our faces in it one more time today. And Chase is gonna want to stick it to me in front of you. No lie, Lils, I think he might be more pumped for this game than he will for the real championship game.”

  “This is the most excited you’ve been about basketball since Sam got hurt.”

  “It’s ’cause I am excited,” he said. “Here’s the thing: All along Coach told me I had to make the other guys better. Said that’s my real job, what I do. And I said I understood, but it took me all year to actually understand. For me to stop acting like a bonehead.”

  “You?” she said. “A bonehead? I must have missed that totally.”

  “Ha-ha,” he said. “And that’s not even the best part of the whole thing.”

  “And that would be?”

  “I made myself better.”

  “Got a feeling we’re not just talking about hoops.”

  “No,” Ben said, “we’re not.”