by Mike Lupica
But then Coop made one of two free throws and Ben fed Sam for his first three-pointer of the season with thirty seconds left. Game tied.
Bears with the last shot of the quarter.
Chase held the ball all the way out near halfcourt, ball on his hip, eyes on the shot clock, clearly loving the moment, knowing all the other eyes in the gym were on him.
Ben laid off him, maybe six feet, waiting for him to make his move.
Him and Chase Braggs.
Chase started dribbling with twelve seconds left, Ben knowing because he could see the shot clock at the other end. But as Chase started to his right, Sam Brown left Jeb Arcelus, and ran right at Chase, waving his arms like a crazy person, like he was about to tackle him, or just run him over.
The moment was weird enough to throw Chase off just enough, got him looking at Sam instead of the guy guarding him. Ben. Who flashed in front of Sam, between Sam and Chase, and took the ball away, as if it had gone from Chase’s dribble to Ben’s.
Ben was at full speed right away, allowing himself one quick look at his own shot clock. Five seconds now. Plenty of time to get a layup. A wide-open layup he didn’t plan to miss this time against Darby.
Got his stride just right as he closed on the basket, pushed up off his left foot, ready to put his team up by a basket, this basket, going into the final quarter. Final quarter of the whole season.
Ready to do all that until he got hit from behind.
Got knocked out of the air, sent flying and spinning into the wall behind the basket, missing the padding, hitting the door frame, hitting it hard with the back of his right shoulder. Going down hard.
Looking up to see that the only person who could have put him down this way was the Darby Bear closest to him.
Chase Braggs.
A lot going on then, mostly with Ben’s right shoulder, so much pain shooting through it Ben was afraid to even try to raise his right arm, afraid to make the pain even worse.
And here came Sam and Coop and Shawn, all of them running toward Chase, as if in a race to see who could get to him first.
Ben could see Coach running, too, but he was behind the action. Ben had to get up and get between his guys and Chase before something stupid happened.
Ben got there just in time, put up his left arm, his good one, telling them to stop, like he’d turned himself into a school crossing guard.
It worked, but they weren’t happy about it.
Coop yelled at Chase, “Nice cheap shot, dude. Really nice.”
Chase put his own hands up, like, hey, he hadn’t done anything wrong. “Hard foul, is all,” he said. “Trying not to give up a three-point play.”
Sam had stopped, but he wasn’t happy about it. “I’d call it a flagrant foul,” he said, glaring at Chase. “But it was actually dirtier than that.”
“You don’t know basketball, then,” Chase said, not backing off, chirping to the end.
“Know you, though,” Sam said.
The refs came in, the taller one moving Chase away, the shorter one shooing Sam and Coop and Shawn toward the Rams’ bench. Both refs saying the same thing: “Enough.”
Coach was with Ben, asking if he was all right. Ben lied, said he was. The refs got together, decided it was a flagrant foul, that Chase hadn’t made any attempt to make a play on the ball.
Two free throws for Ben, Rams kept possession, three seconds still showing on the clock.
Just one small problem, as Ben saw it.
He knew he couldn’t shoot the free throws, his shoulder still felt as if Chase had hit him from behind with a shovel.
Couldn’t shoot them but had to. Couldn’t let anybody on the court, certainly not the guy who’d sent him flying, know how much he was hurting. And Ben knew the rules, knew that if he couldn’t shoot his own free throws the Darby coach, Mr. Coppo, could pick anybody the Rams had, whether he was in the game or not, to shoot them for him.
Sam knew something was wrong, just because he was Sam, and could see when something was wrong with Ben the way Lily could.
“You okay?”
“Perfect.”
“No, you’re not,” Sam said. “You just hit that wall like a race car.”
“I’m good.”
Sam gave him a long look. “Can you shoot?”
Somehow Ben managed a grin. “Better than you,” he said.
Wanting to make these two free throws more than any two he’d ever attempted in his life. Walked toward the line, casually trying to raise his right arm, like he was stretching.
Stopped halfway up.
He was starting to wonder if he could get the ball to the basket left-handed, or just tell Coach the truth, when he came up with a better idea.
He’d shoot them Hoosiers style.
The way he shot them for fun at McBain.
Just for real this time.
Ben took the ball from the ref, bounced it a couple of times, reminded himself not to let his right hand, his dominant hand, try to do too much. Not that there was much chance of that at the moment.
Took a deep breath. Maybe looked for all the world like he was going to shoot regulation, then just dropped his hands to the sides of the ball, underhanded it toward the basket with a flick of both wrists.
Like Ollie had in the movie.
“What the heck?” he heard somebody behind him say as the ball just glanced across the front of the rim, hit softly off the back, dropped through.
When the second one hit nothing but string, the Rockwell fans exploded the way the fans of Hickory High had when Ollie made his free throws in the movie.
Sam inbounded the ball after that, Shawn got a pretty good look at a three, just missed it, horn sounded, the Rams walked toward their bench with a two-point lead, 42–40.
Between Ben and the bench was Chase Braggs, still staring at him, Ben sure he knew why, because of the free throws.
For once, Chase didn’t say anything.
But Ben did, he couldn’t help himself, smiling despite the pain behind his shoulder, saying to Chase, “Dude, what, you’re the only one who can style?”
The job now, Ben knew, was convincing Coach that as hard as he’d banged his shoulder it was only a temporary stinger, that’s why he’d shot the free throws Ollie-style, that he didn’t need to come out of the game, that he was feeling better already.
Only Coach wasn’t buying it, telling him to sit down, putting an ice pack to the back of Ben’s shoulder and holding it there.
“Coach, I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am not sitting this out!” Ben said.
“Relax,” Coach said. “I’m not asking you to. We’re gonna keep this ice on it for a few minutes.”
“No!” Ben said.
“Yes,” Coach said. “You’re gonna sit here next to me and then when we take the ice off, you’re going to tell me the truth about whether you think you’ll hurt us more or help us if I put you back in. Okay?”
Ben knew it wasn’t really a question.
“Okay,” he said, reaching across his body with his left hand, showing Coach he could hold the ice pack himself.
Telling himself as he did that Chase Braggs, the guy who’d been finding ways all season to knock him down, was not going to knock him out of this game — out of the season — for good.
Once the fourth quarter started, Ben told Coach about every thirty seconds he was good to go. “Soon,” Coach kept saying. Finally, five minutes left, Ben feeling like about five lifetimes had passed, game tied, Coach turned to Ben and said, “Okay, kid: Show me what you got.”
Ben put the ice pack down, stood up, not sure what was about to happen, not sure if it was just the ice that made his shoulder feel better. But with Coach Wright watching him, he stood up, put his right arm straight up in the air, smiling through the pain he felt as he did. Like it was no big deal.
Then he made a shooting motion, even holding his pose the way Chase did.
“I’m good, Coach.”
>
Coach smiled at him and said, “Actually, you’re quite a bit more than that.”
And told him to get in there for MJ on the next whistle.
There were four minutes, thirty seconds left when the next whistle came, Ben signaling to MJ that he was coming in for him, Darby ahead 47–45, guys on both teams starting to drag just a little bit, just because the game to here had been so intense, the Darby Bears playing this one as if it meant as much to them as it did the Rams.
Sam came right over to Ben and said, “I’d give you a slap on the back but, well, you know.”
“Here’s what I know,” Ben said. “We’re not losing this game.”
Things had gotten ragged at the start of the fourth quarter, stayed ragged now, nobody scoring the first two minutes Ben was back out there. He still hadn’t taken a shot from the outside, no good looks for him yet. But he kept telling himself that the first time he did get a good look, he couldn’t hesitate.
Didn’t hesitate when Sam swung it over to the left wing and Ben was wide open from fifteen feet.
Air ball.
It wasn’t so much the grab he was still feeling behind the shoulder. His arm just felt stiff. Weak. At a time when the other guys in the game weren’t getting much push from tired legs, Ben had no push in his arm, knew that if he was scoring the rest of the game, he was doing it by driving the ball.
He drove it the next time the Rams had the ball, just decided to put his head down when he saw an opening and go for it, faked a pass to Sam, drove to his left, made a left-handed layup to tie the game at 47.
“Lefty?” Sam said. “Seriously?”
Ben got close to his ear and said, “Seriously? I had no choice.”
It was hurting him now, he knew, just to dribble the ball with his right hand. Nothing to do about it. He was going to play through it now, use his left hand more if he had to. He wouldn’t have ever said this to Coach, but he believed that even hurt like this, he was still the best point guard his team had.
And he knew that Chase knew his game well enough by now to know that he had to honor Ben’s left hand, especially now that he’d scored with it.
Chase drove the ball at the other end, got fouled, missed the first free throw, made the second. Darby, 48–47. Minute and a half left. That much season left for the Rams. Shawn missed a wide-open three, Jeb Arcelus rebounded, fed Chase, who threw it ahead to Ryan Hurley for a layup. Darby by three.
One minute, straight up.
Ben had the ball at the top of the key. Coop came out and set a screen for Shawn to Ben’s right, Ben eyeballing both of them all the way, waiting for Sam to do what Ben had told him to do as they came up the court:
Make a perfect back-door cut from the left corner, Ben seeing the flash of white and lobbing a pass over the defense at the same moment, Sam catching it in perfect stride, catching it and laying it in, same motion, back to being the kind of athlete who could do that now.
Back to being Sam.
Bears 50, Rams 49.
Fifty seconds left.
“No fouls,” Coach shouted at them.
They were going to play it out, try to get a stop, get the ball back. Even if the Bears ran the clock all the way down before shooting, the Rams would have fifteen seconds, plenty of time to set up the last shot of their season.
Even if the Bears scored — anything except a three, anyway — the Rams would still have time to make a three of their own and send the thing into overtime.
Sam had been guarding Chase. Ben told him to switch, that he’d take him. “You sure?” Sam said.
“I have to,” Ben said.
Sam said, “Yeah, you do.”
Chase crossed halfcourt, kept his dribble, Ben giving him room, Chase finally going to his right with thirty seconds left, the other Bears clearing out for him.
Him against Ben.
Had to be, Ben thought. Had been the two of them all year. Ben watched Chase’s dribble, telling himself he couldn’t go anywhere without the ball. Knowing there was no way Chase was giving it up.
But instead of guarding him close, Ben backed up now, all the way off him, ten feet of air between them at least. Daring him to shoot right now. Remembering what Sam had told him that night at McBain before he hurt his ankle. About Chase pounding the ball hard right before he went into his shot. Chase did that now, and as he did, now Ben ran at him, arms up, getting as close as he could without fouling him or even touching him.
Chase missed.
Not by a lot. But the ball was wide right all the way, just enough, catching the side of the rim, Sam outjumping the world for the rebound.
Twenty left.
Sam kicked it to Ben as Coach yelled, “Go!” Telling them that he wasn’t calling that last time-out, just to push the ball and go get a good shot.
Like he was telling them to go win the game.
Ben pushed it up the right side, Sam cutting behind him, Ben saying, “Back door again,” just loud enough for Sam to hear. Ben telling himself not to rush, that there was plenty of time to have the play work again.
Only Shawn and Coop were over on the left side this time, Sam’s side of the court, and so was Darrelle. It was why it must have looked to everybody in the gym as if the Rams had cleared out the right side for Ben against Chase, even thought they really hadn’t.
Ten seconds.
Chase overplayed him on the right, knowing Ben was hurt, having to know. Ben spun away from him, back to the basket, trying to count down in his head. Still hoping to see some flash of white, Sam or somebody else, somebody he could pass to before it was too late.
“Five!” Coop yelled.
No time to face up now, no time to do anything but try to make a turnaround against Chase, even with the height advantage Chase had.
Ben spun and all he could see was those long arms in front of him.
Telling himself that he just had to raise his right arm one last time in the basketball season.
Letting the ball go, ignoring the pain, telling himself to shoot it as high and hard as he could. Later, when he pictured the shot in his head, before he even looked at the video his mom had taken, he’d think of the ball falling all the way out of the rafters.
Maybe that’s why it hit the net as softly as it did, maybe that’s why the ball went through as cleanly as it did, Chase turning and seeing what the whole gym did before they all heard the horn, seeing that Ben had made the rainbow turnaround fallaway that beat Darby, 51–50.
Chase Braggs saw all that, then saw the ball bounce harmlessly away, before he turned and stared at Ben.
Mouth closed for once.
For one quick moment, there and gone, Ben thought about telling him, “You can’t guard me.”
But he didn’t.
He just ran for Sam, because Sam was the closest one to him, and gave him a flying chest bump.
Feeling no pain before he went looking for Lily.
“You’re hurt,” she said, standing on the court in front of the Rams’ bench. “I knew as soon as you hit the wall, before you shot the free throws like that kid in your movie.”
“My dad’s got this expression he says he stole from some old tennis coach,” Ben said. “If you’re hurt, you don’t play. If you play, you’re not hurt.”
Lily shook her head. “Guys,” she said. “Even smart guys like your dad. You can find reasons to justify everything.”
Ben smiled. “No pain, no gain,” he said.
Lily shook her head again and then said, “Another dopey guy expression.” But then did something she’d never done, not one time since Ben had known her.
She hugged him. Somehow doing it without hurting his bad shoulder. Just put her head on his left shoulder and hugged him.
And said, “You were as big as you’ve ever been today, Big Ben.”
Ben said, “’Bout time.”
Lily pushed back now and said, “Winning like that? Did it make all the other stuff worth it?”
“You want to know the truth, Lil
s? I don’t know.” Smiled again and said, “But I do know this didn’t stink.”
“You beat him with his favorite shot,” Lily said.
“That didn’t stink, either,” Ben said.
He got into the handshake line with his teammates then, shook hands with the Darby players one by one, Chase in the middle of their line, Ben making sure he treated him the same as everybody else.
Finally.
“Good game,” he said.
“You, too,” Chase said.
All the “stuff” Lily had just mentioned, including the bad stuff, it still ended in a line like this. After a game like this. Except this time Ben’s team had won.
Coach came over to Ben now and said, “You should ice that shoulder as soon as you can. Just sayin’.”
“When I get home, Coach. Promise.”
“You were great today,” Coach Wright said.
“We all were,” Ben said. “Isn’t that what it’s all supposed to be about?”
Coach Wright said, “As a matter of fact, it is.”
They had their snacks inside the boys’ locker room. As they did, Coach told them again how proud he was of them. Tried to give the game ball to Ben. But as soon as he did, Ben handed it right over to Sam.
Not the first time it had happened.
Then Ben remembered he’d left his long-sleeved shooting shirt behind the bench and went out to get it, not because he was going to want to keep wearing it now that the season was over. Just knowing he wanted to keep it. One more way to remember the year.
Sometimes you didn’t need a championship trophy after all.
When he got out to the court, Chase Braggs was there. No way to avoid him. Standing right there in front of the Rams’ bench. Obviously waiting there for Ben.
“I just wanted to tell you … I’m sorry I knocked you down,” he said. “That was over the line.”
Put out his hand. Ben didn’t hesitate, shook it.
“I didn’t have to hit you that hard,” Chase said.
“Stuff happens,” Ben said.
Thinking: Boy, does it ever.
Ben could see that the kid who had done so much talking all year was having a hard time finding the right words now.
