The Sixth Man

by John Feinstein

  “You don’t need an MRI?” Alex’s mom asked.

  Dr. Taylor shook his head. “No, we’d only need an MRI if there might be something hiding we can’t see on the X-ray. But I think he’s pretty close to healed. I’m only really doing the X-ray as a precaution.”

  It didn’t take Dr. Taylor long to come back with the films. He put them up on the light box on the wall, then smiled and pointed at a tiny spot on one of the pictures.

  “That’s where you felt the pain,” he said to Alex. “You’re just about there. No need to put the cast back on. You can start rehab today.”

  “Rehab?” Alex said.

  “Hold your wrists up next to each other,” Dr. Taylor said.

  Alex did as he was told. Both he and his mom gasped. His left wrist—normally the weaker wrist—looked to be twice the size of the right one.

  “Your wrist atrophied after being in the cast for two weeks,” Dr. Taylor said. “That’s totally normal. But it will take some rehab to build it back up. Start slow—just get some five-pound weights and increase your reps slowly. Maybe three sets of ten today; then add one set per day.”

  “But when can I play? We have games on Tuesday and Friday….”

  “No basketball until the weekend. Then you can start doing drills—dribbling, passing. If that goes well, if you’re feeling no pain, then you can try to practice Sunday. But come back next Monday and I’ll check it one more time.”

  “There’s another game next Tuesday….”

  Dr. Taylor held up a hand. “I’m well aware,” he said. “That’ll be up to Coach Archer. My guess is you won’t be really game ready until next Friday, but that’s the one that matters, right—conference opener?”

  “Right,” Alex said. “I’d just like to play a game before—”

  “See if you’re ready for practice Sunday afternoon. See how quickly your strength comes back. If your coach thinks it’s a good idea and you’re able to practice, then you can play Tuesday. But don’t rush it, Alex. You don’t want to reinjure yourself by coming back one game or even one day too soon.”

  Alex knew the doctor was right. He also knew that watching two—and maybe three—more games would be torture.

  The game Tuesday night was against Bishop O’Connell, a team that played in Washington, DC’s, high-powered Catholic league. Coach Archer had worked for Joe Wootten, O’Connell’s coach, and they had agreed to a home-and-home series—the first game taking place at Chester Heights since O’Connell was en route to a post-Christmas tournament in New York.

  From his seat on the end of the bench, Alex could tell in less than a minute that O’Connell was a much better team than Mercer—which was bad news for the Lions. The only thing that kept the game from becoming completely humiliating was that Coach Wootten, probably out of respect for his friendship with Coach Archer, didn’t press the entire game. That allowed Wakefield to get the ball upcourt and start the offense, but it didn’t matter much.

  Even when the Lions ran a play perfectly, they had trouble getting a shot off because O’Connell was so much quicker than they were at every position. On several occasions, the Lions made perfect passes to set up wide-open layups—until an O’Connell defender recovered quickly and blocked the shot.

  The only Lion who looked remotely like he belonged on the court was Steve Holder. He had ten points at halftime—six of them on offensive putbacks. The problem was the rest of his teammates also had ten points—combined. Even Jonas looked helpless, trying to go head to head with a shooting guard who was about six four, a senior, and even quicker than he was. O’Connell led 54–20 at the break.

  “I scheduled this game so you guys could see up close the kind of team that we want to be someday,” Coach Archer said at halftime. Alex stood in a corner of the locker room and listened. “This is one of the best teams in the country. Joe told me he’s got six guys on the team he expects to be Division I scholarship players when they go to college. LeGares is being recruited by every big-time school in the country, and he’s only a junior.”

  Alex wasn’t surprised that Juan LeGares was coveted by colleges. He looked to be about six eight. Alex figured the Chester Heights starters might be able to take him in a game of five on one. If the Lions played really well.

  The second half was like a slow-motion scrimmage. LeGares, who’d had twenty-two points at halftime, never saw the court. Because they were on a two-city holiday trip, Coach Wootten had brought fourteen players—several of them JV players, no doubt. He didn’t play any of his starters in the second half. Even so, the final score was 84–48, meaning O’Connell had only outscored the Lions by two points in the second half. Alex guessed that if Coach Wootten had played his starters and pressed the whole game, O’Connell would have won by eighty.

  Coach Archer didn’t say that after the game; he emphasized the positive—the more competitive nature of the second half. He told the players they would practice at one o’clock the next day, since it was New Year’s Eve.

  As everyone headed for the showers, Coach Archer beckoned Alex. “Come into my office for a second, Myers,” he said.

  Alex followed him to the tiny office.

  “You want a soda or something?” Coach Archer asked.

  “I’m fine,” Alex said. “Thanks.”

  Coach Archer grabbed a Coke and pointed Alex to the chair across from his desk.

  “What did you think tonight?” he asked.

  “Honestly?” Alex asked.

  Coach Archer sipped his Coke. “Yes, honestly. You saw that Joe didn’t play his starters in the second half. How much do you think they would have won by if he’d left his starters in?”

  Alex shrugged. “If he left his starters in and didn’t press like in the first half, probably about sixty or so,” he said. “If he’d wanted to press, it might have been eighty.”

  Coach Archer smiled. “Alex, if he’d pressed, with Wakefield playing point, we might never have crossed midcourt,” he said. “You’re being kind. If we’d had you, then we might have lost by sixty or so if they’d pressed.”

  “Are we that bad, or are they that good?”

  “Both,” Coach Archer said. “They’re ranked fifth in the country in the USA Today poll right now, and it isn’t an accident. Without you, we’re pretty bad. With you, we’re better. When you get healthy, and Jonas gets more comfortable, and Steve Holder is hot, we can be competitive. But”—he leaned forward in his seat—“we’re going to get a transfer in here next week who I’m told is as good or better than any of the three of you.”

  “A transfer, in midseason?”

  Coach Archer nodded. “He’s like you. Parents are divorcing. He and his mom and sister are moving here from Detroit. His mom and dad are both lawyers, and apparently they worked together. That isn’t going to work anymore, and she got offered a job with a firm here.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “The kid’s coach was a college teammate of mine, so he called me.”

  It occurred to Alex that Coach Archer might not have been a stand-out player in college but he certainly knew a lot of people.

  “I probably shouldn’t be telling you, but his situation sounded so much like yours—I thought you might reach out to him.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Max Bellotti. He’s about six four, which means he can play small forward. So by the time we get into conference play, assuming your wrist keeps getting better, we should have four solid players in the starting lineup. And some of the guys who are playing too many minutes now can come off the bench instead and do okay in more limited roles.”

  “We won’t be good enough to beat O’Connell,” Alex said, smiling.

  “No.” Coach Archer returned the smile. “But we might only lose to them by about twenty-five.”

  Jonas’s mom had volunteered to drive Alex home since his mom was at a concert with Molly, so Alex filled Jonas in on Max Bellotti during the ride.

  “We could use another player,” Jona
s said. “I’ll tell you what, though—some of those guys who’ll be sitting down won’t be happy.”

  “They’d rather lose by eighty?” Alex said.

  “And play? You bet. You think Wakefield is going to be happy going to the bench when you’re back just because it makes us better? Dream on.”

  Alex thought about what Jonas had said when he got home and heated up the dinner his mom had left for him. The guys who had been on the team last year were used to losing. When he had walked back into the locker room to find Jonas after his talk with Coach Archer, most of the older guys had been joking and laughing and talking about their plans for New Year’s Eve.

  Alex knew Jonas was right—Zane Wakefield and Tony Early and Cory McAndrews, who was currently playing small forward, would not be happy to lose their starting spots. Coach Archer had started Early that night, but it was clearly a token gesture: Jonas was going to be the star shooting guard and play the most minutes, and everyone, including Early, knew it. If Max Bellotti was as good as Coach Archer said he was, McAndrews would be on the bench too. What’s more, the three seniors who had been the team’s main backups a year ago—Pete Taylor, Larry Ceplair, and Arnold Bogus—would hardly play at all. They wouldn’t be happy either.

  That would mean, no doubt, a divided team. Though really, the team was already divided. Wakefield, Early, and McAndrews couldn’t stand the fact that he and Jonas were better than they were. Holder, as the captain, was trying to get along with everyone and to get everyone to get along—but it wasn’t working.

  Alex thought about Matt Gordon and the fact that he had recognized right away that Alex was a threat to him at the quarterback position. But Matt had never been anything but supportive, and in the end, he had only hurt himself—not the team—when he started taking steroids. There was another difference: Matt Gordon was an excellent player on one of the best football teams in Pennsylvania. Wakefield, Early, and McAndrews were lousy players on a lousy team. Actually, McAndrews and Jameer Wilson, who was currently the team’s sixth man, weren’t awful. But Wakefield and Early were pretty bad.

  Alex looked down at his wrist. He couldn’t wait to get back on the court and have the chance to humiliate Wakefield in practice. But the arrival of Max Bellotti gave him something more positive to look forward to. He might help the Lions be really competitive once conference play began. Or he might be the final wedge that would divide the team for good.

  Alex put his dishes in the dishwasher and headed up to bed. It wasn’t up to him to figure out how to get the newer, more talented players to mesh with the older, less talented ones. That was Coach Archer’s job.

  Alex didn’t envy him.

  Christine called early the next morning. She had gotten back from a visit to her family in Chicago the night before—but too late to get to the game.

  “How bad was it?” she asked.

  “Could have been much worse,” Alex said. “If they had pressed the entire game, we might have lost by a hundred.”

  She laughed as if he were joking—which he wasn’t. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, the team you’re playing on Friday night is probably almost as good.”

  Alex had heard that. He knew that West Philadelphia was also ranked in the USA Today top twenty-five.

  “So we’ll get killed,” Alex said.

  “I would think so,” she said. “How’s your wrist? Jonas texted me to say you were out of the cast.”

  He had? Alex hadn’t texted Christine except to say Merry Christmas. He’d kind of thought she would check in with him, since she knew he was seeing Dr. Taylor on Monday. Now he felt bad somehow.

  “Yeah. I’m rehabbing it slowly. The doctor says I can start to play by Saturday, so I should be able to practice Sunday.”

  “And play in the game on Tuesday?”

  “That’ll be up to Coach Archer.”

  “Do you wish you were playing Friday, or are you glad you don’t have to deal with it?” she asked.

  He thought that was an odd question. “Of course I want to play,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because this way you don’t get embarrassed.”

  “Yes I do,” Alex said. “That’s still my team out there, my teammates.”

  “Even Wakefield?”

  He sighed. “Yes,” he said finally. “Even Wakefield. I will happily kick his butt in practice, but when he’s wearing Lions on his uniform we’re on the same side.”

  “You really feel that way?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  At least, he thought, I hope I do.

  West Philadelphia wasn’t as good as Bishop O’Connell, but they were plenty good enough to humiliate Chester Heights. They lived up to their nickname—Speedboys—from the start, darting around the court and making both Zane Wakefield and Tony Early look helpless trying to bring the ball upcourt. Coach Archer finally brought Steve Holder back to help handle the ball, and at least some of the time, he was able to get the ball into the frontcourt.

  The final score was almost as embarrassing as the O’Connell score had been: 77–51. Their coach had left his starters in for a little while in the second half but backed off the press and played his second team the entire fourth quarter. Just as well that the gym was practically empty. Lots of people were still probably away for their holiday breaks. But they’d all be back next week. The Lions were now 2–3, with one nonconference game left to play.

  There were a number of reporters waiting outside the locker room when Alex came out, some of them familiar faces from football season. He noticed Dick Jerardi, who worked for the Philadelphia Daily News and appeared regularly on Comcast SportsNet–Philadelphia, standing off to the side. Jerardi waved at him.

  “Why would you be at this game,” Alex said, using his left hand to shake hands with Jerardi, since he still wasn’t taking any chances with his right.

  “Doing a profile on Tim O’Donnell, West Philly’s point guard. He committed to Saint Joseph’s in November. A lot of people think he could be the best guard they’ve recruited since Jameer Nelson.”

  Alex certainly knew who Jameer Nelson was. He was a graduate of Chester, the Lions’ crosstown archrivals. He had gone on to be the national player of the year at Saint Joseph’s and was still playing in the NBA. O’Donnell had dominated the game, but Alex hadn’t really thought that much about it since the guards he was playing against—Wakefield and Early—were so bad.

  “Tough to tell much from this game,” he said to Jerardi.

  “True,” Jerardi said. “But the kid came ready to play against a team he knew wasn’t any good.” He paused. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” Alex said. “We’re terrible.”

  “I’m sure the team is better with you out there. Freak accident in practice, right?”

  That was the way the story had been told. The local media had all done short stories on Alex’s injury, in large part because of the notoriety he had gained during football season.

  “Yeah, I just fell funny on a fast break,” he said. “I might be back for Tuesday, but definitely for the conference opener next Friday.”

  Christine walked up. Like Jerardi, she was waiting for those who had played in the game to shower, dress, and come out of the locker room. The two knew each other, in part because Jerardi had covered the football team during the state playoffs and also because her dad was an editor at the Philadelphia Inquirer—which was in the same building as the Daily News.

  “You want a quote from Coach Archer on O’Donnell, right?” she said to Jerardi. “Should I try to talk to the two guards too?”

  “They may be shell-shocked, but sure,” Jerardi said.

  “Stark’s tomorrow?” she asked Alex. “Usual time?”

  “Okay,” Alex said, feeling like he should have thought to ask her first. Why was he always a step behind with her?

  “Best reporter in the building,” Jerardi said, causing Christine to blush. “I’m sure you’ll get better quotes from your guys than I would.”

/>   “I’m not sure Wakefield or Early are that quotable,” Alex said. “Jonas and Holder might be better.”

  Christine nodded in agreement.

  “Well, that’ll be enough for me,” Jerardi said. He spotted West Philly’s coach coming out of the visitors’ locker room. “Gotta go. Hope you’re better soon, Alex. I’ll tell Stevie you said hello, Christine. I’ll see him tomorrow at the Palestra.”

  “Stevie?” Alex asked.

  “You remember,” Christine said. “He helped me out on your case last month.”

  Alex remembered. “Oh yeah, the famous teenage reporter with the really hot girlfriend.”

  Alex mentioned the girlfriend, whose name he couldn’t remember, to see how Christine reacted.

  “Susan Carol Anderson,” she said, without batting an eye. “You’re right; she is hot. Also an Olympic swimmer and a great reporter. Stevie said he’d try to introduce us the next time she comes to Philadelphia.”

  That was fine with Alex. He changed the subject.

  “Did you hear we’ve got a transfer coming soon who Coach Archer thinks can help us a lot?”

  “Max Bellotti,” she said. “Actually, I’m a little bit mad at Coach Archer because he wouldn’t give me his phone number. He said I can talk to him after practice on Sunday. I guess that’ll work for the Wednesday Roar.”

  That tidbit made Alex smile, if only for a moment. “Well, we can’t get much worse,” he said. “Even if the guy is just okay, he’ll help. That was embarrassing tonight.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Dick told me during the game that West Philly is probably only the fourth or fifth best team in the Public League this season. They beat you by twenty-six, with the starters playing zero minutes in the fourth quarter. Unless Max Bellotti can play like LeBron James or Kevin Durant, it’s going to be a long season.”

  They spotted Coach Archer coming out of the locker room.

  “Gotta go,” she said. “Don’t invite Jonas tomorrow. I was thinking we’d bike to the mall after lunch.”