Lizzy Legend
Page 9
Jack Steele—New York Guard
Oh, god. Everyone on our bench lost it. Scootie was getting punked by this little girl. Spud was practically having a seizure. He was stomping up and down the sideline, chewing on his hat.
Scootie Sanders—New York Guard
[Rolls eyes.] So now I had to guard her.
Tad Wexler—Bells TV Announcer
Three seconds to go.
Bill “Chalk” Rasner—Nationally Syndicated Sportswriter
At first she couldn’t get open. She started right, cut back left, kind of zigzagged. She finally caught the ball about forty feet out.
Toby Sykes—Trudeaux’s Best Friend
It was just like she used to count down at the park. I was counting in my head. Three . . .
Tad Wexler—Bells TV Announcer
She went hard right. Sanders was there with her, step for step.
Toby Sykes—Trudeaux’s Best Friend
Two . . .
Tad Wexler—Bells TV Announcer
She threw on the brakes, pulled up.
Toby Sykes—Trudeaux’s Best Friend
One . . .
Tad Wexler—Bells TV Announcer
Sanders bit on the pump fake. He lunged forward. She leaned into him, absorbed the contact.
Tim Ferguson—Head Referee
My hand went up. Boom. It was clearly a foul. He got her pretty good.
Tad Wexler—Bells TV Announcer
Somehow, falling down, she flipped up this impossible, over-the-head, sidewinder shot. Like a hook shot crossed with a finger roll. The horn sounded a split second after she released it. The red light behind the basket lit up.
Edgar Patrick—New York Center
Right out of her hand, you could see it was . . . different. It had this crazy-fast backspin.
Jack Steele—New York Guard
It was like a video game. The ball, like, accelerated through the hoop. Whoosh!
Emily Murray—Philadelphia Sports Columnist
I’ve never heard a crowd make a noise like that, when the ball went in. Never before and never since. It was like when you step on a dog’s foot and it yelps. That’s why you sign up for this job. All the bad coffee, all the miles, all the greasy fast food, it’s all for that moment, that sound.
Bill “Chalk” Rasner—Nationally Syndicated Sportswriter
My ears popped when the ball went through. Everyone’s seemed to. I looked around, and everyone was tugging down on their ears, wide-eyed, in disbelief.
Alou Achebe—Bells Center
I reached down and helped her up. She was lying on her back, smirking. She said, “Did it go in?”
Bill “Chalk” Rasner—Nationally Syndicated Sportswriter
And then, if things couldn’t get any more surreal, she had to shoot the free throw.
Tim Ferguson—Head Referee
By rule, even though there’s no time on the clock, you still shoot the free throw. You stand out there on an island, all alone, and shoot it.
Paul Reagan—New York Head Coach
If she had any fear in her body at all, she didn’t show it. She walked to the line and waited for the ball like she’d done it a million times.
Tim Ferguson—Head Referee
I stood under the basket and passed her the ball.
Toby Sykes—Trudeaux’s Best Friend
I knew her routine by heart. Four dribbles. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Deep breath. Bend the knees. But then . . . she didn’t shoot.
Edgar Patrick—New York Center
She didn’t shoot it.
Alou Achebe—Bells Center
She looked like she was gonna shoot it, but then she didn’t.
Harry Hawkins—Bells Guard
She pinned the ball on her hip and turned her head.
Spud Larkin—Famous Movie Director/New York Fan
She stared right at me, man.
Jack Steele—New York Guard
Spud was sayin’ somethin’, but when she looked over, he just froze, midsentence, mouth open.
George Van Arden—New York Assistant Coach
Forget everything that came after. In my mind, that was the most impressive thing she ever did. That was the miracle. She shut up Spud Larkin. [Laughs.]
Joe Dugan—Bells Beat Writer
We all kept waiting for her to shoot it. It was tense. I’ve never felt suspense like that at a basketball game. Any game. She just stood there with the ball on her hip, staring.
Tim Ferguson—Head Referee
You get ten seconds to shoot a free throw. Everyone knows that, but no one ever actually uses the time. I was doing a silent count, extending my arm, one, two, three, four, five. Just before I got to ten, she shot the ball. The thing was, she never looked back at the basket! She just kept staring at Spud.
Spud Larkin—Famous Movie Director/New York Fan
She never blinked, man. I swear to god. She. Never. Blinked.
Alou Achebe—Bells Center
Everyone’s heard of a no-look pass. But a no-look shot?
Jack Steele—New York Guard
A no-look shot. [Shakes head.]
Emily Murray—Philadelphia Sports Columnist
And of course she drains it. A no-look shot. A four-point play. She held her follow-through high to punctuate the moment. The image that became her logo—arm up, hand tipped down like the head of a swan.
Joe Dugan—Bells Beat Writer
Her teammates rushed her off the court, into the locker room. She hid on the bus, we later found out, while all the other players showered. She basically ran right out into the parking garage.
Tad Wexler—Bells TV Announcer
The final score was something like 126–89. And you know what? It didn’t matter. Not even a little bit. The score didn’t matter.
After some initial celebrating, it was surprisingly quiet on the bus ride home. The New Jersey Turnpike has that effect. I pressed my ponytail into the seat back and stared out over the bus driver’s shoulder. I opened my mouth slightly, imagining I was swallowing up lines on the dark highway like Pac-Man pellets.
The taillights became swarming red ghosts.
The exit signs, new levels.
I must’ve drifted off. When I came to, Coach Mack was holding out two plastic-wrapped pink bubblegum cigars. “My wife used to buy me eighty-two cigars before every season,” he said. “Eighty-two cigars for eighty-two games. One for every win. Used to smoke a whole lot of ’em too. Now she buys me gum.”
“But we lost,” I said.
“Yeah, but only by thirty-seven, thanks to you.”
We both unwrapped the sugary cigars and clamped them between our teeth.
“Are you serious?” I asked. “When you talk about coaching until you . . . you know?”
“Until I croak? Ah, who knows. Fifty years I been at this. I don’t know what else I’d do.”
“Maybe you could go back to St. Ann’s. Maybe they need a fifth- and sixth-grade coach.”
“CYO ball?” He held out his cigar like he was admiring its glowing tip. “Now, there’s an idea. Though I’d wanna coach the girls this time.”
“How come?”
I expected him to say: Fundamentals. Girls care about the fundamentals. They play the right way. That’s what everyone always says.
But instead he said: “They’re tougher.”
I smiled in the dark.
We passed Exit 7.
“Pure swish,” Coach Mack said a minute later, gnawing at his cigar.
I looked away.
“Don’t worry, kid, I ain’t gonna quiz ya. The media’ll do that plenty, trust me. They already got their stories written, just gotta get ya to fill in the words. They’ll keep askin’ till ya say it right.”
As we crossed over the bridge, back home into Pennsylvania, a notification pinged on my phone. “TobySykes3000 is broadcasting live.” He was in his bedroom, in a coat, tie, and pajama bottoms, doing a postgame show. “That’s my best friend!” he was saying. �
�My best friend! Did you see when—” I clicked on his account and noticed that the video he’d posted from the secret tryout was now up to 167 views. By the time we were over the bridge, it had 274. A minute later, it had 489. Then 633.
And when I looked again the next morning, it had 3.6 million.
It’s weird, going viral. You’re laying there in bed, reading all these internet articles about yourself, you’re trending on Twitter, you’re the lead story on ESPN.com, but then you look up and it’s still your same crappy room with the crappy peeling wallpaper. The same Sidney Rayne poster, the same trophies on the dresser. The same sound of Dad snoring on the couch as you tiptoe downstairs. The same discount-brand cereal boxes on top of the fridge. The same milk. The same desolate playground across the street with weeds climbing out of the cracks on the basketball court. The same—
It’s like there’s this lag.
That’s the best way I can put it.
Loading . . .
Loading . . .
Loading . . .
But what’s bizarre is that it’s the real world that’s rebooting.
Updating itself around you.
Every time you blink.
When Toby appeared at the playground the next morning, he looked taller somehow. He pretended to trip at the edge of the court and barrel-rolled toward me in slow motion, pausing for dramatic effect before each successive roll until he hit my shins. He was wearing an XXXL T-shirt that said THE TOBY SYKES SHOW!
“Morning,” I said, and helped him up.
“Before you say anything else,” he said, “I need to tell you something.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Nah, it’s not bad. It’s just, I woke up this morning . . . and my feet were transformed into these hideous things.”
Oh yeah.
Forgot.
He was also wearing Rollerblades.
Which explained why he’d looked taller.
“You’re a monster,” I said.
He skated like Adrian in Dad’s favorite movie, Rocky: choppy steps, arms out. “There’s something different about you, too,” he said, making a wobbly orbit around me.
“Oh yeah?”
“You look . . . tired. Were you, perhaps, out of town last night, in a big city to the north of us, and got back very late?”
“Me? Nah. I was home studying. I have a big math test on Monday.”
“Studying. Weird. Because I saw a girl on TV last night that looked just like you.”
“Did you now?”
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
“How’d she do?”
“Who?”
“The girl on TV?”
“Well, actually, it was on my phone. But yeah, she rode the pine most of the game.”
“Just like you.”
“But she got in with like ten seconds left and made this crazy shot—a four-point play. I know you don’t know much about basketball, but that’s, like, pretty rare. That’s like shooting a triple bogie in golf.”
“People shoot triple bogies in golf all the time,” I said. “That’s bad.”
“You’re ruining this moment with your obsessive need to be . . .” His eyes shifted onto something behind me. He pointed. “Hey, look.”
A news van was illegally parked on the corner. The reporter was holding up a handheld mirror, doing his makeup. He spotted us and began speed-walking toward the court. From a distance, it sort of looked like he was carrying a participation trophy.
“Whoa, look!” I said. “That’s Chad Stephens!”
“Who?”
“The dude from Channel Seven. And now”—I blew gun smoke from the tip of my finger—“back to you, Dan.”
“Oh, right! I hate that guy! Come on, let’s go mess with him!”
“Mess with him?”
The orange-faced reporter, Stephens, was about halfway to the court now. His participation trophy, I saw, was actually a Channel 7 microphone. He was tall, six four, handsome in a gin commercial kind of way. He seemed a little surprised that we were striding toward him with mirrored enthusiasm. “Lizzy!” he said, grinning like a child molester. “Lizzy! Chad Stephens! Channel Seven News!”
“Lizzy!” Toby shouted back. “Lizzy! Chad Stephens! Channel Seven News!”
Stephens came right for me, microphone extended, but Toby blocked him with his offensive lineman–size body.
I was surprised. It was borderline athletic.
“Lizzy!” Stephens said. “How do you feel about being the first girl—”
“LIZZY!” Toby said, jamming an imaginary microphone in his face. “HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT BEING THE FIRST GIRL—”
“What was going through your—”
“WHAT WAS GOING THROUGH YOUR—”
Stephens dropped his head and waited for the anger to recede. Then he tried again in a deeper, more professional, 60 Minutes–like tone. “How—”
“HOW—”
“What’s your—”
“WHAT’S YOUR—”
“When did you—”
“WHEN DID YOU—”
Stephens’s cheek was quivering. It reminded me of the quick flash you see before a building implodes. “Shut up, you fat freak! I’m trying to do my job here, okay?”
Toby turned back to me and smiled. “You get that, Poncho?”
“Got it.” (I was the cameraman.)
“Good. Our work here is done.” Toby pointed. “Hey—what’s that?”
We ran.
Well, I ran.
Toby skated.
Stephens chased for a minute but then either realized that (a) he was chasing a pair of thirteen-year-olds across a playground at 7:00 a.m., which was creepy even by his standards, or (b) his cameraman couldn’t keep up, and if it wasn’t going to be on camera, then what was the point?
We turned up the trash-filled alley behind my house and hid behind a Dumpster to catch our breath. (Well, for Toby to catch his breath. I was fine.)
“You wanna come to LA with us?” I said.
“Dude, I have school.”
“Call it a field trip. I’ll write you a permission slip.”
The front wheel of his Rollerblade was still spinning. “Karen will want it notarized.”
“I don’t know what that means,” I said, “but I’m sure my agent can handle it.”
I’ll never forget the first time I saw the Bells’ owner, Hal Kurtz. I peered out the private jet’s egg-shaped window—and there he was. He was standing on the runway with his socialite wife, Helen. A floppy sun hat obscured her million-dollar face (literally, if the rumors were true). She was holding six leashes that were attached to six shivering puppies. Kurtz—all four feet nine inches of him—was in a chalk-white suit, hand raised like he was hailing a taxi. Instead of walking the fifteen feet to the steps, he was making the plane come to him. He waited until the plane steps were directly in front of him—“little more, little more, little more”—then climbed up into the cabin. He spotted me and offered his hand. “E-liz-a-beth! I just wanted to say how excited we are to have you as a part of our family.” He clamped down with his other hand, creating an icy vise grip.
I wrenched my hand free and buried it under my leg. “Hi, Mr. Kurtz.”
“Please. Please. My father was Mr. Kurtz. You can call me Uncle Hal. All the boys call me that, right, Alou?”
“Yeah, okay,” Alou said. “Sure.”
Kurtz’s Fruit Roll-Ups–colored lips parted into a wet smile. His teeth had been knocked out by an elephant on a big game hunt in Botswana, supposedly, and his dentures were made of poached ivory. “If you need anything at all,” he said, teeth glistening, “you just let me know.”
“How ’bout a few beers?” Toby said.
Kurtz glared.
“Root beers, I mean. You got A&W?”
“I’m sure we’ll have anything you might desire.”
Toby leaned back and rolled his neck. “Great. Thanks, Hal.” He cupped his hand at the side of his mouth. “You da maaaaaaaan.”
; Kurtz trapezed back to his private section, using the tops of the seats as handholds. His wife followed with the puppies, each of them wearing—I kid you not—their own custom-made parachutes and pilot goggles. Mrs. Kurtz dragged them along, rattling a bottle of pills. “Come on,” she said, “who wants one of mommy’s special treats?”
Alou was laughing so hard at the parachute-wearing dogs he had to cover his face. He couldn’t take it. “What a country,” he said. “I love it!”
When we touched down in California, I had 416,000 followers on Instagram, more than double the two hundred thousand I’d had when we’d taken off. (I’d had thirty-seven just last week.)
“Ready for this?” Toby said, holding up his phone.
“Dude, are you recording right now?”
He grinned. “Oh yeah, we’re live, people! Live inside the plane where my best friend, Lizzy Trudeaux, is about to—”
I punched his arm.
The phone dropped in the aisle.
He squealed and crawled after it. “Aaaaaand we’ll be right back after this commercial break!”
I put on my big headphones, shouldered my schoolbag, and followed my new teammates down the corridor to the terminal. I couldn’t believe it. It looked like our local newsman, Chad Stephens, had cloned himself a thousand times. Cameras were leveled at me from all angles.
I floated through the terminal.
“LIZZY! LIZZY! HOW DOES IT—”
The mob closed in around me.
“LIZZY! LIZZY! WHAT DO YOU—”
I felt like a suspect being rushed from a courtroom. After about a minute of push and pull, I planted my feet, dug in my heels, and yelled: “STOP!”
It was weird:
Everyone and everything around me stopped.
Dad stopped.
Toby stopped.
Alou stopped.
The other players stopped.
Coach Mack stopped.
The reporters stopped asking questions.
The plane out on the runway stopped turning.
The planet stopped, or so it seemed.
It just hung there in space.
No one had ever given a crap what Lizzy Trudeaux had to say.
But Lizzy Legend?