Lizzy Legend
Page 10
I decided to take a few questions, hoping the media would get what they needed and leave me alone.
“LIZZY! LIZZY! WHAT’S WITH YOUR SNEAKERS? ARE YOU MAKING SOME KIND OF POLITICAL STATEMENT?”
“Um, they’re just my sneakers.”
“BUT SURELY YOU CAN AFFORD A NEW PAIR NOW.”
“Dude, I make the league minimum.”
“And she happens to like her sneakers,” Toby added.
“AND WHAT IS THAT SWEATSHIRT YOU’RE WEARING? IS THAT NIKE? ADIDAS? HAVE YOU SIGNED ANY ENDORESMENT DEALS YET?”
Why were they so concerned with what I was wearing?
Where was I? The red carpet?
“Um, it’s from Target,” I said.
And another thing:
Would they have been asking a male player these questions?
I doubt it.
Reading my mind, Toby said: “Does anyone have any basketball questions? For the basketball player?”
“IS IT TRUE YOU CAN’T MISS?”
“IS IT TRUE YOU SOLVED THE JUMP SHOT LIKE A MATH PROBLEM?”
“IS IT TRUE YOU WERE THE FIRST GIRL TO EVER PLAY—”
“WILL YOU BE STARTING TOMORROW?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s up to Coach Mack.”
“CAN YOU COMMENT ON THE RUMOR THAT—”
“IS IT TRUE THAT THE OWNER—”
“ARE YOU DATING ANY—”
The reporters, all smashed together, started to look like a many-headed monster. And actually, when I saw them that way, as one big Press Monster, with cameras for eyes and bobbing microphones for hands, they weren’t scary anymore.
It was just ridiculous.
“Don’t worry about them,” Dad said in the back of our bulletproof SUV, on the way to the hotel. “Just do all your talking on the court.”
PHILADELPHIA VS. LA
Emily Murray—Philadelphia Sports Columnist
Leading up to the game, they kept her sheltered as best they could. I don’t think she left the hotel room. They canceled the shootaround. It was just too crazy. She seemed pretty calm, actually, now that I think of it. Considering.
Tad Wexler—Bells TV Announcer
Tickets were selling for $2,500 on game day. Which I guess isn’t a lot for LA people.
Jack Starr—Hollywood Actor
Oh yeah, baby. I was there. I wasn’t gonna miss that one.
Cedric North—LA Guard
To be honest, it felt more like a pro wrestling match than a basketball game. Like it was all a big, scripted spectacle, you know? Except no one had given us a script.
Bart “Bulb” Edison—LA Head Coach
I said to the guys before the game: “Listen, I don’t know what the heck’s going on. I don’t know any more than you do. But if they put a thirteen-year-old girl on the court . . . you know what to do.”
Alou Achebe—Bells Center
All those flashbulbs before tip-off. Goose bumps.
Emily Murray—Philadelphia Sports Columnist
I was on press row. Just before tip-off, I said: “Watch. We’ll know how this is gonna go in the first quarter. One way or the other, we’ll know.” My buddy laughed. “What?” he said. “You mean the score? What does that have to do with anything?”
Tad Wexler—Bells TV Announcer
LA won the opening tip. It was clear what they wanted to do. Whoever Lizzy was guarding, that’s who was getting the ball. Cedric North posted her up on the first play. He had her by six inches and at least a hundred pounds. He backed her right down and scored the easiest two points you’ll ever see in a pro game. He soared right over her. I looked over at my broadcast partner like, Whoa boy. This could get ugly quickly.
Ovid Green—Bells Color Commentator
The Bells inbounded immediately, and Lizzy rushed the ball up the court. North was waiting for her at the three-point line. But she never made it that far.
Bart “Bulb” Edison—LA Head Coach
She pulled up from about thirty-five feet. From deep.
Alou Achebe—Bells Center
I’d seen it a few times by now. But it was still unreal. The way the ball came out of her hand.
Buzz Moonheim—LA Radio Announcer
My ears popped when the ball went through. Or seemed to.
Tad Wexler—Bells TV Announcer
Second time down, LA gave the ball to North again. Uh-oh, I’m thinking. Here we go again. He posts her up. He backs her down just like before. She’s got her feet spread real wide, and she’s doing everything she can to hold her ground, but it’s hopeless. It’s like a gum wrapper against a firehose. North takes one last hard dribble, lowers his shoulder, and . . . whoosh. She sidesteps. North tumbles down and falls on the ball.
Toby Sykes—Trudeaux’s Best Friend
I was behind the Bells bench with her dad. I said: “You teach her that one?” He swore he hadn’t.
Alou Achebe—Bells Center
Lizzy was the only player I ever saw that had moves on defense.
Bart “Bulb” Edison—LA Head Coach
I felt bad for Cedric. I looked at him down the end of the bench with that oxygen mask, and I thought, Man, this is gonna be all over SportsCenter. And it was. Poor guy. He fell right on the ball. He couldn’t get his wind back.
Emily Murray—Philadelphia Sports Columnist
So play finally resumed, and Lizzy rushed the ball up the court again. I couldn’t believe it—they were still giving her space. It was like the sight of her, a girl, in that baggy uniform, those duct-taped sneakers, lulled them, made them forget. This time she pulled up from a little farther out, I’d say about forty feet. Swish.
Buzz Moonheim—LA Radio Announcer
A lot of shooters are what we call “streak-shooters.” If they hit a few early, watch out. You see them start to kindle up and get hot. With Trudeaux, it was just a full-on blowtorch from the opening tip. She hit her first seven shots, all three-pointers. Jack Starr was down on his knees, bowing. I’d never seen anything like it.
Cedric North—LA Guard
I’ll be honest, man. At first it was almost—what’s that word?—emasculating. I’d think I had her all locked up and—bam—she’d step back. She only needed the tiniest window to get her shot off. I’d never seen such a quick release.
Lizzy Trudeaux
I used to practice that in the mornings, at the playground. There was no one there to pass me the ball, so I’d throw the ball as hard as I could off the backboard, catch it, and release in one motion.
Tad Wexler—Bells TV Announcer
They were difficult shots . . . but not impossible. Not circus shots like the first one in New York. Every shot you could say to yourself, Okay, wow, great shot there, but one a pro player can make. It was the cumulative effect of them . . . bam, bam, bam . . . that was incredible.
Ovid Green—Bells Color Commentator
The Bells were up twelve after the first quarter. 42–30. She’d scored all their points.
Buzz Moonheim—LA Radio Announcer
The record for points in a quarter.
Emily Murray—Philadelphia Sports Columnist
She picked up right where she left off in the second. She’d spend the first twenty seconds of the shot clock curling off screens, running laps around these giant pillars, running the defenders ragged. She was essentially sprinting nonstop for the entire game, but she never got tired. There’d be a time-out, and the LA players would be bent over, tugging on their shorts, gasping. I never once saw her out of breath.
Toby Sykes—Trudeaux’s Best Friend
All those times she was late to school because she just had to run one more sprint. And then one more. And then one more.
Bill “Chalk” Rasner—Nationally Syndicated Sportswriter
I was there in ’62, the night Wilt Chamberlain set the scoring record. One hundred points. He had fifty-nine at halftime. Trudeaux had seventy-eight. Twenty-six shots. Twenty-six makes. All three-pointers. Absolutely unbelievable.
Tad
Wexler—Bells TV Announcer
We were starting to legitimately wonder if her arms were getting tired.
Bart “Bulb” Edison—LA Head Coach
I didn’t know what to say at halftime. We were shell-shocked. We all just sat there, staring down at our feet. Finally, I just said, “This is bigger than us, man.” What do you say?
@SillyBilly99xx—Detroit, Michigan
y’all seein’ this right now????? #lizzylegend
@WookieAteMyHomework—San Diego, California
girl got GAME yo!!!!!! #lizzylegend
Toby Sykes—Trudeaux’s Best Friend
I caught eyes with her as she was coming back out for the second half. She had this little flicker of mischief in her eyes, the one that meant, Watch this.
Lizzy Trudeaux
Yeah, a hundred. Wilt’s record. I knew.
Ernie Jenkins—Sideline Reporter
I tried to grab her for an interview before the third quarter started, but she ducked me.
Emily Murray—Philadelphia Sports Columnist
Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. She hits four more in a row to start the third.
Buzz Moonheim—LA Radio Announcer
They had three guys chasing her around the court! Three grown men! But she was quick.
Tad Wexler—Bells TV Announcer
And the thing everyone forgets, ’cuz of her shooting—
Buzz Moonheim—LA Radio Announcer
She had what the kids these days call a “sick handle.” Between the legs. Behind the back. Both hands. I remember thinkin,’ Man, she could be a point guard if she wanted. Funny, ’cuz she had ninety points, but that’s what I thought.
@usoundlikeurfromLONDON—London, England
99 points!!! one more! one more! #lizzylegend
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Emily Murray—Philadelphia Sports Columnist
Everyone in the building was standing. I mean everyone. This was it. She was about to go over a hundred.
Jimmy Mack—Bells Head Coach
I think I was the only one in the building who actually saw it. Everyone else had their doohickeys in front a’ their faces.
Ovid Green—Bells Color Commentator
Yeah, everyone had their phones out.
Tad Wexler—Bells TV Announcer
She was dribbling out front, weaving in and out of double teams like she’d been doing all night. She found a little opening and pulled up—
Alou Achebe—Bells Center
I couldn’t believe it.
Ernie Jenkins—Sideline Reporter
She passed the ball. She jumped like she was gonna shoot and, in midair, like it’d just occurred to her, she fired this beautiful pass to Alou for an easy dunk.
Lizzy Trudeaux
[Smirks.]
Toby Sykes—Trudeaux’s Best Friend
That’s Lizzy, man. That’s why she’s always been so good. That’s her thing.
Lizzy Trudeaux
It’s like a crossover. First thing Dad ever taught me. Get ’em leaning one direction, go the other. Simple game.
Tad Wexler—Bells TV Announcer
And then of course she stole the inbounds pass and drained a three from the corner.
Ovid Green—Bells Color Commentator
That was it. That put her over. 102 points.
Cedric North—LA Guard
We was all just starin’ up at the scoreboard like, Is this real?
Tad Wexler—Bells TV Announcer
Something changed after that. I mean, her shot was the same. The exact same every time. Same motion. Same result. Straight through like it was trailing flames. But she was different. I’m not sure how to explain it. It was all just sort of mechanical. She wasn’t laughing anymore.
Leonard Roosevelt—Bells Statistician
126 points. She didn’t miss a single shot.
Bart “Bulb” Edison—LA Head Coach
And she didn’t even play the fourth.
Leonard Roosevelt—Bells Statistician
Somebody stole the scorebook after the game. I left it on the scorer’s table for like two minutes while I ran to the bathroom, and it was gone.
Emily Murray—Philadelphia Sports Columnist
They say that thing’s worth, like, a million bucks. Wherever it is.
Ernie Jenkins—Sideline Reporter
You know you’ve reached a new level when your opponents—grown men, professional basketball players—are lining up for your autograph after the game.
Emily Murray—Philadelphia Sports Columnist
She was trapped on the court, signing autographs, posing for pictures, and you know what I remember thinking? She looks miserable. Not at all like someone who’s just played maybe the greatest basketball game of all time. It was weird.
Toby Sykes—Trudeaux’s Best Friend
Nah, it wasn’t weird. Not if you really know Lizzy. I got it.
Emily Murray—Philadelphia Sports Columnist
There was only one moment where I saw her smile. And even then it was subtle. This group of girls in the front row caught her attention. They were about her age, maybe a little younger. “Lizzy!” they said. “Lizzy, we love you!” They were holding up this big sheet of paper. Turned out they’d read the feature about Lizzy on ESPN.com and it’d inspired them to start a petition allowing them to play for their boys’ basketball team.
Alou Achebe—Bells Center
The girls all had duct tape on their sneakers, like Lizzy.
I have this dream sometimes. Okay, not just sometimes. I have it a lot. The setting’s always the same—the playground basketball court—except it’s different. It’s surrounded on all sides by a cornfield like in Field of Dreams. The cornstalks are swaying in the wind, rustling. I’m alone for a minute. Then Mom walks out. She’s glowing, sort of. She’s wearing her frilly thrift-store wedding dress and white basketball sneakers, just like in the framed photo on the mantel.
Usually, we don’t talk.
I just shoot.
She rebounds.
I shoot.
She rebounds.
It’s perfect.
But tonight I decide to say something.
It catches her off guard.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.”
I shoot.
She rebounds.
I shoot.
She rebounds.
“So I have this big game coming up.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“You’ve been watching?”
She nods up at the sky. “Terrible seats. But yeah. Every minute.”
We’re not actually talking, I realize, but communicating telepathically.
I shoot.
She rebounds.
I shoot.
She rebounds.
“Something on your mind, Lizzy?”
“I set the record for points last game.”
“I know. I saw. Remember?”
“Yeah.”
I shoot.
She rebounds.
I shoot.
She rebounds.
“It just didn’t feel right,” I say.
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, it was fun . . .”
“But?”
“But it wasn’t me, you know?”
“What do you mean? Sure it was.”
“Not really, though.”
“Ah. I get it.
The . . .” She pretended to lift a phone to her ear.
“Yeah.”
I shoot.
She rebounds.
I shoot.
She rebounds.
“So what do I do?” I ask.
“Do?”
“There’s only one game left. Against Sidney.”
“Like you always dreamed.”
I shoot.
She rebounds.
I shoot.
She rebounds.
“So how you gonna play it?” she says.
“Play it? What choice do I have?
She smiles. “You’re forgetting something, Lizzy. But there’s still time.”
“What? Mom, what am I forgetting?”
I shoot.
But this time no one rebounds.
The ball rolls away.
She’s gone.
I run blindly into the cornstalks—“Mom! Mom!”—but they’re just a stage prop and behind them is a steep cliff and I fall and fall and fall and on the way down my phone starts ringing—“Hello? Hello?”—but even then it just keeps ringing and ringing and ringing and nothing I say or do matters.
It was my alarm clock. I was back in my bedroom, with the crappy wallpaper, the trophies on the dresser.
“What are you looking at?” I said to my poster.
“Nothin’, rook. Just hangin’.”
“Can you at least, like, look the other direction? It’s kinda creepy.”
“What is?”
“You watching me when I sleep.”
“You put me here. Remember?”
I frowned.
“But hold on, let me try. Am I moving? Am I spinning?”
“Nah. Forget it.”
“How about now?”
“Dude, you can’t move. Just accept it.”
I checked my phone and saw that I was up to 6.7 million Instagram followers. The #lizzylegend hashtag was still trending. I was still the lead story on ESPN.com.
Just a normal morning.
Before I rolled out of bed, I checked my texts for some reason. I scrolled back and found the one I’d gotten after the robocall. I’d forgotten all about it.
“What ya readin’?”
Dad.
With his freaking wizard powers.
Magically appearing.
“Nothing.”
“You have a visitor.”
“Dad, I told you I don’t want to do any more interview—”
“He wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
And in marched Toby, fully decked out in new THE TOBY SYKES SHOW! swag, broadcasting again with his stupid phone. “Here we are, folks! The morning of the big game! Live inside the Trudeaux home, inside Lizzy Legend’s bedroom!”