by Randy Ribay
It feels good to say it aloud. I’ve wanted to for a while, but I couldn’t. I guess it’s easier speaking in the dark where it’s like nothing exists except your words.
“Thanks, Bunny,” he says. “That means a lot. And I’m sorry I stopped talking to you. That wasn’t right.”
“Maybe a little wrong, a little right.”
“Maybe it doesn’t even matter,” Nasir says.
“What do you mean?”
His sleeping bag rustles as he turns toward me. “When you asked me to transfer to St. Sebastian’s, it got me thinking a lot about everything in a new way. Seeing things how you probably saw them when you were figuring out whether you should do it or not. Seeing how it’s not so easy.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me. He goes on.
“When you’re going one place, that always means you’re leaving another. Your back’s always facing some way.”
I put my hands behind my head and stare up at the ceiling in the dark. “I’m not sure it’s that simple. I feel like there can be room to care about more than one thing, more than one place.”
“Maybe,” Nasir says. “Or maybe not.”
“Even though I’m at St. Sebastian’s, I still care about everyone in Whitman,” I say.
“For now. But what about after you go off to college? After you make it into the NBA? You’ll forget about us.”
“I won’t.”
“Why not?” Nasir asks.
“Because Whitman’s my home,” I answer. It’s that simple.
Neither of us says anything again for a while. I’m thinking about what that means, and how it’ll feel a little less like home once Word Up officially closes. Then I realize that I haven’t told Nasir about that yet. So I do.
“You serious?” he asks, sounding more awake than he has during the conversation up until now.
“Yup,” I say.
“Maybe we can hold a fundraiser or something? Set up one of those websites where people can donate and make a video about the store or something to promote it.”
“Dad and Zaire already signed the paperwork,” I say.
“Damn.”
“Yup.”
“So when’s it officially closing?” he asks.
“End of April,” I answer.
“What are the new owners turning it into?”
“No idea yet,” I say.
“I’m going to miss that place.”
“Me too,” I say.
“Maybe after you make your millions, you can reopen it. Call it Word Up 2.”
“Word Still Up.”
“Word Up Again.”
“You Thought Word Was Down, But Now Word Way Up.”
We laugh.
“That’d be cool,” I say. “But I’ll need someone to run it while I’m on the road. You down?”
I hear Nasir shift in his sleeping bag. “Of course, man,” he says, even though we both know if I really did buy the store back my dad would run it again. “So long as I can live upstairs like Zaire.”
We laugh. And even though we’re laughing, that sounds to me like the best possible future. “What about becoming a doctor?” I ask, coming back to reality. “That still the plan?”
“Maybe. I don’t know,” Nasir says. “I know I want to help people, but I’m not sure if that’s the way I want to do it. Maybe I’ll be a teacher like my dad, or something. Or serve. I don’t know. I have this feeling that things can be better, but they’re not going to get that way unless we make it that way. It’s like doing good just for myself or my family doesn’t mean a whole lot in the grand scheme of things.”
“That’s easy for you to say. It’s only you and your parents, and y’all are doing okay. But for some people, just being able to help their family means everything.”
“True,” he says.
Our conversation falls into a lull. Somewhere nearby a dog starts barking and then stops. I consider Nasir’s words. Like if you think about it long enough, you might decide to chill in your room for the rest of your life, wondering.
Finally, I break the silence. “By the way, now that I’m in the clear with the state, I think that St. S offer still stands. You think about it any more?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
Nasir’s quiet for a moment, and then he swings his pillow and hits me right in the face. Laughing, I yank it from his grip, stand up on the bed, and whack him with it several times while he curls into the fetal position on the floor. We’re both laughing so hard that I eventually run out of energy, drop the pillow, and fall back onto the bed. It takes us a couple minutes to stop and catch our breath. When I finally do, I suddenly feel real tired. Or maybe peaceful is the right word. Yeah, peaceful.
Everything feels softer, glowier.
Everything feels right, even though it isn’t.
I listen to a siren wailing far away as I slip into sleep like the moon sliding over the horizon.
46
Nasir
I wake to the sunlight in my eyes and the sound of a snowplow scraping along the street below my window.
It’s almost eleven according to my phone. “Bunny—wake up,” I say. But the bed’s empty and made. Guess he took off.
I stretch, sit up, and peek outside. The sun’s shining for the first time in days and reflecting off the snow so everything’s bright and blinding. The cars and sidewalks are covered in several inches. And even though the street’s just been plowed, it looks icy.
According to the ticket Bunny gave me, the game’s at five. He said I could catch a ride with his family, since it’s, like, an hour and a half away, so I make a mental note to check with them about what time they’re planning to leave.
For now, I throw back the curtains to let in even more light, and climb into bed.
47
Bunny
I’m sitting at a window in the back of the bus, watching the snow-covered world slip past. Like usual, most of the team is chatting or flirting with the cheerleaders, who we’re splitting the bus with again. Except this time we’re riding in one of those nice coach buses. There’s some extra energy in the air today since it’s the biggest game most of these guys will ever play in their life. But I’ve got my headphones up with some Nat King Cole on low, trying to clear my mind of the fact that everyone’s counting on me and I have to let all of them down for Wallace’s sake.
The St. Sebastian’s locker room’s nice, but this a whole new level. Red carpet. Black leather couch. Open lockers made of wood like what the pros have, our fresh-pressed jerseys already on hangers inside of them. On the wall, the red Rutgers R and three words: ATTITUDE, COMMITMENT, ACCOUNTABILITY.
In the leftmost locker I see my jersey. Number twenty-three. Not for LeBron, but for Jordan. He was my dad’s favorite player back in the day, so he became mine too.
While my teammates play around and fight over a spot on the couch, I slip out of my street clothes and into my uniform. I pull on my warmups, lace up my sneakers, and slip my headphones back over my ears. I sneak out to the court early, Cole crooning in my ears.
I’m the first to walk into the arena. My heart starts racing soon as I step onto the waxed hardwood, which gleams under the lights. The empty seats tower in the darkness above and all around. Everything feels holy, like I’m in church.
Granted, the Rutgers Athletic Center’s not nearly as big as the Sixers’ stadium. But it’s big enough to make me feel like I’m dreaming, to make me feel like maybe this is the beginning of everything.
I search the shadows for the section where my family and Nasir will be sitting. Maybe Keyona. I count the rows and seats until I find their exact spots, committing it to memory.
Satisfied, I make my way to the rack on the sideline and pick up one of the balls. The leather feels soft and smooth, expensive. Like it’s fresh out of the box. I bounce it hard a couple times with both hands to test the floor, and the sound thunders through the vast space like a heartbeat. Then I dribble out to the top of the key
and stare at the rim.
We might be taking the L tonight, but I promise myself that if Nas takes the spot at St. S, I’ll bring us back here next year. Because as amazing as all this is, I can’t help but imagine how much more amazing it’ll be to snatch a rebound and then spin to find Nasir waiting on the wing, hands out, calling for the outlet pass.
48
Nasir
It’s about fifteen minutes to tip-off, and this place is packed and buzzing. According to the lady who takes our tickets, all eight thousand seats are sold out.
And a big reason for that?
My boy, Bunny Thompson.
He’s on the front of the game program. His name crackles in the air. Someone even made a big cardboard cutout of his face. Everybody wants to see what he’ll do tonight, so when he makes it big they can brag that they knew him when he was starting out—as if he hasn’t been playing and training for years.
I kind of wish I were wearing a shirt that said BUNNY’S BEST FRIEND, or something like that but way less corny. Maybe at halftime I can hijack the loudspeaker and make an announcement or something to let people know.
But then again, there’s a feeling in the pit of my stomach I can’t ignore, reminding me that maybe I don’t deserve that claim. After all, I was the reason he almost didn’t play tonight, and now I’m the one asking him to drop the biggest game of his life so far. I keep telling myself it’s for the right reason, though. Nobody’s cheering on Wallace or making cardboard cutouts of his face. No way he could even have gotten tickets for this. He’s probably alone somewhere, refreshing the state’s basketball site and waiting for the game to start, hoping for a St. Sebastian’s loss. At least I’ll be able to give him that.
Before we head to our seats, the Thompson family makes a stop to use the bathrooms and grab some food, so I go on ahead. I show my ticket to the usher standing at the top of our section’s steps and then look around at the nearly full arena. The crowd’s humming, and music blasts from the speakers. Down on the court, balls arc through the air and clang off the rim as the teams shoot around. Fairview’s in green jerseys with white lettering, and St. Sebastian’s in white with red lettering. I spot Bunny easily enough just as he sinks a long three. I smile and find row H.
As I scoot past some people toward my seat near the middle, I’m surprised to find Keyona with Anna, the friend she was with the other night. Last night Bunny told me about what went down and how he wasn’t even sure if they were still together, but here she is, hands buried in the front pocket of her St. Sebastian’s hoodie. Anna’s in her ear, probably pointing out the most attractive players, but I can tell by Keyona’s eyes that she’s analyzing their skills, not their looks.
I sneak a glance at the seat number on my ticket and of course, it’s the one right next to her. So I make my way over, sit down, and say, “What’s up?”
Anna gives me some side-eye. Keyona doesn’t even react.
I look down at my sneakers. Retie the laces. Join the girls in watching the teams. I let my eyes wander over to Fairview and spot their two all-stars chatting on the baseline, apart from the rest of their team. A true point and a solid big man are a deadly combo. Practically unstoppable because they can burn you from the outside or down low. But then again, St. Sebastian’s has Bunny, a one-man wrecking crew.
I watch him below. He backs down one of his teammates, and then pivots and puts up a fadeaway. It kisses the glass perfectly, finding the bottom of the net.
The Thompsons arrive a moment later. They scoot past me with their food and drinks to their seats on the other side of Anna and Keyona, greeting them like family. And suddenly Keyona’s all smiles and softness like she flipped a switch.
As the warmup clock winds down, both teams head back to their benches. The lights dim. The announcer introduces the starting five on each squad, his voice booming across the arena. The two stars from Fairview—a point guard named Santos and a center named Yurevich—get some decent noise, but the place absolutely explodes when Bunny’s name echoes through the speakers, which makes pride and shame surge in my chest.
Instead of quieting down so the announcer can introduce St. Sebastian’s center, everyone keeps on cheering. It’s a rising wall of noise, building like a wave that won’t stop crashing. The announcer tries to go on anyway, but you can’t hear a thing he says into his mic. Eventually, the crowd falls silent as some kids’ choir sings the national anthem, and then the starters take their positions around center court and a tense nervousness settles over the building.
My own nervousness is different from everyone else’s, though, because unfortunately I already know how this is going to play out.
The ref steps to the circle with the ball and bounces it with both hands a few times. He says something to the teams as the centers crouch low. The ref blows the whistle as he tosses the ball into the air between them.
Game on.
49
Bunny
Yurevich tips the ball to Santos, who lays it in before any of us knows what’s happening.
Damn. That kid’s fast as hell.
I inbound to Eric but hang back. Santos’s pressure’s too much, and he gives it right back to me. I push it downcourt, easily handling my man.
I split a double team, drive into the lane, and kick it out to Eric back at the top of the key. He takes the open shot, but it banks left and drops right into Yurevich’s hands. He outlets to Santos, who takes off on the fast break, leaving Eric in his dust.
Just like that, we’re down 0–4.
I know I’m supposed to lose tonight, but I’m not going down like that.
This time, when Eric crosses midcourt, I make a beeline for the basket. Eric fires it to Ethan, our off guard, who immediately hits me cutting into the lane, and I take it around Yurevich for two.
“Slow him down,” I tell Eric as I hustle back on D.
I know we can’t keep up this pace. Santos is too fast. This run-and-gun style is his kind of game, not ours. If I’m going to keep this close, we’re going to need to control each possession.
But Santos blows past Eric and passes to the wing, who reverses back to Santos. He dumps it to Yurevich on the block, so I slide over to double him with Drew. Trapped, he sends it back out to Santos, who gives it to their shooting guard, who drains a long three like it’s nothing.
I answer at the other end with a midrange jumper. Fairview hits another three. When Yurevich slides over to double me, I find Drew on the block for an easy two. Fairview scores on a give-and-go. Eric bricks a shot. Yurevich hits a nasty hook. Ethan forces a three and air-balls it straight out of bounds. Santos breaks Eric’s ankles with a crossover and then launches a floater straight over me that drops right in. I get called for a three-second violation under the rim.
Damn.
6–16, Fairview.
Fairview brings it up court, swings the ball around the perimeter, and dumps it to Yurevich in the paint—at least they try to. I intercept the pass and push it up court before Fairview’s D can recover. I’ve got my man beat on the first step and shake Santos at midcourt with a spin move. Straight to the hoop and throw it down hard—first dunk of the game. The crowd explodes.
But there’s a whistle.
I look at the ref: he motions traveling.
People start booing. No way I walked. But I don’t say anything—I don’t need a tech. I shake my head in disbelief, get back to my man, and let Coach Baum spit a few choice words.
Fairview brings it down and scores on a baseline jumper. I answer with two in the paint. With only a few seconds left in the quarter, Santos misses a reverse lay-up. I grab the board and fire it to Eric, who pulls up at the arc and buries a quick three right before the end of the quarter to make it 11–20, Fairview.
We head to our bench and gather around Coach Baum, heads spinning. He stares at each of us in turn as we wipe the sweat from our foreheads, chug some water, and wait.
Finally, he speaks.
“Slow it down.�
��
That’s all he says. He doesn’t take out his little board and draw up sets. He doesn’t even tell us how.
“Slow it down,” he repeats. Then he takes a deep breath and indicates for all of us to do the same.
We all do, and we all exhale when he does.
“Slow it—” he starts.
“Down,” we finish.
The whistle blows. Since Fairview won the tip, it’s ours to start the second quarter. But, of course, they run a press. Eric brings it down and dribbles right into a trap. Santos tears it out of his hands, and it’s two more for them.
I answer with a midrange jumper. Yurevich misses from the corner. Eric bricks from the arc. Santos threads through the lane for a lay-up, but the ball circles the rim and falls out. I grab the board, bring it up court myself, hit Drew on the block, and he banks it in for two. Fairview’s two-guard responds with a three. I miss from the baseline. Santos drains a long two. I brick from up top, grab my own rebound, and kick it back out to Eric, who bricks from downtown. Santos scores on a give-and-go.
I glance at the scoreboard: 15–29, with just under five left.
So much for slowing it down.
I don’t waste a second inbounding to Eric, but Santos forces him right into another trap. Eric passes back to me, but someone gets a hand on the ball. Santos comes up with it and races to the hoop. I move between him and the rim.
He fakes right and then crosses over left, but he can’t shake me. Head down, he keeps driving. He ducks under my arm for the finger roll, but I swat it straight out of bounds.
The crowd gets loud. A rush of adrenaline courses through my body.
But there’s another whistle: foul on the shot.
I throw my hands out. “I didn’t touch him!”
“Careful, Twenty-Three,” is all he says over his shoulder as he meets Santos at the line.
