“Yes, sir,” Devin says.
“And what happens to boys who violate team rules?”
“They are dismissed, sir,” Devin says.
“That’s right. Terminated. I don’t care if your dunks are ESPN highlights, if you can’t follow the rules, you are out of here,” Mr. Doig says. “But maybe you don’t care anymore? Maybe you’re too big for this team? Have you talked to your father about how big you’ve become?”
“No, I’m not so big, sir. I love this team,” Devin says.
Then Mr. Doig turns to me. “I believe you disrespected your teammates this afternoon, too, didn’t you, Mr. Reed?”
Without a thought, without a duh, I speak. “Yes, I did, sir,” I say.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
There is a short pause. I am thinking he knows what Carli Anderson said to me before in the dorm room. Should I confess I am a poor, troubled Polish boy now? Even if I don’t want to talk about Poland to these guys? Mr. Doig lifts an eyebrow. So I stand. I say the thing Carli told me to say, but nothing about Poland.
“Fury team. I am sorry I dunked and shouted like that. This day gives me a lot of stress, and so I dunked and let out the stress. You boys are giants of basketball in Minnesota, and I am respectful. Please forgive me.” I sit back down.
From the back, someone speaks. “Giants of basketball?”
“Khalil, do you have something to add?” Coach Cliff asks.
Khalil is the special point guard Carli discussed before.
He stands. “Yeah. Yes, sir. I do,” Khalil says. “Me and Devin talked through this over the week. We aren’t trying to disrespect our leaders or even Adam Reed. Not really. We’re just confused, okay? Between the two of us, we know at least five dudes who have skills that exceed this . . .” He points at me. “They exceed what Adam Reed can do on the basketball court.”
The other players all nod their heads.
“At least five,” Devin says from his chair. “Probably more like six or eight, sir.”
Khalil nods at him, then turns back to the rest of us. “So the only reason we can come up with that you, sir, and Mr. Doig, chose him is that he’s a farmer boy.”
“No, I’m not farmer,” I say.
Devin stands up again. I look up at him from my chair. He is very unhappy and very nervous. I don’t understand what’s going on. He talks fast about me. “Now why we grabbing this farmer boy? Why would coaches go outstate to pick up this farmer? It’s not like he’s one of those big blond fives you sometimes see around here. He’s not six foot ten. He’s just blond, right?”
I begin to understand something that Carli told me. That they see me only as a boy who is blond and blue-eyed from a small town. They don’t see my life.
“Why him, sir?” Devin asks, pointing at me.
“Yeah, why?” Khalil says.
Devin waits for no answers. “Maybe because it looks better to the press if you can put a token white boy on the team? Was it bad the 17Us were all black last year? Maybe it looks better to the dudes my dad and Mr. Doig hit up for cash to help fund this program? Is that it . . . sir?” Devin again does not wait for answers. “But I have to ask this: who is going to benefit more from this program? A farmer who probably lives in a nice house, with a nice old mom and dad, who can afford college no matter what . . .”
He doesn’t know me. “No,” I say.
“Or maybe Shawn Carter, up at Columbia Heights, who averaged twelve a game this season and has three sisters in that little house of his?”
“Hold on, son,” Coach Cliff says, raising his hand.
Mr. Doig makes a fake spit sound. “First, it is not your role to wonder about my leadership. You do your job. I’ll do mine. Do you understand?”
Devin stares hard at him for a second, then nods. “Yes.”
“Yes?” Mr. Doig asks.
“Yes, sir,” Devin says.
“Second, I don’t give a rat’s ass what color hair my players have. What do I care about? Shawn Carter has a juvenile record. Isn’t that true?”
“Um. Yes, sir,” Devin says. “But, come on, it’s not real. It’s from a stupid fight in seventh grade . . .”
“No thugs on this team,” Mr. Doig spits.
“He is not a thug, sir,” Devin almost whispers.
“‘Thug’ is not the right word,” Coach Cliff says. “But Shawn Carter does not meet eligibility requirements for the Fury. That’s the truth.”
“The board agrees unanimously on this count,” Mr. Doig says. “You must be a good citizen, and you must be the best or have the potential to be the best. That’s all we care about. And it is offensive for one of my boys to tell me that black and white matters after all I have done. Race isn’t a factor here. Not in my organization. Do you understand, Devin Mitchell?”
Devin doesn’t say anything for moment. Then says, “Yes, sir.”
Khalil sits down slowly. Devin stays standing. He gets an odd look on his face, like maybe he swallowed a bad piece of fish.
There is a long silence. Awkward. I think of Carli. I think how they don’t know me and that is causing problems.
“Listen, please. I’m not a farmer,” I say.
Coach Cliff shakes his head, says quietly, “That’s just what these boys call any white kid from outstate, isn’t that right, Devin?”
“Yes, sir,” Devin says.
“But, okay. My grandpa used to be a farmer, but he’s dead. Also, I’m not from outstate,” I say.
“Dude, of course you are. That’s anyplace outside the city,” Devin says.
I shake my head. “No. No way. I’m not from this state at all. I’m from Poland. I just have one adopted mom, who is American, who found me when I was homeless. No ‘good old dad,’ because he was so poor that he left me with nuns. No ‘good old mom,’ because my real mom is dead . . .” All the boys are staring at me with their mouths hanging open. “Also, I’m just pleased to be here with giants of basketball, and I’m sorry I slam-dunked and shouted, because I have a lot of stresses and I just want to be part of the team,” I say.
Khalil stands up fast. “Damn, dude. That’s it? You speak so jacked up.”
Coach Cliff growls, “Khalil.”
“We heard about you from the Owenses. They were like, who the f . . . who the heck is that dude? There was one newspaper article just about how you’re some badass dunker. I mean a very fine dunker. But then when we tried to find you on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram? You got nothing!” Khalil says to me.
“Nope. Not anything. I got no phone,” I say.
“Khalil. Sit down,” Coach Cliff says.
“But? I just . . . ,” Khalil says.
“Sit.”
Then Khalil does sit, slowly again, like he’s scared.
Coach Cliff turns to me. “Adam, how tall are you?”
“Six foot, six inches, maybe six foot seven.”
“What is your vertical jump?”
“I hit thirty-nine inches.”
“Damn,” another kid says.
“How many points did you score a game this year, your sophomore year?”
“About fifteen,” I say. “But a lot more the last half of the season.”
“And how long have you been playing basketball?”
“Since eighth,” I say.
“Since what?” Devin asks.
“Eighth grade,” I say. “Began two and a half years ago, when I was in Philadelphia.”
Devin exhales slowly. He sits down.
Mr. Doig points at me. “Now that is what I call potential. You fellas understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Khalil says.
“Anybody else?” Coach Cliff asks. There is total quiet. “Then how about we talk basketball? Any of you have any problems with that?” There is more silence. “Okay. Well then. Listen up. We’re going to run motion this year.”
A round kid behind me groans from his gut. “Oh man, no.”
“Charlie, you got something to add, son?” Coac
h Cliff asks.
“No, sir,” the kid says.
“Good,” Coach Cliff says.
Everybody seems sad about “motion.” I don’t care what offense we play. They talk more. I don’t care about our schedule (we will have three warm-up games in Minnesota in the next month, then start traveling for tournaments). I don’t even care that we will eat pizza donated from a fancy restaurant for dinner.
I am so tired from speaking.
TWENTY-SEVEN
GUIDANCE, PART II
It is 5:30 in the morning. I am still in bed, although I am awake. My worry is that I will sleep through practice. There can be no more mess-ups.
I’ve spent much time examining handouts about the motion offense. It is team passing, constant cuts and picks, and a requirement that I not just post or drive, but also stop and pop if the defense sags and takes away scoring lanes. Jump shooting is not good for me.
During the meeting, Coach Cliff said the motion offense is the same one the Marshall Mustangs, the Owens family, used to win the state tournament. All these Fury teammates know about the Owenses, know how good they are, but they think the Owenses play like farmers. Even though I was exhausted during the meeting, I heard that.
“We’ve run isolation for the last three years, sir,” Khalil had said. “Why are we doing this?”
“We have no Kenny this year. We don’t have height. We have athletes. The motion gets our opponents’ bigs out of position. We’ll make them run. We’ll strand them out on the three-point line if they try to man up on us,” Coach Cliff said. “We’ll get bad switches. Imagine Devin down there posting up point guards?”
I would like to post up point guards.
I turn over in my bed.
Jesse sleeps. He is not bleeding now, but he snores loudly.
I will not sleep anymore . . .
Then there is a tapping sound. I sit up fast. I listen. For a moment, there is nothing. Then the tapping comes again.
“Uh-oh,” I say in a whisper.
I roll from bed. My heart pumps hard. I slide across the tile floor to the door in one giant step. What am I thinking? That I am late for practice and don’t know it or, maybe, Renata is dead from a car crash and this is the police coming to tell me.
I crack the door open. “What?” I whisper.
Carli Anderson is standing in the hall.
“Can I come in?”
“What about the rules?” I say. “Mr. Doig will terminate us.”
“Just let me,” she says.
I pause.
“Now!” She pushes past me into the room.
Jesse sits up, blinking, looking scared.
“Hey, dude. Don’t tell anyone I’m here,” Carli says to Jesse.
“Okay,” he says.
“Cover your ears,” she says.
He lies back and covers his face with his pillow.
Then she leans in really close and whispers in my ear, “Last night I hung out with Tasha Tolliver and Katy Vargas, and Tasha said that Rashid told her at dinner that he was going to mess you up on the post, because Kyle Owens called you a head case.”
“Who is Rashid?” I ask. “Who are Tasha and Katy?”
“Dude, ballers. Fury players? Do you even know where you are?”
“Okay,” I say.
“Listen. Khalil said it was stupid, that you seem like a good dude, but Devin still doesn’t want you around and Rashid definitely doesn’t.”
This news hurt me. “But I said I’m Polish and not a farmer.”
“In the meeting Coach Cliff named you the starter at the five, right?”
I nod.
“Rashid is taller than you, and he’s waited for his turn to start. I mean, it’s his turn, dude! Why can’t you come off the bench?”
“I didn’t ask to start.”
“But Rashid blames you anyway.”
“Shit,” I whisper.
“Anyway, because the Owenses got you to flip out in their game . . .”
“I didn’t.”
“I was there, dude. You lost your mind,” Carli says.
“No one got hurt,” I say. Usually there is more damage when I lose my mind.
Carli raises her eyebrows. Then she says quietly, “Rashid and Devin are going to rattle your cage. Don’t lose your shit. Even if you catch elbows, okay? Mr. Doig will give you the boot if you lose your shit. He’s famous for doing stuff like that.”
I sigh. “Okay. Okay.”
Carli reaches her long arm out and puts her hand on the side of my face. It is soft. It makes warm blood fire all over my body. “I want you to stay on the team. You and I are really good for Northrup basketball,” she says. “I don’t want to lose you.”
I nod again.
A half second later, she is gone.
“Is she your girlfriend?” Jesse asks.
“No,” I say, still standing on the spot where she touched my face.
“She’s pretty hot,” he says. “Like, she walks like she’s hot.”
“Please shut up,” I say.
TWENTY-EIGHT
MR. CALMNESS
Morning practice. I have spent time being calm. I am ready, thanks to Carli Anderson.
Rashid throws his elbows into me as he establishes space on offense. He is very strong and rough and pointy, and those elbows hurt my ribs and shoulders and even my neck one time.
When he plays defense, he shoves me and slaps at my face and scratches my arms with his long fingers. I am bleeding from a cut on my right arm, which a trainer has to dab and put a pad and tape on. “Keep it clean, fellas,” Coach Cliff shouts.
On rebounds, one hand of Rashid’s goes into the air to tip the ball away from me, the other makes a fist and drives into my kidneys, and I am hurting from this big-time, and I have a desire to kill everyone, but instead I just keep smiling at Rashid and telling him that he is a fine player and that he is doing a dope job.
The other players slowly believe I’m a crazy man. They make faces at me. They make faces at each other. Rashid says, “Owens doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
Then Devin runs over me to get a loose ball, even though he is on my scrimmaging team. I would like to punch through his head, but I get up and offer my hand for a high five. “Good hustling, Mr. Basketball!” I say. This is goofy shit I’d say to Barry, but no one else. I don’t mean it, but they will not push me out.
Trey bounces a pass off my face from very close range.
Khalil actually shouts, “Come on, man,” at him. Khalil is my favorite.
Then Devin bounces the ball off my face. My sinus passages drain from the pounding. “Sorry I got in the way,” I say to him. “Don’t understand this offense yet.”
“Okay,” he mumbles.
Finally, Coach Cliff screams at us, “What in the hell are you boys doing out here? You call this basketball? Run the damn offense. Make good passes. Keep your bodies under control or I’ll send you all home!”
“Yeah, Coach,” Devin says. He then gathers us together and says, “Let’s just really play.”
“That’s what we should’ve been doing, you fools,” Khalil says.
“Kyle Owens is a big shit bag,” I whisper.
They hear me. All the boys laugh a bit. “What?” Khalil says. “I thought you weren’t on Twitter?”
“He wrote tweets about me?” I ask.
“Ha-ha. Farmer knows more than he lets on,” Khalil says.
I shrug because I don’t know shit, but I keep smiling.
And soon I am smiling for real, because when Devin decides to play real basketball instead of spending his time making me Farmer the Fool, this offense begins to work. Khalil is so good. As he moves, I can feel this offense. I know where to go as defenders hedge. I swing underneath and set picks and pop to the three-point line and take passes that open space for flying Devin, who I hit with lobs, and he jams the basketball like an NBA superstar. “Good look,” Devin tells me two times.
Rashid soon must work just to keep up
with my flow, my fast running. He is not like me, and he gets tired. Devin picks him, and I back-cut to rim. Khalil lobs the ball in the air for me. I leap, grab, smash the ball through the hole. It bounces off Rashid’s shoulder.
“Kyle Owens!” I shout.
Khalil laughs. Devin smiles a little.
Khalil gives me a high five on the way back for defense. “You paid Rashid back for all that scratching.”
“What scratches?” I ask, like nothing ever bad happened.
Khalil laughs. “Oh, no scratching, dude.”
“I bleed from my arms all the time,” I say. “It’s natural.”
He nods. He smiles. He fist-bumps me.
A few minutes later, Coach Cliff blows his whistle after I dunk once more. He says, “Boys. That’s it! That’s what I’m talking about!”
At lunch no one talks much, because we have run very hard all morning. Khalil does say, “We play the Minne-Kota Stars in our third warm-up game. You can pay Kyle Owens back in person.”
“That’s his team?” I ask.
“Minne-Kota Stars. That’s the Owenses’ AAU.”
That is good. Payback in person. I will do that, I think.
After lunch there is a break and more practice and then we will get on a bus to go to dinner at Devin’s home, which is also in Minneapolis. I am a little bit scared of this for a few reasons. But the morning was great. I am back where I belong, excelling on the court.
Before I go to my room to take the post-lunch break, I walk all over the Minneapolis Academy campus looking for Carli’s dormitory, because I need to thank her. She is my basketball guardian. She is the best girl. I need to tell her I get to play Kyle Owens again. I find her dorm. I try to go in. A large woman stops me. “Oh no you don’t, child,” she says.
I go and rest in my room.
The afternoon practice I am very sore from the beating of the morning, but the balling is so dope. We all work on post moves and dribble drills between little orange cones.
I am not the super king at post, but I am better than all the Fury players other than Devin. He is a real Hakeem “the Dream” Olajuwon, patient and baiting the defense like an animal trainer who makes seals stand on their tails. Then, when the defense gets too close, he spins, shoots, scores so easy. I learn from watching how he goes slow and then very fast.
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