by Paul Volponi
Malcolm wanted to scream at her, That’s right! This is all on you! But he didn’t. Instead, he broke free from Ramona’s grasp and tossed a handful of dirt into Trisha’s grave, on top of her coffin. That night in her bedroom, Malcolm heard the same tutt sound the dirt had made every time he dropped a finger onto the skin of his sister’s snare drum. He listened to it, still angry as hell at Ramona, and hating every bit of the world he could see from the window.
No one was ever arrested over Trisha’s death.
Inside of a week, drugs were being dealt again from that same bench.
Malcolm couldn’t walk past without losing his temper, wanting to throw down with anyone who was doing business there. Ten days after Trisha’s funeral, one of those dealers shot him a challenging look, and Malcolm couldn’t hold back anymore.
“Think I’m scared of that weak-ass ice grill? Maybe things are going to get evened up, big-time!” Malcolm hollered, nearly squeezing the air out of the orange basketball between his palms. “It doesn’t matter if dudes are responsible for my sister or not! Sometimes being in the wrong place is good enough!”
“Better stick to b-ball,” the guy said in a cold voice, before taking a long drag on a cigarette and blowing smoke from his nostrils. “This is no game. Shit’s for real out here. Lots of families lose more than one kid to these streets.”
“Yeah, maybe your mama’s going to be the one crying tonight,” said Malcolm, stepping forward. “’Cause mine’s cried enough.”
That’s when another one of that crew put an arm around the guy, pulling him away.
“Forget about it, man. Let’s walk for a few,” he said to his partner. “There’s already too much heat. Last thing we need is another chalk outline. It’s bad for our pockets.”
As they left, Malcolm hocked up a wad of phlegm and spit it on the ground where they’d been standing.
“Five guys on the court working together can achieve more than five talented individuals who come and go as individuals.”
—Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, who played on three National Collegiate Championship teams at UCLA, won six NBA Championships and MVPs, and scored the most career points in NBA history
CHAPTER SIX
ROKO BACIC
7:26 P.M. [CT]
Roko is kicking himself as Malcolm sets his feet at the foul line.
He’s pissed because he should have known better—that Malcolm wasn’t about to wait for anyone, or pass the ball off, after making that steal.
“My bad,” Roko calls out to his teammates. “If I was going to foul, I should have knocked his ass down so he couldn’t score.”
“Yeah, you keep on believing that’s possible, because I sure as hell don’t,” says Malcolm, before the ref sends him the ball.
That’s when Roko realizes he needs to change his thinking. That he needs to fight off every instinct to see the game the way he was taught to play it.
If he’s going to stop Malcolm, Roko needs to see the game through Malcolm’s eyes. And maybe the rest of the Spartans’ eyes, too. Because they’ve probably learned to see things the same selfish way after playing an entire season with Malcolm.
“Thirty-two, Red Bull! Thirty-two, Red Bull! That’s what we run next!” screams the willowy Kennedy, catching Roko’s eye with a subtle wink.
Now Roko understands that Kennedy’s thinking is the same as his.
After Malcolm’s made free throw, the Spartans lead 69–66.
Roko brings the ball up court.
Malcolm gets into a defensive stance, bending low at the knees and slapping both of his palms against the floor, challenging Roko to dribble past.
Roko purposefully eyes Malcolm, and no one else.
Every Michigan State defender has heard Kennedy’s play call with Roko’s name and number attached. They’re all waiting for Roko to take the ball to the basket, ready to tattoo the rock’s wilson logo onto his forehead.
Roko puts his head down. With a burst of speed, he drives towards the hoop.
Both Grizzly and Baby Bear come flying off their men.
Roko can hear their footsteps rushing towards him. Suddenly, he pulls up, spotting Aaron Boyce alone behind the three-point line. He feeds him the ball and Aaron buries the shot.
The game is tied 69–69, with just a little more than two minutes remaining in overtime.
Then Roko punches the air around him with a clenched fist as the big base drum in the Trojan band punctuates that three-pointer—Boom! Boom! Boom!
May 23 (Grade 11)
There is no more sun. The sky over Zagreb is black. Uncle Dražen was murdered. He was killed by a car bomb. Everyone knows it was done by organized crime, by miserable mafia type people that don’t deserve to live. He was blown up outside of the newspaper office at 6 o’clock tonight. My tears like a storm have not stopped since I learned the news from my father. Sadness is not close to the description of how I feel. I am totally empty inside. The biggest hole in the world is in my heart.
My mother did not want me to go down there. But I had to see it with my own two eyes. I saw Uncle Dražen’s blue car turned charcoal black. It was melted down to metal bones like a burned out skeleton on the street. The smell of fire was heavy in the air. It is in my nose even now and will not leave. That same fire is burning in my blood to get revenge. A lifetime in prison is not enough for those bastard criminals. My father said there is no body of his brother left to bury. No body of his left to pray over. I know Uncle Dražen’s spirit can not burn. His soul can not burn.
I hope the criminals that did this evil murder burn in hell for eternal days and nights. How do we know it was these criminals? A week ago they shoved a gun in my uncle’s face and told him to write no more about them. He refused because he is a champion. Another reporter was beat with a baseball bat by the same types. There was no work for me last Saturday at the newspaper. Now I understand why. Uncle Dražen wanted to protect me from possible harm, from violence of thugs. My father said we can not trust the police because some of them are owned by Croatian mafia. They are on the criminals’ payroll for a second job. He said that maybe we are not safe in this house. My father now has his gun by his side for the protection of us. Like my uncle Dražen, I will not be scared of mafia terrorists. Not today. Not tomorrow. I will always speak my mind and have respect for the opinions of others. When I hold my basketball I feel Uncle Dražen close by. Now he will always be part of my game. He will be part of my strength and part of my heart.
My mother wants me to leave Croatia. She wants me to finish high school in the US with my cousins living there. I am not sure. My father says I am old enough to decide my own life. I don’t want to run away from what Uncle Dražen started. But the future here in Zagreb is dark. It is filled with as much smoke and fire as outside the newspaper office tonight. I will always keep this journal for myself and for my memory of beloved Uncle Dražen. I will miss him forever with my tears, my heart, and my soul.
August 12 (Entering Grade 12)
Today ends my first week living in the US. Big news flash—the city of Montgomery, Alabama is not Zagreb. It is total culture shock. Even the US movies and music I know do not give me the answers to everything. There are other Croatians here besides my cousins, aunts, and uncles. But it is still a new world to me—one without my parents who stayed in Zagreb to watch over the house my great-grandfather built with his own two hands. I pray they are safe. My father says the move will force me to grow up faster. I say nothing will ever do that more than the murder of Uncle Dražen.
I am living with the sister of my mother and her husband. Their four children are all younger than me. The three girls are ages 6, 9, and 11. They are almost babies compared to me and still play with dolls. My boy cousin is 12. He has no interest in basketball or any other sports. Instead he plays the violin. I share a bedroom with him, except for when he practices his music lessons. Then the bedroom belongs 100% to him and I would rather sleep in the doghouse outside. It has been 95 degrees or more here every
day so far. And I am melting in the heat and humidity like a redheaded Popsicle.
There are public basketball courts just five blocks from my new house. On the good side, the courts are close enough to walk to. On the bad side, I have already learned that five blocks is a long way to run from angry players. *Note to myself—when returning trash talk do not use the words “make you my little bitch.” **I am no Slim Shady here. I have no real friends yet, just some enemies on the basketball court. **
“What happens is, when you’re good at something, you spend a lot of time with it. People identify you with that sport, so it becomes part of your identity.”
—Mike Krzyzewski, who coached Duke to four NCAA Championships
CHAPTER SEVEN
CRISPIN RICE
7:27 P.M. [CT]
Crispin can hear the thud of Grizzly’s backside and shoulders slamming into him, carving out space beneath the basket. This deep into the game, there’s hardly any pain attached to it anymore. Crispin’s body is nearly numb from the abuse.
That just makes him even braver.
It’s like staring down a dentist’s drill with your mouth full of Novocain.
Those extra thirty pounds of muscle on Grizzly are still doing the job, but they’ve lost most of their biting sting.
Then, bracing for another collision, Crispin feels his left sneaker slide out from underneath him. A slick sweat spot on the floor gives Grizzly all the advantage he needs. Crispin goes even more off balance with a subtle hip from Grizzly, and the Spartans get the ball into their center’s huge paws.
Crispin hustles back into position, putting his arms straight up in the air to defend against Grizzly’s short jumper.
Their chests barely bump together as the ball caroms off the rim.
The ref whistles Crispin for a foul, his fourth of the game. One more and he’s gone, with no one else near his size on the Trojans’ bench for a replacement.
On the sideline, Coach Kennedy goes ballistic at the ref, screaming, “He’s standing straight up! He’s entitled to that space! Look at him!”
Crispin freezes in place, arms over his head, pleading his case. “How is this a foul? Tell me. How?”
But the ref walks away, ignoring them both.
Grizzly sinks the first of two free throws, giving the Spartans a 70–69 lead. Then Kennedy calls time-out, pounding his right palm on top of the extended fingers of his left hand to make a T, as if the ref’s head was on a chopping block between them.
Inside the Trojans’ huddle, Kennedy calms himself enough to call the next offensive play. Then he turns to Crispin and says, “Don’t worry about fouling out. I don’t care if I have to send a midget out there to take your place. Step up to every challenge. You don’t ever want to lose backing down and have to carry that around with you. There’s a minute thirty-two on the clock. But I promise you, life is a hell of a lot longer than that. So stand tall.”
“I won’t sidestep a thing, Coach,” says Crispin. “I’ll take it all head-on.”
As the Trojans walk back onto the court, their cheerleaders are performing acrobatics.
Crispin sees Hope smiling for the crowd, standing on the shoulders of a pair of muscular guys from the pep squad. Then they toss her high into the air with her pom-poms waving, before she lands softly in their arms.
MARCH, THREE WEEKS AGO
FLYING SUSHI—that was the name across the front of Crispin’s helmet as he fastened his chin strap and then revved the throttle high.
He could feel the vibrations running up his spine and the horsepower surging through his body. Then his heel hit the kickstand. He pulled away from the restaurant with two full orders bungeed in behind him. As he took off through the streets of Troy, balancing his six-foot-ten-inch frame on that red moped scooter, he never felt more like a giant sitting on top of the world.
The Trojans had just won their first two NCAA Tournament games, just four shy of a National Championship.
They’d arrived back on campus the night before with nearly the entire student body cheering for them. There was a wild celebration at the fountain with the Trojan statue on the quad. Everyone was dressed in red. There were banners, and bottles of beer right out in the open, and the Trojan band played the school’s fight song over and over. And when Crispin locked lips with Hope, people started chanting, “Hope of Troy! Hope of Troy!”
Crispin was beat tired now. He’d gotten up early for classes and spent half the day catching up on missed assignments. But working the four to eight o’clock dinner shift meant good tip money. He could pocket maybe sixty dollars delivering for the only Chinese/Japanese takeout place in the city.
Crispin couldn’t afford to pass up on that kind of cash.
He was hell-bent on saving enough money for Hope’s engagement ring. He’d proposed without one, on the spur of the moment, after making that game-winning basket a month back.
In the five months they’d been dating, Crispin and Hope hadn’t talked about getting married. But the idea crept into Crispin’s mind a few days before he popped the question, after they’d seen a movie together where the characters got married on a whim in Las Vegas.
“Could you ever see us doing something crazy like that, running off to Vegas?” Crispin asked her on the walk back to the campus from the theater, with his arm around Hope’s shoulder to protect her from a chill in the night air.
“You mean, to elope?” she answered, snuggling closer to him. “My parents would kill me. I think my mom’s been planning my wedding since the day I was born. But I’ve got to admit, it was spontaneous. That’s a big part of being romantic—keeping things fresh.”
When they’d started dating, Hope made a point about wanting things to remain casual.
“My last boyfriend was really possessive and controlling,” she’d told Crispin the second or third time they’d hung out together. “He’d even sneak my cell out of my purse to see who’d been calling me. I just like my freedom now, knowing I’m not boxed into anything.”
But from the very beginning of their relationship, Crispin felt like they were meant for each other. He loved Hope’s smile and sense of humor. She was the only girl he knew who liked belches and eating beef jerky. And Crispin loved her high-pitched laugh, which made her sound like a little kid. And whenever he heard it, it made him laugh, too.
Hope didn’t seem to care about getting expensive gifts, though her parents were loaded and she used a weekly allowance to treat herself to lots of designer clothes. Crispin never spent a lot of money on Hope, because he didn’t have much—his working-class parents couldn’t afford to give him a fat allowance. Their dates were mostly to the movies or eating burgers at cheap diners, like Mel’s with the old-fashioned soda fountain at the counter. Even when Crispin brought her flowers, he’d usually picked them from some garden himself.
So Crispin was shocked when Hope pitched a fit over not getting a diamond engagement ring.
He’d seen her have blowups before—usually screaming about a professor over a low grade, or the cheerleading coach for not featuring her in a particular dance routine. But this was the first one aimed at him.
It was on the day after Crispin proposed at the game, once all of the reporters and TV cameras had gotten their feel-good story and disappeared.
“I talked to my mother this morning, and she’s absolutely right—how can I take this marriage proposal seriously without a ring?” said Hope, as they waited to share a chef’s salad at Mel’s. “How do I know you’re really committed to me? That you won’t change your mind in a week and leave me looking like a fool in front of half the country, on TMZ and Extra?”
Hearing that was like a sharp elbow to Crispin’s ribs. Only this wasn’t a basketball game, and he hadn’t thought of Hope as the opposition before.
Crispin never winced or wiped the sympathetic look off his face.
“When I asked you to marry me, that was from the heart, not a store,” Crispin said calmly, trying to hide his annoyance.
/> He could see that Hope was getting even more upset, shifting around in her chair like she might get up any second and walk out. That scared Crispin. He reached across the table and took her hand, trying to get her to relax. Nearly everyone knew they were engaged. He didn’t want to screw it up in less than a day.
“If that’s what you want, I’ll get you a ring you can be proud of,” he conceded. “I’ll buy you one with the biggest diamond you ever saw.”
“That’s not the point. It doesn’t have to be huge,” Hope said with an attitude, as if she was looking to pick a fight with Crispin. “It just has to show people that we’re committed to each other.”
Crispin was completely thrown.
What’s up with her? he wondered.
He was giving Hope what she wanted, but she still wasn’t happy.
Later that day, they checked out a downtown jewelry store together.
Hope didn’t see a ring she liked that cost less than five thousand dollars. And Crispin got pissed off at the salesman, who kept trying to steer Hope towards even more expensive rings.
“It’s going to take me at least five or six months to save up that kind of money,” Crispin told her when the salesman moved away to help another customer. “You really want to wait that long?”
“If I’m going to wear a ring for the rest of my life, I want it to be the right one,” said Hope. “I don’t want to look at it every day wishing it was something else.”
Crispin had already been delivering Flying Sushi for a few months. At the end of every shift, he’d bring Hope her favorite—an order of eel rolls with seaweed and wasabi on the side. But tonight, Hope told him not to bother—that she’d be grabbing a quick dinner with friends.
And as tired as Crispin was from the basketball, celebrating, and schoolwork, he was out making deliveries to buy Hope that ring.
