The Final Four

by Paul Volponi

  MJ wouldn’t chase after him, and just kept his own steady pace. Besides, Malcolm was wearing sweatpants, while MJ had on jeans that were getting heavy with sweat and chafing at both of his knees.

  By the time MJ finished and got back to their dorm room, Malcolm was already stretched out on his bed watching the Cartoon Network, with an ice pack on his lower lip.

  “I guess you got the workout you wanted tonight,” said MJ, heading straight for his laptop and the pile of books on his desk without even changing his wet clothes. “I’ve still got exams to study for and a reaction paper to plan out.”

  “You know, I’ve heard that exercise opens up the studying part of your brain,” said Malcolm, with any bad blood seemingly behind him. “Too bad you’re busy with all of that. It would have been a good time for you to tutor me in black history.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’d want to do right now—tutor you,” said MJ.

  “What the hell is a reaction paper anyway?” asked Malcolm, hitting the mute button on the remote.

  “Like that’s really important to you,” said MJ, flipping open the laptop and pressing the power button. “But if you have to know, it’s a short paper, just a page or two. It’s exactly what it sounds like: your reaction to something. I’m doing one on basketball for my sociology class.”

  “So what are you complaining about? That’s no work,” said Malcolm. “You write down how to dribble and shoot. Not that you’d really know how, especially foul shots. If you did, we wouldn’t have had to run so many of those damn stairs. But you could ask me about it, and I’d tutor you.”

  “It’s not about any of that,” said MJ, still standing beside his desk. “I’m going to write how street ball is all social.”

  “Street ball is social?” mocked Malcolm. “Maybe in that pansy-ass Dearborn where you’re from, where it’s soft. Because with that thought in your head, I know you never played on the streets of Detroit.”

  “First of all, I didn’t have it soft. I didn’t even have a blood-father around to steer me straight on man-stuff, just a stepdad who was too busy with his own kids. And street ball’s street ball no matter where you play. It’s all about society. The players on the court practically create one of their own without a ref there. They make the rules, negotiate calls, choose sides. You should know that,” said MJ. “President Obama grew up playing street ball. And he says flat out that it helped him to develop all kinds of social skills that he uses today.”

  “Yeah, where’d he grow up playing?” asked Malcolm, getting up to pull a tray of ice from the freezer in the mini-fridge.

  “Hawaii.”

  “Are you serious? What was going to happen to him on the streets there? Was some tourist in a flowered shirt going to slap his ass with a pineapple? I should have known this was about you and Obama,” said Malcolm. “I think you’re in love with that brother, like you got some kind of man crush on him.”

  “What, I shouldn’t look up to a black man who became president?” snapped MJ. “Who the hell should be my hero then? You?”

  “How about the dude you’re named after?” Malcolm shot back. “He’s the greatest baller of all time. He’s got mega-bucks, and his own sneaker brand.”

  “That kind of fame’s not everything.”

  “Obama’s not even the greatest president ever. His face isn’t carved out in stone on that mountain, and his picture’s not on any money,” said Malcolm, flexing the ice tray until a row of cubes popped free.

  “I hear enough about Jordan every day with this name. I don’t need to think about him any more than that.”

  “I just think you’re jealous because you can’t live up to his skills,” said Malcolm. “I think you should legally change your name to Barack Obama.”

  “And that would be easier for me?”

  “Hey, I’ve seen enough of your game to know you’ve got a better chance of becoming president than the greatest basketball player that ever lived,” answered Malcolm, putting more ice cubes into the pack.

  “I’ll just keep this name. I’m used to it now.”

  “If Michael Jordan was my name, I wouldn’t complain about it.”

  “You wouldn’t?”

  “No, it would put everybody’s eyes on me, and make me practice even harder.”

  “Not me,” said MJ, finally sitting down at his desk and pulling a book from the middle of the pile.

  “When I was fifteen, the cops nailed me for drinking beer on a street corner. I didn’t have any ID. So when they asked my name, I tried to scramble for a fake one fast. I think Michael Jordan must have been on my brain, because I said something like Michael Jenkins or Michael Johnson,” said Malcolm.

  “Did you get away with it?” asked MJ, his eyes glued to the computer screen in front of him.

  “Nah, they knew straight off. They made me write it down, along with my phone number and address, and I spelled ‘Michael’ wrong. I put the e before the a.”

  “That’s brutal. No wonder you need a tutor.”

  “My pops was pissed when the cops told him I tried to use a fake name.”

  “Why?”

  “He told me, ‘Son, the only thing I have for sure to give you in this life is your name. I went and named you Malcolm for a reason, after Malcolm X. So don’t throw it away, and don’t disgrace it.’”

  “I didn’t know you were named after X,” said MJ, turning to look at Malcolm.

  “Well, I am,” said Malcolm. “You know what you need, if you can’t handle all of that Jordan jazz?”

  “What’s that?”

  “A middle name to break it up,” said Malcolm, surfing channels with the sound still off.

  “I’ve already got one. It’s Jeffrey.”

  “Then that’s what you should call yourself—Michael Jeffrey Jordan,” said Malcolm, before stretching himself out on his bed again, and pressing the ice bag back to his lower lip.

  “There’s only one problem,” said MJ, behind a half-smile. “That’s Michael Jordan’s middle name, too. Like I told you, my father was his biggest fan.”

  LIVE RADIO BROADCAST OF THE GAME

  7:49 P.M. [CT]

  There are three broadcasters: a play-by-play man, a color commentator, and sideline reporter Rachel Adams.

  Play-by-Play Man: A terrific attempt by Michigan State’s Michael Jordan at trying to save that loose ball, diving into the Troy bench.

  Color Commentator: It was just too far out of reach. But this young buck embodies the word hustle.

  Play-by-Play Man: As Jordan’s teammates help him back onto the court, let’s quickly reset the particulars here in double overtime. The Spartans hold a five-point advantage, with two-eighteen remaining on the game clock. Trojans’ possession. Just seven seconds left on the shot clock. At stake, a trip to the National Championship Game against either Duke or North Carolina on this floor two nights from now.

  Color Commentator: And now at the mouth of the tunnel leading back to the locker rooms, you can see two different shades of blue as the players from both Duke and Carolina gather in separate corners, waiting for this contest to end. Their game should have started nearly twenty minutes ago, but it’s been pushed back by the two overtimes. Yes, they want to witness who wins this Trojan War. But I can guarantee you, they’ve been pacing their locker rooms like caged lions waiting to get out here. I know. As a player, I’ve been in that situation before.

  Play-by-Play Man: The Trojans inbound the ball. Remember, they are without their floor general, Roko Bacic, who went to the bench after a devastating screen set by Baby Bear Wilkins. The shot clock now a nemesis for Troy. It’s down to four seconds. A Trojan shot from the corner. It’s off the mark. Michigan State has the ball and a chance to really stretch their lead.

  Color Commentator: Troy isn’t the same team on offense or defense without the Red Bull. If the Spartans score here, a seven- or eight-point deficit might be too much for the shorthanded Trojans to overcome.

  Play-by-Play Man: The Michigan State
fans are on their feet here in the Superdome. They’re really bringing the noise. McBride on the dribble. He slips past his man. A fourteen-footer from the left side. It’s off the rim, no good. Crispin Rice rebounds for the Trojans. That quiets the fans in green. We’re down to a minute thirty-seven on the clock.

  Color Commentator: Big-time players are supposed to make that kind of open shot, especially under these circumstances, to put a game like this out of reach. I’ve got plenty of respect for the political statement Malcolm McBride made yesterday. But I wonder if the weight of his words, along with all of that hype we heard from him about blowing Troy out of the building, has him thinking too much out there.

  Play-by-Play Man: So you agree with some of his economic comments about the state of college basketball?

  Color Commentator: I do. (Clearing his throat with a small cough) I just didn’t think it was the proper forum to make them, taking the focus away from some of the players around him who worked their butts off to get here. But once it’s out, you can’t put the toothpaste back into the tube.

  Play-by-Play Man: Troy advancing the basketball. They run the high pick-and-roll screen with Rice. He shoots. The ball rattles around the rim and falls home. The Trojans have cut the lead to three points, seventy-eight to seventy-five, with a minute and twelve to go! Let’s get a quick update from our Rachel Adams, stationed courtside.

  Rachel Adams: (Speaking hurriedly) Roko Bacic has been literally tugging at the coat sleeve of Alvin Kennedy on the Trojan bench, attempting to get himself back into the game. And he’s been talking to his coach nonstop as Kennedy walks the sidelines. But the Troy coach has yet to budge, probably over concerns that Bacic could have a slight concussion.

  Play-by-Play Man: Michigan State running some time off the clock. The ball moves from Cousins inside to Jordan outside, now Jordan to McBride. Malcolm McBride takes his defender off the dribble. A running floater in the lane. Boyce a hand in McBride’s face. McBride nailed it! He nailed it with Boyce hanging all over him! It’s back to a five-point spread, eighty to seventy-five, Spartans on top!

  Color Commentator: Clutch shot by McBride. Sometimes it’s easy to forget he’s just a year removed from high school, still waiting to turn nineteen. Of course, we wouldn’t be in these overtimes if he didn’t send us here with that incredible shot at the end of regulation. But that seems like ancient history now.

  Play-by-Play Man: Ancient history, yes. That was nearly ten minutes of game clock ago. So much has happened since. Right now fifty-three seconds remain in double overtime. The Trojan faithful in red are imploring their team to score. Coach Kennedy is spinning his hand in a circle on the sideline, asking his team to play faster. The Red Bull is on his feet, too, behind Kennedy, cheering his teammates on.

  Color Commentator: It’s just superior defense by the Spartans without the threat of the Bull to break them down.

  Play-by-Play Man: It’s stifling the Trojan offense. Rice has to force up a shot. It’s no good. Offensive rebound, Boyce. He puts it up and scores! The Trojans won’t go away. They’re within three points again at eighty to seventy-seven!

  Color Commentator: Aaron Boyce has already defeated Hurricane Katrina here. So he should have no fear of the mighty Spartans.

  Play-by-Play Man: Just thirty-eight seconds to play. The Spartans can run the thirty-five-second shot clock completely down, leaving Troy only three seconds to spare. Troy can’t stop the clock.

  Color Commentator: That’s right. The Trojans used their time-out when the Bull got shaken up, trying to keep him on the court. But if the Spartans score, it could be over.

  Play-by-Play Man: Coach Eddie Barker, who must have nearly no voice left at all, is pushing both palms down, telling his team to take it slow.

  Color Commentator: The Spartans hold all of the cards at this point. They just need to execute.

  Play-by-Play Man: McBride in a holding pattern with his dribble. The shot clock down to twelve seconds.

  Color Commentator: Sometimes it’s too stagnant with the ball just in the hands of McBride.

  Play-by-Play Man: Seven seconds to shoot. Ten on the game clock. Now McBride makes his move. Several Trojans converge on him. McBride finally forced to kick the ball to a wide-open Wilkins from the elbow of the foul line. It doesn’t go! Boyce rebounds for the Trojans. He dribbles out of the pack. Three seconds. Two seconds. Boyce lets it fly from just past half-court! Oh! It’s good! It’s good! Can you believe that? Aaron Boyce has just tied this game for Troy and sent us into a third overtime! Unbelievable! A portion of this Superdome is wild with exuberance! Another portion of it completely stunned!

  Color Commentator: No matter what transpires in the remainder of this game, I think it’s time for someone to say, “Instant classic!”

  “He who believes in nobody knows that he himself is not to be trusted.”

  —Red Auerbach, who coached the Boston Celtics to nine NBA titles and drafted the first African-American player into the league in 1950

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  MALCOLM McBRIDE

  7:53 P.M. [CT]

  In the midst of Troy’s wild celebration, with their players hugging each other and slapping hands, Malcolm won’t walk off the court. His deflated teammates are already by their bench, waiting to huddle up around Coach Barker to prepare for an improbable third overtime.

  “McBride!” bellows Grizzly.

  “Malc, please, let’s go!” begs Baby Bear.

  Hearing their voices makes Malcolm’s stance more solid, and the soles of his kicks grip tighter to the floor.

  “Go where!” Malcolm shouts back. “I know where I need to be! Do any of you?”

  Then he stares down his teammates from the middle of the court, like there isn’t an ounce of real heart between them.

  Barker raises a pair of fingers to his mouth, whistling sharply for Malcolm. When Malcolm doesn’t budge, MJ takes a first step to go after him. But an intense glare from Barker freezes MJ in his tracks.

  Then Barker walks out onto the court himself.

  “Do our guys really want to win, Coach?” asks Malcolm, shifting his weight towards Barker. “I won this game for us twice already. Am I going to have to do it again? Against a team without their best player?”

  The two usually act like magnets that repel each other. But at this intense moment their polarities somehow attract.

  Barker puts a hand on Malcolm’s lower back, escorting him towards their bench.

  “That’s why I recruited you,” says Barker in a strained voice. “Because it burns inside of you to be somebody.”

  “No joke—better tell our guys to step it up,” says Malcolm, increasing the speed of his stride and pulling away from his coach. “I can’t do it all alone.”

  “That’s right, you can’t,” affirms Barker, almost to himself. “Now when are you going to learn that?”

  NOVEMBER, SIXTEEN MONTHS AGO

  Malcolm rode the elevator downstairs with his father. Through the lobby’s double glass doors, they saw Coach Barker’s black Cadillac Escalade pull up to St. Antoine Street, in front of the Brewster-Douglass Houses. Then they walked outside together to the street to meet him.

  Despite the chill in the air, there was a mob of a dozen dudes hanging out near the curb on the busy street, where a noisy sanitation truck was rolling forward maybe twenty yards up ahead. And when Barker stepped out of his ride, some of them recognized him right away from TV.

  “Yo, it’s Coach B!”

  “Sign me up to play at State!”

  “I bet he’s here to recruit Malcolm!”

  “I need me a scholarship, too. I can really ball!”

  Barker had a few words for every one of them before he said, “Boys, you’ll have to excuse me now. I need to spend some important time with the McBrides.”

  Malcolm’s brow furrowed when Barker spoke to his father first.

  “Mr. McBride, what a pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m Edward Barker, men’s head basketball coach at Michigan Sta
te University, one of the finest institutions of higher learning in the country.” He shook hands with Malcolm’s father. “I’m here to speak to you about your son, and about securing his future.”

  Barker and Malcolm’s father began to talk as Malcolm stood there watching them. The coach had been there for maybe two or three minutes and hadn’t even looked in Malcolm’s direction yet. And a stream of steamy breath seeped from Malcolm’s partially opened mouth as his foot tapped at the concrete.

  He’d heard that Barker was a baller in his day. That he was one of the toughest hard-nosed white players to ever come off the streets of Michigan. But if Malcolm had been holding a rock in his hands at that moment, he would have challenged that hotshot coach to a game of one-on-one as a real introduction.

  Suddenly, Barker turned to Malcolm and said, “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you in person for a while now. I’ve seen the tapes of your game. You’re one of the most talented young players anywhere. That’s a fact. I want to see you wearing Spartan green next year, and leading Michigan State to another National Championship.”

  When he finally shook Barker’s hand, Malcolm winced at the strength of his grip. And the coach took hold of Malcolm like he wasn’t about to let go.

  Before they all went upstairs, and with a few of the dudes hanging out on the street still tuned in, Barker turned back to Malcolm’s father and asked, “Is this where the tragedy happened with your daughter?”

  “About thirty feet away, over by that hydrant,” Malcom’s father answered.

  “I have two daughters myself. I can’t imagine what your family must have gone through,” said Barker, bowing his head and making the sign of the cross. “Malcolm, I know about your tattoo. I respect that. I think it says a lot about who you are and what you value in life.”

  “Thanks,” said Malcolm, who was wearing long sleeves and feeling a little bit like Barker had just nudged him off balance by bringing up something so personal.