The Final Four

by Paul Volponi

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CRISPIN RICE

  7:56 P.M. [CT]

  Crispin, sandwiched between a pair of rival Spartans, sprints towards the sidelines at full speed after a loose ball. His intense focus is split between the basketball and keeping his feet in bounds. The sideline is closing in fast, and everything surrounding the two pinpoints of his vision is a blur. The ball goes out of bounds off a green jersey, into the Trojans’ cheering section. Crispin desperately throws on the brakes. His sneakers drum the floor beneath him—bop, bop, bop. Then the rock ricochets off the shoulder of a red cheerleading sweater and into the hands of Hope. Crispin straightens his body, fighting his momentum in order to come to a complete stop. The two are face-to-face now, with just a few feet separating them. The Superdome crowd erupts in applause for the pair. Then Hope takes a step back with the ball and loses her balance. As she’s falling, Crispin reaches out and catches her.

  The cheers grow even louder as Crispin pulls Hope to her feet.

  “Thanks,” says a flustered Hope, clutching the ball tightly to her chest.

  Before Crispin can respond, a referee steps between them. He takes the basketball from Hope and then blows his whistle to resume play.

  With the score knotted up 82–82 and everything in motion again around him, Crispin peeks back to see Hope being hoisted into the air by a guy on the pep squad.

  MARCH, THREE WEEKS AGO

  As soon as Crispin finished his deliveries for Flying Sushi, he went back to his room at the athletes’ dorm on Troy’s campus. His roommate, Aaron, was there with Roko, who lived in the dorm room next door.

  The pair had taken a break from studying and were playing Crispin’s Wii.

  There were books spread out on Aaron’s bed and on the floor of the cramped room, as the two stood in front of a TV, flicking the controllers tied to their wrists, tossing a virtual Frisbee to a tail-wagging dog for points.

  “Hey, C-Rice, you okay?” asked Aaron, looking away from the screen. “You’re all pale and sweaty, man. And I mean paler than usual.”

  “Yeah, I’m all right,” answered Crispin, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Just a rough day at work.”

  “You sure?” Roko followed up. “Because you look like you just ate some really bad sushi.”

  “Some customer stiff you out of a tip or shut the door on you again without paying?” asked Aaron.

  “That stuff really happens?” asked Roko.

  “Believe me, you don’t know what you’re going to get when you knock on somebody’s door,” answered Crispin, a second before his cell started playing “We Belong Together.”

  It was a text message from Hope.

  Crispin sat down on the edge of his bed and read it to himself while Aaron celebrated his pooch scoring a perfect one hundred points for a leaping catch in the center of a bull’s-eye.

  ?4U 1DR WHAT YOU THOUGHT I WAS REALLY DOING THERE.

  CHEATING? AYS? B/C AFAIR YOU’RE THE ONE WHO PROPOSED MARRIAGE.

  SO YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO HAVE MORE FAITH IN US. TMOT!

  Crispin didn’t reply.

  “You know, I don’t think I’ll ever figure women out,” Crispin said, deleting the text.

  “It’s all about communication, man, just like hoops,” said Aaron.

  “You think?” said Crispin, stuffing the phone down into his pants pocket.

  “Headaches from your job and your girl on the same day. What’s that like?” asked Roko, loosening the controller from his wrist.

  Crispin just shook his head and said, “Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

  “Don’t sweat it too much,” said Aaron. “It’ll probably all work itself out.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she’s not the one for me,” said Crispin, glancing up at the poster of Sports Illustrated swimsuit models on the wall next to his bed. “At least these girls never turn things back around on you.”

  “That’s a big thing to say. You want to talk?” Roko probed again.

  But Crispin’s mind was somewhere else, and he never even heard the question.

  Twenty minutes later, after Aaron had gone out for something to eat, Crispin was stretched out on his bed, staring at some world history notes.

  Heading for the open door with his arms full of textbooks, Roko stopped and said, “Know what I like about you as a teammate? You’ve got your eyes open on the court all the time. I’m impressed by that.”

  “And how’s that going to help me off the basketball court?” asked Crispin.

  “Don’t close your eyes to what you see, in you or anybody else.”

  “What do you mean exactly?”

  “It’s better to face stuff than pretend it’s not happening.”

  “You sound like you know something here that I should,” said Crispin.

  “No, I’m not smarter than anybody about these things. I’m no James Bond double-oh-seven type with the ladies. But if you need to talk or anything, I’ll be next door. I’m going steady with these books tonight,” said Roko, before he turned the corner into the hallway.

  The next morning, Crispin was waiting for Hope on the quad, in front of the fountain and the statue of the Trojan warrior.

  He knew she’d pass that way for her nine o’clock class in advanced economics.

  Hope was right on time, and she walked straight up to Crispin.

  “Listen, I’m sorry about our arguing last night,” she said in a low voice, looking around to see that no one else was within earshot. “I hardly slept at all. Let’s just get past it. I was probably as much at fault as you.”

  “Me?” replied Crispin, with a bit more volume. “How do you think any of this was on me?”

  “It takes two to argue,” Hope answered. “It always does.”

  “So it was my fault for finding you in a strange apartment with a guy?” asked Crispin, appearing even taller as he shrugged his shoulders.

  “You know something—you don’t talk to me, you talk at me. That’s why you don’t hear,” said Hope, pulling her books in tighter against her chest. “I already explained who he was. Just let it go.”

  “It’s not that easy to forget—you alone with somebody else.”

  “That’s so insulting,” Hope countered quickly. “If that’s who you think I am, why did you ask me to marry you? And why did you do it in front of the whole world? To trap me? So I couldn’t have a chance to think about it? So I’d come off looking like a total bitch if I said no?”

  “That wasn’t it at all. It was about the moment,” said Crispin. “Just tell the truth about that guy.”

  “All right, you want to know the truth,” said Hope, stamping her heel on the concrete path. “Last night was really about your spying, about you not trusting me, and trying to control me. I’m your fiancée, not your property. How about a little room to breathe?”

  “You need more room, you’ve got it,” said Crispin, walking off.

  “Thank you,” said Hope, walking away in the opposite direction. “Because I deserve it.”

  “Sometimes a player’s greatest challenge is coming to grips with his role on the team.”

  —Scottie Pippin, a Hall of Famer who won six NBA Championships with the Chicago Bulls playing beside Michael Jordan

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  MICHAEL JORDAN

  7:57 P.M. [CT]

  MJ sees Malcolm turning the corner with the ball. So he steps out to set a screen against Aaron Boyce, who’s guarding Malcolm. MJ times it just right, giving Aaron a real jolt on contact. Malcolm gets fouled driving to the basket by another Trojan. And once the play is stopped by a ref’s whistle, Aaron confronts MJ.

  “You guys like those bullshit little screens, don’t you? You want to hurt somebody, right? That’s why our point guard’s on the bench,” spouts Aaron, getting up into MJ’s face. “You guys think you’re thugs.”

  “We’re just playing the game hard. The way it’s supposed to be played,” MJ answers with just as much
gas. “Maybe your squad’s too soft for us.”

  That’s when a handful of players from each side pull the arguing pair apart.

  “If we were balling outside in the park, without these refs, I’d show you what tough is, little boy,” adds Aaron, resisting his teammates’ restraint. “I’d lay down the kind of rules you guys don’t have the heart for. The kind of rules to make you go home early.”

  “I’ll meet you there tomorrow,” says MJ, with Malcolm giving him an approving slap on the rump. “No cameras. No refs. Nothing. Just you, me, and a rock. Any way you want to get down.”

  The two continue to exchange glares as Malcolm converts a pair of free throws and the Spartans take an 84–82 lead with 2:30 left to play.

  Michael Jordan

  Sociology Q205

  Reaction Paper: Basketball Is Life!

  (The Social Order of Street Ball)

  Go anywhere that you’ll find an iron hoop attached to a backboard. It could be in a crowded city park or a sweat-filled gymnasium. You probably won’t have to stand around too long until you hear somebody say, “Basketball is life!”

  The comparison is really not an overexaggeration, or the blind passion of some teenager who believes he is going to be a pro player and cash in on a multimillion-dollar contract one day.

  Pickup or street basketball, which is almost always played without a coach or referee to enforce rules and regulations, is a social game that helps to build many of the qualities you need to excel in life.

  How are those qualities developed in the players?

  Because there is no power structure (coaches or refs), it is the players who build their own society and social order, establishing the rules, rewards, and punishments themselves on a 94-by-50-foot rectangular territory they’ve claimed.

  Of course, if you’re already part of one of these self-governing pickup basketball packs, you know what I’m talking about. You understand that I purposely choose the word pack because each park, gym, or ballyard across the country has its own pecking order of perceived winners and losers, somebodies and nobodies, and every caliber of player in between.

  Whether you play half-court (one-on-one, two-on-two, three-on-three) or full-court (five-on-five), you also understand that basketball skills are only a part of what you need to improve your position in the pack. You’ll need to hone other skills as well, including the ability to communicate and negotiate in a world where the sides can completely change every twenty minutes.

  Here is just a partial list of the important skills you’ll need to develop:

  1. Choosing sides

  2. Settling arguments

  3. Bonding with strangers

  4. Competing against friends

  5. Accepting various roles on a team

  6. Calling fouls

  7. Honesty and values

  If you asked me where I was born, I’d answer, in the city of Dearborn, Michigan. However, if you asked me where I grew up, I’d answer, on a Grindley Park basketball court. It was there I learned to be the person that I am.

  I endured many trials during pickup games, and the accompanying lessons weren’t always the easiest ones. But I made it, and I benefited greatly from the experience.

  For example, what would you do if the basketball nicked off of your fingertips and went out of bounds, but no one else noticed but you?

  Plenty of times I’ve stepped up and said, “That ball is off of me—it belongs to the other team.” But did the players on the other team respect me enough to speak up and give my team possession when the ball nicked off of them? I can’t say for sure, but I’d like to think that my honesty made a difference.

  Of course, the players on my own team were really annoyed when my honesty once caused us to lose by a single point and we had to sit on the sidelines for close to an hour waiting to play again.

  These types of situations come up all the time.

  How about when a player purposely hits you with an elbow? When a player on the other team, or your team, cheats on every call or changes the score? When you’re choosing sides, do you pick a better player over a close friend? When someone you barely know isn’t pulling his weight or is taking too many bad shots, do you say something to him about it?

  I’m proud to say that in my time as a pickup player I was able to negotiate all of these tough situations and grow from them.

  But the pressure that comes with these situations isn’t always easy. Players do fail at finding a place in this social order. I’ve witnessed hundreds of them run out of the park, and run off from the pack.

  All of them weren’t literally chased through the gates, though. Rather, they were shamed, ignored, or chastised into leaving. It was either that or accept their assigned roles as bottom-feeders—something they couldn’t do.

  What did those players who were run off really lose, if anything? It’s a question that is nearly impossible to answer, because there is no way of measuring what they might have gained through success in street basketball. And what they might have applied that growing skill set to next—maybe the classroom, a career, relationships, or family.

  Someone who did benefit from decoding the social order of street basketball is the forty-fourth president of the United States, Barack Obama, who grew up playing pickup games in Hawaii.

  In his book Dreams from My Father (1995), President Obama credits his experience as a teenage pickup player with teaching him an “attitude” and “respect” that translated beyond the court.

  Back then, the local players called him “Barry O’Bomber” because of the young left-hander’s penchant for shooting long jumpers.

  President Obama, who is viewed as one of our greatest public speakers, also learned about trash-talking on the courts. He learned that you could “talk stuff” to the opposition, but that you should “shut the hell up if you couldn’t back it up.”

  That was probably a very good lesson for someone who is now commander in chief of the United States Armed Forces.

  But even if you don’t grow up to be president, participating in the social order of street ball can have a positive effect on you. Perhaps at this very moment, a future policeman is calling a foul on another pickup player. Or a future teacher is explaining to somebody why his or her move was a traveling violation. Or someone destined to become a judge is negotiating a dispute between two rival players who see the same action on the court differently.

  As for myself, I hope to one day become a broadcaster. Basketball has a huge oral tradition, whether it is describing incredible moves, trash-talking, or communicating with other players on the court. I know that the language skills I’ve sharpened through years of playing street ball and participating in its society will serve me well in achieving my broadcasting dream.

  “There is nothing wrong with dedication and goals, but if you focus on yourself, all the lights fade away and you become a fleeting moment in life.”

  —“Pistol Pete” Maravich, college basketball’s all-time leading scorer, who averaged 44.2 points per game

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  MALCOLM McBRIDE

  7:58 P.M. [CT]

  On defense, Malcolm is hounding the Trojans’ substitute point guard, harassing him as he tries to advance the ball over half-court.

  “You can’t deal with this kind of heat,” says Malcolm, chasing him into a corner. “I know you want to be back on that bench, not out here with me.”

  Malcolm can read the frustration in his opponent’s eyes, and he knows a pass is coming, just to escape all of the pressure.

  A fraction of a second before the ball leaves the opposing point guard’s hands, Malcolm leaps into a passing lane to intercept it. His anticipation is perfect. But Malcolm’s legs are already in high gear, streaking towards the opposite hoop before he even secures the ball. And Malcolm fumbles it away out of bounds.

  After a few more strides, he punches his open left hand with his right fist in response.

  Then Malcolm scolds the hand, as if it were
a teammate who’d let him down.

  “That was going to be steal number seven tonight, my most in any game. You really blew that shit,” he snaps at it.

  Walking back into position to defend the point guard, Malcolm tells him, “Don’t worry, another steal’s coming. I can feel it.”

  Within the next twenty seconds of game clock, Malcolm steps in front of a crosscourt pass intended for a Trojan. He makes the steal and bolts for the basket at the far end of the court. Up ahead of him is a wide-open Baby Bear Wilkins asking for the ball. But Malcolm keeps possession of the rock, rocketing past Baby Bear to score on the breakaway layup.

  “Sorry, Double B, I just wanted to make sure it got done,” says Malcolm.

  “So long as we beat these guys, Malc,” says Baby Bear. “That’s all I care about.”

  The basket gives the Spartans an 86–82 lead with 1:55 remaining in triple overtime. And in Malcolm’s mind, he knows that bucket represents his thirty-second and thirty-third points of the game.

  NOVEMBER, SIXTEEN MONTHS AGO

  A few weeks after giving his verbal commitment to play for Coach Barker, Malcolm and his father went to Elmwood Cemetery to visit Trisha’s grave. It wasn’t something they had planned. It was Saturday on Thanksgiving weekend, Malcolm’s senior year of high school, and his mother had taken the car to go shopping with her sister.

  “Son, I feel like going to see Trisha this morning,” said Malcolm’s father, looking out of their living room window. “It’s starting to snow outside, first of the season. Your sister loved to play in the snow when she was little. You both did. Made me pull the two of you around on that Flexible Flyer for hours, like I was some kind of workhorse. So it’s got me thinking about her. You want to tag along?”

  “Sure, Pop, I’ll go. Give her the news about my scholarship in person,” answered Malcolm, turning off the TV, before he grabbed his good corduroy coat from the hall closet.

  Malcolm and his father rode the city bus to Elmwood.