No Slam Dunk

by Mike Lupica

He asked her then for his dad’s apartment number. She gave it to him. She said that if his dad wasn’t there, Mr. Correa should bring Wes straight home, that she didn’t want Wes to go looking for his father.

  “I wouldn’t even know where to look,” Wes said.

  “I would,” his mom said.

  The Woodside Garden Apartments were a bunch of redbrick buildings that all looked the same to Wes. From the parking lot where Mr. Correa pulled in they could see a big lawn in the middle of some of the buildings that was more brown than green, separated by a series of black iron fences. Somehow the place made Wes think of a prison. And maybe it was a kind of prison for his dad, who more and more, at least to Wes, seemed trapped by his own sad life.

  Wes stood in front of the first-floor apartment where he knew his dad lived. Mr. Correa said he’d wait in the car. Wes saw his dad’s car parked in the space that had the number of his apartment painted on it. Wes told Mr. Correa that since his dad was here, he didn’t have to wait, his dad could probably drive him home.

  But on the way over, Wes told Mr. Correa what had happened at the house the day before and how his mom had called out his dad for drinking.

  “I got no place to be,” Joe Correa said. “If you end up deciding you want to stay awhile, come back out, and we’ll figure something out.”

  Wes walked up the short walk and stood in front of the door. The front drapes were closed. He wondered if his dad might somehow be peeking through them and could see him standing in front of the door.

  Man, Wes thought, when did it get this hard just to see my own dad?

  When did everything in his life that had once been so easy get this hard?

  He rang the bell and waited.

  Nothing.

  Maybe his dad had gone for another of his walks. Maybe he had gone to a bar—even though it was still pretty early on a Sunday afternoon—to drink and maybe watch the Ravens’ game on television. Before his dad had shown up at the house yesterday, Wes would never have thought of him going to a bar during the day.

  He did now.

  Rang the buzzer again.

  Nothing.

  Crickets, as his mom liked to say.

  Would he really not answer the door if he knew Wes was out here?

  Wes started to bang on the door then, and then kept banging, hitting it harder and harder with his right fist, not worrying that he was doing that with his shooting hand.

  In that moment all the anger that had been building inside him, the anger about so many things going on in his life right now, came out of him.

  Wes didn’t care if anybody else at the Woodside Garden Apartments was watching him or could hear the racket he was making.

  He wanted to hit something and keep hitting.

  Before long he had his hands over his head, balled into fists, and was pounding with both of them, and would have kept doing that except somebody grabbed his hands from behind, freezing them over his head.

  For a second he thought it might be his dad, maybe coming home from wherever he’d been.

  Wes twisted around and saw that it was Mr. Correa, who said in a soft voice, “Let’s take you home.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  “I JUST KNOW HE WAS IN there,” Wes said to his mom.

  He didn’t tell her about the way he’d pounded on the door or the way Mr. Correa had finally stopped him. Neither did Mr. Correa.

  “But if he was in there,” Wes said, “why wouldn’t he answer the door?”

  “Because he was afraid,” she said.

  When he’d first come home, he’d only gone in the house long enough to get his basketball. At least he could go outside and pound that without hurting himself. Or feeling more hurt than he already did.

  He knew he should have been basketballed out. But he wasn’t. Once he was outside, dribbling the ball, shooting it, he began to feel as if he could breathe normally again.

  It was having the ball in his hands.

  One ball.

  His.

  He was at least in control of that. He was in control of something, at least for a little while.

  When he was back inside, he sat down at the kitchen table while his mom prepared dinner, one of his favorites, her world-class lasagna. She had been in the shower when he first got home. This was the first chance they’d gotten to talk about what had happened at the Woodside Garden Apartments.

  “So you’re saying that even today he was afraid to see me because of what happened yesterday?” Wes said.

  She turned to face him.

  “He’s not just afraid of you,” she said. “He’s afraid of everything right now, everything that’s outside once he opens that door.”

  She let out a big sigh. He was afraid that she might start crying. Right now, Wes was the one afraid. Of that.

  “He’s afraid of life,” she said, “probably because of all the death and dying he saw over there.”

  “I know I keep telling you this,” Wes said, “but we’ve got to find out what happened.”

  “And I keep telling you,” she said, “that putting more pressure on him isn’t going to help. I’ve talked to a lot of people about this. They believe that him wanting to tell us will be the beginning of him helping himself.”

  She smiled, but even doing that seemed to tire her out. Usually she loved having Wes in the kitchen with her while she cooked, him telling her about his day at school, her telling Wes not to leave anything out. He’d say that a lot of it was boring. She’d say that was impossible, to forget about that commercial on television, that to her Wes was the most interesting man in the world.

  “But I’m only twelve,” he’d say, like it was part of their routine.

  “Okay,” she’d say, “the most interesting boy in the world.”

  She turned back to the stove and pushed a spoon through her sauce. Then she turned back to Wes and wiped her hands on the side of an apron that had WORLD’S GREATEST COOK written across the front.

  “Tell me a happy story,” she said. “I’ll pay you.”

  It was another part of their routine.

  “How much?”

  “Ten million dollars,” she said. This time when she smiled she really seemed to mean it. “And don’t worry, I’m good for it.”

  So Wes told her about what had happened before he and Mr. Correa had gotten to his dad’s apartment, what had happened at open gym, playing as well as he did with the big guys, telling her in great detail what the last play had been like.

  For a few minutes, just the two of them in the kitchen, they both were happy.

  Neither one of them was afraid of the world outside.

  TWENTY-THREE

  WES AND THE HAWKS HAD a solid week of practice.

  There were no problems between Wes and Dinero at practice. If you just watched them in scrimmages, and didn’t know anything about what had happened between them so far, you wouldn’t have believed there had ever been any problems between them.

  It wasn’t as if they’d suddenly turned into Steph Curry and Kevin Durant, though.

  They weren’t working together like that.

  But without them talking about it, they were trying to work together, put it that way. As Emmanuel kept telling Wes, he and Dinero were a work in progress.

  Now it was Saturday morning, the big court at Annapolis High and they were getting ready to play the Potomac Valley Rockets, and Wes was hoping that he and Dinero—and everybody else—would play like they’d practiced.

  “Things were good this week,” E said as they were warming up.

  “They’ve been good before, ’fore they turned bad,” Wes said.

  E grinned.

  “Someday,” he said, “if I’m really, really lucky, I hope to have a positive attitude like that.”

  “Hope for the best, prepare for the worst,” Wes said. “Who
said that?”

  E laughed. “You!” he said.

  “Maybe the one who’s a work in progress here is me,” Wes said.

  “Tell me about it,” E said. “Sometimes you remind me about something my mom likes to say, about a sunny day looking for a cloud.”

  “That’s not me, swear,” Wes said. “I come to every game hoping it’s gonna be the best we’re ever gonna play.”

  “Hold that thought,” Emmanuel Pike said, and then Coach Saunders was waving them over and telling them it was time to huddle up.

  “Now, this isn’t directed at any of you,” Coach said when they were all around him. “Fact is, it’s directed at all of you. But I want the ball to move today like it’s never moved before. I don’t want to see any ball stoppers out there. Because when that ball does move, we look like the best team in this whole league. When it doesn’t? Y’all still look like five guys on the playground who just met each other.”

  He was slowly turning as he talked, so they all felt as if he were speaking directly to them.

  “Understood?” he said.

  Nobody said anything until Wes said, “Understood, Coach.”

  Then he surprised himself by saying in a loud voice to his teammates, “Who is the best team in this league?”

  “Hawks are!” they all yelled back at him.

  The kid Wes was guarding today, and who was guarding him, was named Davon Gundy. The Rockets’ point guard, about the same size as Dinero, was named Paul Peters, with hair that was even more blond than Wes’s was, nearly white.

  But they weren’t the players on the Rockets the Hawks were all looking at, because they were looking at the opposing center, Hassan Jones, who had to be the biggest player in the league, already six three even at the age of twelve. Emmanuel had looked him up on Facebook during the week.

  Now E whispered to Wes, “Not sure they even measure that guy in feet and inches. More like they do with skyscrapers, and go by floors.” E looked around as if he were scared and whispered again to Wes, “I want my mommy.”

  “Now who’s got the bad attitude?” Wes said to him.

  “Oh, heck,” Emmanuel Pike said, “let’s knock him down to size along with the rest of them.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Wes said.

  Forget about preparing for the worst, he thought, now that the game was starting. Forget about everything. Just go make this the best Saturday of the whole season.

  Now that, he told himself, was a plan.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  HASSAN JONES, IN ALL WAYS, turned out to be a load. DeAndre Hill couldn’t handle him. Neither could Emmanuel, when Coach switched him over. It was why, a minute into the second quarter, Coach called a quick timeout, called them over, and said they were going to try the box-and-one defense they practiced occasionally. One man would still be guarding Hassan. The other four players would go into a two-two zone.

  “Who’s gonna be the one on Hassan?” Wes asked.

  “You are,” Coach Saunders said.

  He had a big smile on his face, as if he’d just given Wes the best news in the world.

  Wes’s response was to look over his shoulder, as if Coach Saunders had to be talking to someone behind him, because he couldn’t possibly be talking to Wes.

  “Wait,” Wes said, “you really are talking to me?”

  “Yup.”

  “Coach,” Wes said, “you know I don’t back down from a challenge. But the guy is, like, twice my size.”

  Coach said, “Haven’t you ever heard the one about how it’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog?”

  “No,” Wes said.

  “Well, now you have. You’re my best on-the-ball defender,” Coach said. “I want you to guard like that when he doesn’t have the ball. And when he does, I’ll get you help.”

  The Hawks had been trailing by eight points when Coach made the switch on defense and put Wes on Hassan. But with two minutes left in the half, they were ahead by six. The box-and-one was working. Wes sometimes did feel as if he were playing in the shadow of a tall building. But the longer the second quarter wore on, he and the rest of the Hawks could see their new defense wearing on Hassan Jones.

  It wasn’t just defense. The Hawks started to pick it up on offense. The ball still wasn’t moving as much as Wes thought it should and Coach said he wanted it to. But Dinero wasn’t as bad as he’d been the game before. He wasn’t shooting as much, and he seemed to have remembered the kind of passer he could be.

  Better yet, he started to feature Wes as they were making their run, hitting him on the break a couple of times, throwing him the ball as soon as he got open, even signaling for a couple of isolation plays so Wes could post up Davon. Wes didn’t know how many points he had. He was never that guy. But he was getting his today.

  By the half, the Hawks were ahead by ten points. But as well as Wes had played, at both ends of the court, he felt as if he’d played a whole game already. That was how much of a grind it had been going up against Hassan Jones.

  At halftime, he sat next to Emmanuel at the end of the bench and went through one bottle of water and immediately reached for another.

  E poked him with an elbow.

  “Remember what Coach said about the fight in the dog?” he said. “Dude, you look dog-tired.”

  “Nah,” Wes said. “I’m good. And we’re winning. All that matters.”

  “You know Coach is gonna stick with this defense, right?” E said. “You got another half in you to mix it up with the big guy?”

  “You know I do,” Wes said. “After we win the game, I’ll just go lie on your couch and have you get me things.”

  “Sure you’re not tired?”

  “Just of you asking me if I’m tired!” Wes said.

  He stayed on Hassan. The Rockets finally figured out that there was no point in forcing the ball into him the way the box-and-one was tying him up in knots. Even that didn’t work. The Hawks stretched their lead out to fourteen points. Life was good.

  Until the bad Dinero suddenly showed up in the gym.

  And decided it was time for him to be the show.

  If it were football, Wes thought, the announcers would have talked about him going into his touchdown dance before he crossed the goal line. He started to make the fancy pass instead of the easy one. He forced drives and shots when he should have been doing what he was doing in the first half, and kicking the ball off to Wes, or inside to E or DeAndre when they were open down low.

  Coach took him out and replaced him with Josh Amaro, even though Dinero didn’t like it. But by the time he did, the momentum of the game had changed, that fast. The Rockets continued to cut into the Hawks’ lead, which was down to ten. Then six. Coach put Dinero back in to start the fourth quarter. Didn’t change anything, now that the game had changed. Things were going the Rockets’ way now, even though they were still behind. Sometimes the scoreboard was wrong, Wes knew. Sometimes you were losing even when the scoreboard said you were still ahead. That’s what was happening now in the gym at Annapolis High School. Wes knew, being out there. He just knew. It was as if everybody were suddenly breathing different air.

  Coach got Dinero out of there again after the Rockets tied the game. The Hawks briefly started to match them basket for basket, but then Josh fell hard when he was fouled going to the basket. He popped back up, knocked down a couple of free throws. But Coach didn’t like the way he was moving, and signaled for Dinero to get back in there.

  All Coach said as Dinero passed him was, “Five-man game, from here to the end. Got it?” He stepped pretty hard on his question, and Dinero knew enough to just nod and say, “Got it.”

  We’ll see, Wes thought.

  Now they were all in a fight. Davon put the Rockets up by a basket with two minutes left on a neat drive. Wes came over and cut him off, but Davon
switched to his left hand, his off hand, and made the shot anyway. But he was slow getting back on defense. Wes busted it up the court, got himself into space. He maybe could have driven himself. Instead, he pulled up and drained a three.

  Hawks by one.

  He didn’t make that money motion Dinero liked to make with his fingers. He could have, though. He knew the shot was money as soon as he released it.

  It was 45–44.

  They were still in the box-and-one. But now Dinero was slow getting out on Davon, and Davon was the one who made a long three.

  Rockets, 47–45.

  Fifty seconds left.

  Hawks’ ball.

  Dinero passed the ball to Wes on the right. Davon ran at him, because it was the same spot from which Wes had just made the three. Only this time Wes didn’t have as much room. So he up-faked Davon, drove around him, pulled up before Hassan could get out on him, made a ten-footer.

  Game tied at 47.

  It was all money now, Wes thought. He was going to miss a shot eventually.

  Just not today.

  At the other end, Dinero and Russ Adams doubled Davon, who had been feeling it himself the past few minutes. Bottled up, Davon made the right play and threw it inside to Hassan. But Hassan made the mistake that even the best big guys made sometimes when they had a smaller man guarding them:

  He brought the ball down before he tried to wheel into his move to the basket.

  And now he and Wes were the same size.

  Wes was ready for him as soon as the ball came down, reached in for it, stripped Hassan cleanly, made the steal. Gave a quick look at the clock at the other end of the court, behind the Hawks’ basket.

  Fifteen seconds left.

  He outletted the ball over to Dinero. Dinero pushed. As Wes crossed half-court, he made eye contact with Emmanuel. And E knew what Wes wanted the way he knew his phone number.

  He came running up, set a perfect screen on Davon, as clean as Wes’s steal had just been. Russ was already in the right corner. No worries. Wes ran to the opposite corner.