No Slam Dunk

by Mike Lupica

  The kitchen was suddenly quiet. Wes’s mom got up and walked to the counter and came back with the pot and poured more coffee for Wes’s dad.

  When she sat back down, Wes said to his dad, “How the heck did you and Mr. Correa get together?”

  He smiled.

  “Basketball,” he said.

  He said he was shooting around one night at the outdoor court near the rec center. Mr. Correa had finished the one practice a week he had with his third-graders. Mr. C remembered Wes telling him about the court and about how Wes and his dad used to shoot there, and how Wes had found his dad there after he’d come out of the stands that day.

  “Mr. Correa asked if I wanted some company,” Wes’s dad said. “Usually I didn’t. I went there to be alone. But he just has this way about him.”

  Wes grinned.

  “Tell me about it,” he said.

  Wes saw his mom shaking her head. “The brotherhood of basketball,” she said. “Sometimes I think it’s stronger than the ocean.”

  “It finally worked for Dinero and me,” Wes said.

  “With a little help from your dad,” his mom said.

  When Mr. Correa and Michael Davies finished shooting around that night, they went for coffee. And talked for a long time.

  “By the end of the night,” Wes’s dad said, “I felt like your adviser had become mine. He wanted to know if I was seeing a therapist. I told him I was, but not as often as the therapist wanted. He looked at me and said, ‘You’re a born leader. And now you’re not following your best instincts.’”

  “And that hit home,” Wes’s mom said.

  “And helped me come home,” his dad said.

  “Because he found you playing ball that night,” Christine Davies said.

  “If it weren’t that night, it would have been another,” he said. “I mattered to him because Wes matters to him.”

  “And he asked you to help him coach those kids,” Wes’s mom said.

  “He said it would be a different kind of therapy,” Michael Davies said.

  He asked Mr. Correa not to tell Wes what they were doing or even that they had become friends. He knew that it was going to take basketball to start healing him. But he had stopped drinking by then. And started seeing his therapist at the Naval Academy twice a week. He said he imagined himself as a prizefighter who’d gotten knocked down and nearly knocked out. First he had to get to one knee. Then he had to stand up.

  “I knew the only way I wanted to come back to the two of you,” he said, “was with clear eyes and a clear head.”

  “And you didn’t know we were coming to the game today until we showed up?” Wes said.

  “That was your adviser advising me again,” his dad said. “Just without telling me he was doing it.”

  “Mr. Correa,” his mom said, “really is as cool as you say he is.”

  Wes’s dad had talked about clear eyes. He fixed them on Wes.

  “I’m not all the way back yet,” he said.

  “All that matters,” Wes said to his dad, “is that you’re here.”

  FORTY-THREE

  IT WAS WEIRD, WES THOUGHT, how things worked out sometimes and made you change your dreams.

  All he had thought about, from the time the season started, was playing well enough to really be seen this season by his teammates and coach and opponents, and especially AAU coaches. But even more than that, he kept believing that playing well enough would bring his dad back to him.

  But now his dad was back, and living at home again, having moved out of the Woodside Garden Apartments. And it really had nothing to do with the way Wes had played ball or the team man he’d tried to be or the way his team had won, and everything to do with a fight his dad had won—and planned to keep winning—inside himself.

  Wes still had dreams of playing AAU ball, if the team and the coach and the situation were right. Every once in a while, but never until after a game, Coach Saunders would tell him that an AAU coach, or two, had been in attendance. But Wes and his parents had been talking a lot about all that the past couple of weeks, how a lot of famous players had done fine on their way to college ball without ever playing a minute in an AAU game.

  “You just keep playing the way you’re playing,” his dad said, “and I have a feeling that things will work out.”

  When Wes really thought about it, he figured he might have never learned more about basketball and about what it took to be a winner than he’d known at the start of the season. It was because of everything he’d been through. He had learned a lot about getting knocked down. But he knew he’d learned a whole lot more because of the way he’d kept getting back up.

  Now there was only one more game left to win, the one that would send them to the travel basketball tournament in South Carolina. That part of his dream hadn’t changed. All the Hawks had to do was beat Bakari Hogan and the Montgomery County Grizzlies today in the championship game at the rec center.

  The Grizzlies had beaten the Pistons in their semifinals, in the matchup between the teams that had finished second and third in the league. The Hawks had beaten the Potomac Valley Rockets the previous Saturday, and pretty easily, to advance themselves.

  At breakfast that morning Wes said to his dad, “I want this one pretty badly, not gonna lie.”

  “Gee,” his dad said, “you’ve kept that pretty hidden.”

  “Funny.”

  “Just don’t want it too badly,” Michael Davies said. “Because when that happens, even to good players, it makes them play bad.”

  He had already finished the pancakes in record time that his mom had made for him. But it was still way too early to head over to the rec center, because the championship game wasn’t starting until one o’clock.

  “This is the way it should be, though,” Wes said to his dad. “They beat us once, we beat them, today is the rubber match.”

  His dad grinned. “At which point,” he said, “the rubber will meet the road.”

  “That guy Bakari is really something,” Wes said.

  “So are you,” his dad said. “Just sayin’.”

  Wes checked his phone, which told him it was only ten minutes later than the last time he’d checked. His dad watched him do it again, then told him to go put on his outdoor sneakers—they were going for a ride.

  They went to their park near the rec center to shoot around.

  “Just shooting,” Wes’s dad said when they were walking to the court from the car. “Not looking to tire out the Hawks’ star player.”

  “One of them,” Wes said.

  “The team is gonna be the star today,” his dad said.

  “It’s not just Bakari,” Wes said. “All those guys are good.”

  “And it’s like I’ve told you your whole basketball life,” his dad said. “You wouldn’t want it any other way. And shouldn’t want it any other way.”

  Michael Davies said he’d rebound. Wes noticed as soon as they started that his dad was still limping slightly. Maybe he always would be. But he didn’t seem to be in any pain today. Of any kind.

  His dad fed him the ball. Wes slowly began to move around the perimeter and do what he’d always been taught to do: take shots he planned to take in the game. Right corner. Foul line. Left corner. Three-pointers from both wings. Not tiring himself out. But feeling a good sweat coming on. Feeling himself getting ready. Knowing he was better off here than he would have been sitting at home, checking his phone.

  “Looking good,” his dad said after Wes made a shot from the right side that they both knew was three-point distance.

  “Feeling good,” Wes said.

  “I think,” his dad said, “that being here is a more productive use of your time.”

  What they were really doing, Wes knew, without either one of them saying it, was making up for lost time. This was the way things used to be.
This was the way things were supposed to be between them. Wes didn’t know how much basketball had brought them back together. But right now, today, it made him feel as connected to his dad as he’d ever been.

  “Remember,” his dad said. “You take your guy away from where he likes to go and then beat him to the place where you want to be.”

  “Got it,” Wes said.

  “And think like a point guard,” his dad said.

  “Always.”

  They only stayed at the court for about half an hour. Before they left, Wes said they should switch jobs, and he stood under the basket and rebounded for his dad and fed him the ball. He could see that Lt. Michael Davies had lost a step. More than a step. But he could still shoot the rock.

  Wes had all of his game stuff in the car. At about eleven thirty, his dad said it was time to go over to the rec center. As they walked in that direction, Wes’s dad put a hand on his shoulder.

  “There will be a moment today when you’ll know even your best isn’t good enough,” he said to Wes. “You’ll need a little more than that.”

  “You’ve told me that since I was the same age those kids you and Mr. C are coaching,” Wes said.

  His dad stopped then and closed his eyes and smiled. In a quiet voice he said, “It’s like a friend of mine told me once: You know I’m right.”

  They kept walking toward the rec center, only stopping long enough for Wes to pick up his bag with his game sneakers and uniform inside.

  Then it was time for him to go inside and play the big game.

  FORTY-FOUR

  WES HAD NEVER SEEN THE stands at the rec center as full as they were today. They’d even set up a few rows of folding chairs in the corners to handle the overflow.

  “All these people here to see if we can win ourselves a fun-filled trip to South Carolina,” E said to Wes in the layup line.

  “I’ve never been to South Carolina,” Wes said.

  “I’ve never been to North Carolina!” E said.

  “You worry about geography,” Wes said. “I’m gonna go ahead and focus on winning the game.”

  E grinned. “I’m doing the same,” he said. “At the end of the game, I want us to be north of the Grizzlies and them south of us.” He put out his hand for a low five. “See what I did there?” he said.

  “I know you’re just trying to keep me loose,” Wes said.

  “Always,” his best friend said.

  Wes’s mom and dad were sitting together. Dinero’s parents were right behind them. It was, according to Dinero, the first time his mom had been to a game all season. He said that she was too nervous to come and watch him play, but today she was too nervous not to watch him play.

  “That makes no sense,” Wes said to Dinero.

  Dinero smiled. His smile had been back lately. A lot.

  “Why don’t you go over there and explain that to her,” he said.

  A few minutes before one o’clock, Wes saw Mr. Correa walk through the double doors and start making his way to where Wes’s mom and dad were sitting.

  Wes ran over to greet him.

  “I just wanted to thank you again for everything you did for me this season,” Wes said. “And for our family.”

  “Doesn’t make me any less jealous of you,” Mr. C said.

  “Jealous?” Wes said.

  “Yeah,” he said, “that you have a game like this to play today and all I get to do is watch.”

  Wes ran back to where his teammates were taking their last warmup shots, grabbed a ball, dribbled into the right corner, and made a three. Always end up with a make.

  Then the Hawks went over and gathered around Coach Joe Saunders.

  “The best thing about our team is that we know who we are by now,” Coach said. “And the reason we know who we are is because we know the kind of ball we’re capable of.”

  He slowly looked around at his players.

  “We owed them one the last time we played them,” he said. “Now they feel as if they owe us one.”

  He was smiling now.

  “They think they’re the best team in the league,” he said. “But they only think that. So, we got them there. Because we know we’re the best doggoned team in this league. Now we just got to take care of our business and prove it one more time.”

  He put his hand out in the center of the circle. The Hawks leaned in and put their hands on top of his.

  “Sometimes in sports you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. And right now you boys are exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

  He smiled again, and looked around, without taking his hand away, and said in a soft voice, “Go Hawks.”

  “Go Hawks!” his players shouted back at him.

  As Wes and Dinero walked out to the court, Dinero said, “Let’s do this.”

  “Let’s,” Wes said.

  Dinero smiled. “One more thing? Keep your head up.”

  “Got it,” Wes said.

  He looked at the clock.

  One o’clock, straight up.

  At last.

  By one fifteen, the Hawks were down 12–2.

  Wes had always talked about basketball as a miss-make sport, as much as he said people tried to trick the game up and complicate it and use all those analytics numbers you heard the announcers talking about on television. Right now the Griz were making their shots.

  And the Hawks were missing theirs.

  Bakari was already three for three. Wes didn’t make any of them easy for him, crowding him as much as he could without getting whistled for fouls. Didn’t matter. Bakari was still three for three. Wes missed his first two shots. Dinero missed his first two shots. It was 10–0 for the Grizzlies before E beat Trevor Arrazi to a Russ Adams miss, and got an easy putback.

  Wes thought Coach might call an early timeout, just to get everybody settled down. But he decided to let the Hawks play their way out of their early funk, and into the championship game.

  At 12–2, Dinero almost ordered Wes to take the Hawks’ next shot even without saying a word. He threw the ball to Wes in the right corner, and Wes had some daylight. But he kept thinking about the two shots he’d already missed. Passed it back to Dinero. Ran to the left corner. Dinero dribbled over to that side. Passed him the ball again.

  A little more daylight this time.

  Okay, Wes thought to himself, almost as if Dinero could hear him.

  Okay.

  Bakari ran at him. Wes put a neat up-fake on him, took two dribbles to his right, put up a jumper.

  All net.

  “You better keep doing that,” Dinero said as they got back on defense. “’Cause I’m gonna keep feeding you.”

  Wes just nodded.

  Okay.

  By the end of the quarter they had cut the Grizzlies’ lead to a basket. By halftime the Hawks were playing like the team that had rolled into the tournament with just one loss. They were back in rhythm. They were rolling. And ahead by six.

  The only problem was that both Wes and Dinero picked up their second fouls with two minutes left in the half, on back-to-back plays. Wes fouled Bakari on a drive. Dinero got called for an offensive foul, knocking over Tate Brooks on a drive of his own.

  Coach got them both out of there. As they were getting ready to start the third quarter, he pulled both Wes and Dinero aside.

  “I want you both to keep playing your games, and stay aggressive,” he said. “But if either one of you picks up a third, I got to sit you down. Got it?”

  “We both do,” Dinero said.

  The third quarter turned out to be the best ball, from both teams, the Hawks and Grizzlies had played against each other, the first two games and now this one. Both teams were running every chance they could. Both teams were pressing. Both teams were knocking down good shots, starting with their best players: Wes, Dinero, Baka
ri, Tate.

  We’re all exactly where we’re supposed to be, Wes told himself.

  Wes did pick up his third foul, with thirty seconds left in the quarter. But Coach left him in for the Hawks’ last possession. Wes told himself to be careful and stay away from contact.

  Only with five seconds left, he got a step on Bakari, saw a lane to the basket, and took off. At the last second, Trevor Arrazi left E and jumped out on him. Wes thought there was no doubt that Trevor had gotten there late, hadn’t established his position when they collided.

  Wes made the shot. Heard the whistle. Had to be a chance for a three-point play. Had to be a foul on Trevor. But when he turned around, he saw the ref closest to the play pointing at Wes with his left hand, patting the back of his head with his right.

  “That’s a charge, Number Thirteen,” he said.

  Fourth foul.

  With the whole fourth quarter left to play.

  FORTY-FIVE

  DINERO PICKED UP HIS THIRD foul with seven minutes left in the game, but Wes knew he wasn’t coming out, not with Wes still seated next to Coach Saunders.

  It was 40–40 by then.

  The Hawks were hanging in, even with Wes out of the game. Casey Fisher was guarding Bakari and it was clear that Casey didn’t give a rip about scoring himself, as long as he could hold down Bakari.

  Which he was doing.

  Wes didn’t ask Coach when he could go back in. He’d never asked one of his coaches a question like that in his life. Just trusted that Coach would know when the time was right.

  At one point Wes turned around and looked at his dad, who put up both hands, his way of telling Wes to relax.

  Easy for him to say.

  It was 48–47, Grizzlies, three minutes left, when Coach turned to Wes and said, “Okay, son. Go help win us this game.”

  “Gonna try,” Wes said.

  “Can’t do it if you foul out,” Coach said. “So try real hard not to do that.”

  A minute later Wes hit a three to put the Hawks ahead by a basket. The Griz surprised the Hawks and tried to fast break even after a made basket. Bakari inbounded the ball to Tate at half-court. Wes stayed with Bakari, but could see Tate breaking away from Dinero, on his way to the basket, Dinero chasing after him as if trying to catch him and pass him in a running race.