by Rich Wallace
The boys plunked down quarters on numbers, trying to win CDs and candy bars, then accumulated prize tickets at Skee Ball and target shooting.
“I got twenty-four tickets,” Lamont said as they walked across the arcade. “That has to be worth a lot.”
“Maybe a Corvette or a trip to Hawaii,” David joked.
“Probably a Tootsie Roll,” Dunk said. “Let’s check it out.”
The prize counter was lined with stuffed animals, cheap CD players, T-shirts, and other glitzy stuff. Inside the counter the shelves held whistles and candy and smaller toys.
“You could get a deck of cards if you had sixteen more tickets,” David said.
“I already spent three bucks winning these,” Lamont replied. He settled for a small plastic comb for twenty tickets. He handed his extra tickets to a little kid who was eyeing a baseball on a shelf.
“I’m the big winner today,” Lamont said, running the comb through his hair. “Anybody wants to borrow this thing, it’ll cost you a quarter.”
“A quarter? That’s almost half a dollar,” Dunk said, giggling at his own lame joke.
The others just looked at him, shaking their heads.
“Listen, Dunk,” said David. He pointed toward the basketball-shooting stand. “You’re Mr. Free Throw, right? You ought to be able to win hugely over there.”
Dunk studied the setup. The basket was about fifteen feet high, and the rims were very narrow. “Doesn’t look fair,” he said, “but I guess I could handle it.”
The deal was two shots for a dollar. Make them both and you’d win a big stuffed animal. Make one and you got a candy bar.
Dunk paid his dollar and took the ball. He bounced it a couple of times and realized that it was off balance, probably weighted slightly on one side just to make things more difficult. He eyed the rim, then turned to his friends with a wry smile. “This ain’t what I’d call sporting,” he said.
“Come on,” Lamont said. He turned to the teenager who was running the show. “Dunk is the wizard of Hudson City,” he said. “He never misses.”
“No pressure, Dunk,” David said. “Just make believe you’re in your driveway.”
Dunk went through his normal motion, sending the ball on a graceful arc above the rim. But it hit the back iron and rolled out. The other guys groaned. Dunk laughed.
“Come on, Dunk,” Miguel said with exaggerated enthusiasm. “We need this, baby. We can split that candy bar four ways. We’re starving.”
“It’s all you,” Lamont added. “Gotta have it. This is big.”
And Dunk made the shot. He took the chocolate bar and held it above his head with one hand as the others applauded.
“Split that in four,” he said, handing the bar to Miguel. He started walking directly toward the nearest refreshment stand. “It’s time for some real eating now, boys. Everything smells so good.”
6
25,000 Shots
Tonight’s game was huge, and they knew it. Camden was known as a basketball town; its two public high school teams were regularly ranked among the best in the state, and their graduates could be found on college rosters in the Big East and the ACC and even in the NBA. And obviously its youth programs were top-notch as well. They’d been the dominant team in this tournament so far.
A sizeable crowd had gathered to watch. About half of the Hudson City players had relatives in the bleachers, but there were many more on hand from Camden. Aunt Krystal was up there in the tenth row. She gave Dunk a wink and made a fist.
Camden had breezed through its first two games and appeared to be full of pregame energy. Down at the other end of the court, the Hudson City players were more subdued, going through their warm-up routine without a lot of yelling or even talking.
But that pregame demeanor was deceptive. Because it was Hudson City that came out roaring in the opening minutes and Camden that looked flat.
Fiorelli fired in a long three-pointer on the Hornets’ first possession, and Jared cleanly blocked a shot on the other end. Spencer went end-to-end on a fast-break layup, then Ryan connected from the corner. It was 7-0 and barely a minute had gone by.
Camden called timeout. The spectators were quiet, stunned.
“Best team in the state,” Spencer said firmly in the huddle.
“Us or them?” Fiorelli asked.
“Look at the scoreboard!” Spencer replied. “You tell me.”
And Hudson City did look superior throughout the first half, extending the lead to eleven at one point before Camden began chipping away.
Dunk could feel the excitement growing as the second half unfolded. Camden was very good, no question about that, but Jared was having another big game inside and Fiorelli was on fire with seventeen points.
“We can win this thing,” Dunk said to David, who was sitting next to him on the end of the bench.
David just nodded, his eyes never leaving the court. “Huge upset if we do,” he said quietly. “Huge. Camden’s a basketball factory.”
“Changing of the guard, maybe.”
“Yeah. But there’s a long way to go. Six minutes.”
“Six minutes?” said Dunk. “That’s only about three minutes.”
David rolled his eyes. “That joke’s getting very old, Dunk.” But he laughed anyway.
Dunk leaned forward on the bench, his hands clenched and his eyes intently watching the action on the court. Fiorelli was dribbling quickly across midcourt, head up, looking for an open man. Hudson City was ahead by four with just over a minute to play, but Camden was on an 8-3 run and had scrambled back into contention. The Camden fans were on their feet, shouting encouragement.
Fiorelli passed to Spencer in the corner, and Spencer dumped it in to Jared under the basket. Jared gave a quick head fake, and the Camden center bought it, leaving Jared an opening for an easy layup.
Dunk stood with the others and yelled. The game had tightened up in the second half, but a six-point lead in the final minute was huge.
Camden called timeout, and the Hudson City players ran to the bench and gathered around Coach Temple.
“Defense,” he said. “This one’s not over yet. Ryan, take a seat.” Coach looked around. “Dunk, report in.”
“Me?” Dunk asked, his eyes wide. Was he kidding?
“Go.”
Dunk reported to the scorer’s table and trotted back to the coach, who put his hand on Dunk’s shoulder. “If they score, Fiorelli will in-bound the ball to you. Camden needs to foul or we’ll just run out the clock. Protect the ball. Let them put you on the line.”
Dunk swallowed hard and stepped onto the court. He looked at the clock: fifty-seven seconds. That seemed like an eternity. Dunk had been in awe of these players throughout the game. Now he was on the court with them, trying to preserve the biggest upset in the history of the tournament.
The other players were dripping with sweat, and their breathing was hot and furious. Dunk felt slower and more flat-footed than ever.
With a six-point lead, Hudson City expected the opponents to try for a quick three-pointer. So they were surprised when Camden’s point guard passed the ball inside to the center, who banged home a layup despite Jared’s furious defense.
“Be smart!” Spencer shouted as Fiorelli took the ball under the basket.
Dunk darted toward the end line. The Camden players were pressing, desperate to get the ball back, but Dunk was free and he took the pass and turned to dribble.
Two Camden players converged on him, stabbing at the ball and blocking his path. The ball was knocked loose, but an official blew his whistle, calling a foul.
Camden was over the foul limit. Dunk would be shooting two.
“Money in the bank,” Spencer said, punching Dunk lightly on the shoulder.
“Automatic,” said Fiorelli, jogging next to him toward the basket.
Dunk bit down on his lip and stepped to the line. His heart was pounding and his breathing was rapid, even though he’d only been in the game for a few seconds. His
sweat felt cold. He had never expected to be in a situation like this.
He bounced the ball once, shut his eyes, and opened them. Checked his feet and eyed the rim. Tasted caramel corn and sausage.
The shot fell short, barely grazing the rim and falling to the floor. Worst shot he’d taken in months. The Hudson City fans groaned.
“No problem,” said Willie. “Forget them jitters, Dunk.”
The second shot was true, softly falling through the net and raising the lead to five points. The Hudson City players ran back on defense. Camden charged up the court.
The spectators were all standing now, pumping fists and screaming.
Willie and Spencer hounded the guards as they moved the ball around the perimeter, needing to shoot but cautious not to force one.
Dunk was near the basket, guarding a forward. The man darted out toward the free-throw line, then cut quickly back and headed toward the corner. Dunk tried to follow but ran squarely into the Camden center, who was setting a screen to free his teammate.
The pass went to the corner, and that forward was open. The three-pointer rolled around the rim and fell in. Dunk’s fault. The lead was down to two.
What am I doing out here? Dunk wondered. Nine great players and me.
Sixteen seconds remained. Fiorelli faked a pass to Spencer, and Dunk’s man took one step too many in that direction. So Dunk was open for the inbounds pass, and Fiorelli got him the ball. Again came the quick foul.
Dunk wiped his hands on his jersey and blinked. He felt like he’d swallowed some rocks.
Make two shots and this game was over. Miss one and Camden would still have a chance.
Dunk looked at the Hudson City bench, where his teammates were celebrating, high-fiving each other as their faces beamed, confident of the giant victory.
“All you!” shouted Coach Temple.
“Ninety-nine percent!” called Lamont.
Dunk’s hands were shaking as he took the ball from the official. His armpits were dripping. This wasn’t his driveway. It wasn’t an empty court at the Y.
He knew the first shot was bad the instant it left his hands, drifting left and bonking off the side of the rim.
Dunk took a deep breath in an attempt to steady his nerves. Twenty-five thousand shots last year. Now all he needed was one.
The second shot looked good to him, arcing over the rim, right in the middle. It looked good to everybody in the gym.
But it wasn’t. An inch too far, it hit solidly off the back of the rim and floated just beyond the front. Players leaped for the rebound and Jared got there first, tapping it hard.
In the scramble that followed, the Camden point guard came up with the ball, skipping past Spencer and Fiorelli and finding an open court ahead. The spectators were counting down the seconds—six, five, four—as Dunk and the others gave chase.
The guard had time for a game-tying layup and the path was clear, but he decided to take a chance. He stopped his dribble, faced the basket, and unleashed a perfect three-pointer that dropped cleanly through the net for the lead.
That was it. The horn sounded before Fiorelli could in-bound the ball. A six-point lead in the final minute had vanished completely. The Hudson City players stood there stunned as the Camden players went wild.
Dunk felt like he could melt right there. They’d been counting on him—the free-throw specialist—and all he did was choke.
7
This Close
Dunk sat on the first row of the bleachers, staring at the floor and wishing he could just disappear instead of having to join his teammates for the somber ride back to the hotel.
Spencer had come over and poked his shoulder, mumbling, “Don’t worry about it, man,” but Dunk could hear the sadness in his voice.
Jared had said pretty much the same thing, taking a seat next to Dunk for a minute before heaving a sigh and walking toward the locker room.
And Coach Temple had even apologized. “I put you in a tough situation,” he said. “You weren’t ready; you were cold. I’m as much to blame as you are.”
That hadn’t made Dunk feel any better. Athletes are supposed to thrive on tough situations. He’d worked hard to be a guy that a coach and a team could count on. At least he thought he had.
So Dunk had no ambition to get off that bench. He was nearly in shock. The biggest upset possible had been right in their grasp, and he was the one who had squandered it.
“Are you stuck there?” came a cheery, familiar voice. Aunt Krystal was standing in front of him; he could tell by her red running shoes even though he didn’t lift his head.
Dunk shook his head very slowly. “Hey,” he whispered.
“Hey, yourself.”
Now the tears came, filling his eyes and making his throat feel tight. He wiped at his eyes with his fists and sniffed. He glanced up at Krystal with a scowl that wasn’t meant for her but was necessary to keep him from sobbing.
“I know how you feel,” Krystal said. “Believe me.”
Dunk looked back at the floor.
“I could drive you to the hotel if you want,” she said.
Dunk shook his head again. “I’ll take the bus with the team.”
“I hoped you would.”
“Did you find a room?”
“Yeah, at the Sea Breeze, a block away from where you’re staying.” She sat next to him and touched his shoulder.
“I let everybody down,” he said.
Krystal didn’t say anything to disagree. He glanced over at her and saw that she was thinking about how to respond. The worst thing she could have said was, “No you didn’t” or “It’s no big deal.” He knew what he’d done. He knew how much it mattered.
So they both sat there quietly. Dunk felt miserable, but he was glad to see that Krystal could respect that feeling and not try to console him. She knew how much it mattered, too.
Dunk took the first full breath he’d allowed himself since the game ended. He looked up. Only a few people remained in the gym. Coach Temple was near the door talking to one of the Camden coaches. All of Dunk’s teammates were outside.
“Guess we better go,” Dunk said.
“Guess so. I’ll see you at the hotel,” Krystal said. “You guys going out for dinner or to the Boardwalk or what?”
“I got no appetite. I don’t know what those guys are doing. I don’t feel like doing anything.”
“You have another game in the morning.”
Dunk grimaced and let out his breath in a hurry. “That’s just what I need,” he said, meaning quite the opposite. “Maybe I can waste that opportunity, too.”
Dunk was the last one on the bus, walking down the aisle past his teammates, who were spread out and dead-quiet, staring out the windows or at the seats in front of them.
Fiorelli stuck out his hand supportively for Dunk to smack, and Lamont slid over to make room next to him.
“Thanks,” Dunk said, as much for not shunning him as for making room.
Lamont hadn’t even played in the game, but he looked as glum as the starters. Stars or subs, they all wanted to win. They all had the same disappointment, knowing how close they’d come. They all would have shared that same triumph.
The bus pulled out of the YMCA parking lot.
Lamont put out his fist and Dunk met it with his. “No shame,” Lamont said softly. “We came this close”—he held his thumb and first finger an eighth of an inch apart—“to beating the best team in the state.”
“They knew we had ’em beat,” Willie said fiercely, kneeling on the seat in front of them and peering over. “You could see it on their faces. They thought they were going down.”
Lamont and Dunk both nodded. Willie sat back down.
They all fell silent after that. It was the quietest bus ride these guys had ever been on.
The team went to Denny’s for dinner. Dunk sat in a booth with Lamont and David and Miguel, but he barely picked at his hamburger and only ate a couple of fries.
After dinner,
Willie and David left the room to join the others at the pool. They tried to talk Dunk into coming, but he begged off. “I’m tired,” he said.
“You ain’t tired,” David replied. “Look, we all win or we all lose. Nobody’s mad at you.”
“I’m mad,” Willie said. “Not at you, Dunk. Just that we lost. I felt like kicking out the windows on the bus I was so mad. But you ain’t the enemy. Like David said, we ain’t mad at you.”
“Thanks,” Dunk said. “Maybe I’ll come out later. Let me be alone for a little while, you know?”
“Sure,” Willie said. “I ain’t gonna twist your arm or anything.”
Dunk turned the TV to an old sitcom and lay back on the bed, barely paying attention to the show. He was hungry, but he still didn’t want to eat.
After a few minutes there was a knock on the door. Dunk opened it to find Krystal waiting there.
“Your coach said I could take you for a walk,” she said.
“I don’t feel like walking.”
“It’ll do you some good to get out.”
“Okay,” he said. “Gotta find my sandals.”
They walked up to the Boardwalk but didn’t say much.
“Everybody okay?” Krystal asked.
“Yeah. Nobody blamed me.”
“That’s good.”
“They should have,” Dunk said. “They should be playing for the championship tomorrow, not in some worthless consolation game.”
They sat on a Boardwalk bench, their backs to ocean, which was crashing a hundred yards behind them. Lots of people walked by—couples on vacation, groups of kids Dunk’s age and younger, packs of teenagers, college kids. Everybody was having fun.
Except Dunk. He was still as down as could be.
“It cooled off,” Krystal said. “Nice breeze coming in off the sea.”
Dunk nodded and said, “Yeah,” without any enthusiasm whatsoever.
Krystal turned to look at the water. The lights from the amusement pier illuminated some of the waves, and the red lights from a couple of boats could be seen way out near the horizon. Four teenage boys were noisily playing touch football in the dark on the sand, knocking into one another and laughing.
