by Mike Lupica
Rasheed yelled at Danny to pass him the ball.
Danny made a two-hand chest pass.
Or what would have been a two-hand chest pass if he’d released the ball.
Only he didn’t.
Lamar bit on the fake, came running out at Rasheed just as Rasheed passed him going the other way. Now Danny threw it to Rasheed. Who pulled up and took the kind of midrange jumper the announcers always said was becoming a lost art in basketball, in the world of the three-point shot.
Wet.
The Celtics were ahead by one, twenty seconds left. Time-out Lakers.
As they walked toward the bench, Rasheed said, “I like it better, the end of these games, when we’re on the same side.” Then he slapped Danny such a vicious high-five Danny thought his shoulder was going to come loose.
“As opposed to you flopping and whatnot,” Rasheed said.
“Didn’t flop,” Danny said.
In the huddle, Coach Powers spoke directly to the five in the game for the Celtics: Danny, Rasheed, Tarik, Will, Ben. He said, “There’s a million theories about this game. Lord knows, by now I’ve heard ’em all. But as far as I’m concerned, they always start at the same place: by getting one stop.”
When they were back on the court Rasheed said to Danny, “Our game to win.”
“Ours, period.”
When Danny got with Lamar, Lamar made sure the refs weren’t looking and patted Danny on the top of the head. “Still sending out a boy to do a man’s job,” Lamar said.
Danny looked up at him, trying to do his best impression of Rasheed’s stare.
The Lakers pushed the ball, got it to Lamar right away, who pulled up outside the three-point line, one more hero shot fired.
And missed.
This one caromed off the back rim even harder than the one before. There were all these bodies fighting for position under the basket. Danny saw the long arm of Ben Coltrane, their tallest guy, rise up above the pack. Ben, not able to get both hands on the ball, was just trying to swat it away, get it away from the basket somehow. Get it out of there.
It went right to Lamar.
Danny was the only one near him.
He looked down the court, at the clock over their basket. Ten seconds left now.
He remembered Lamar pointing to him in the mess hall.
You and me, he’d said.
Here they were.
Danny saw Lamar’s eyes flash up to the clock above his own basket. Lamar on his dribble now, right-hand dribble, no surprise there, he went right most of the time, only went left as a last resort.
But he crossed over on Danny, trying to cross him up, and went left now. Danny stayed with him. Had to be five seconds now. Danny was counting the time off in his head, keeping his eye on the ball, hands out in front of him, chest high, just like Ty had showed him that day on the bad court.
Lamar put on the brakes.
Now! Danny thought.
As Lamar stopped his dribble and started to transfer the ball to his right hand to go into his shot, Danny flicked his own right hand out.
In that moment, the ball out there in front of Lamar, they were finally the same size.
Danny slapped the ball away.
Slapped it away and grabbed it and dribbled away from Lamar Parrish. Then he heard the horn sound ending the championship game.
Celtics 64, Lakers 63.
His guys got to him first, Will and Tarik and Rasheed. And Ty Ross, out of the stands. They started to lift him up, but Danny pulled back, smiling and shaking his head. “Nah,” he said, “that’s for little guys.”
“Boy plays too big for that,” Rasheed said.
“He sure does,” Josh Cameron said.
Josh Cameron was there with Ali and Richie Walker, looking as if he were the proud parent all of a sudden. “I thought it was a mismatch on that last play,” he said. “It just turned out to be a mismatch the other way.”
Usually it was Danny’s mom who got to him first, but this time it was his dad, cutting in front of her on knees that suddenly seemed twenty years younger than they were, putting his arms around him, leaning down and saying, “It’s always about how you get up,” he said.
Then his mom put a Mom hug on him.
When she pulled back, Danny saw Zach Fox standing behind her.
“He took the ball from me, you took it from him,” Zach said.
Danny asked Zach if he knew where Tess was, and Zach smiled and pointed to the other end of the court. There she was, over near the Lakers’ bench, at the end of the bench where Lamar Parrish sat with his head in his hands. For a second, Danny thought she was going to take the last shot of the day.
She had her new camera out and started to point it at Lamar. Then she stopped herself, as if she somehow knew Danny was watching her.
As if he was in her head for once.
She turned then and smiled like she was the brightest light in the place and pointed the camera at Danny instead.
By now the Celtics were in a big, loud, happy circle at mid-court, waiting for the trophy presentation to begin, arms around each other, weaving back and forth the way NBA players did sometimes during player introductions, chanting “Whoo whoo whoo.”
Danny started walking across the court toward them.
Coach Powers was in his way.
Danny didn’t even try to read the look on his face, or figure out whether basketball had finally made him happy or not. He didn’t wait for him to say anything, the buttoned-up coach in his buttoned-up Right Way shirt.
There was something Danny wanted to say to him, though.
But first he took the game ball off his hip, put it down in front of him and executed a killer soccer kick, catching the ball just right, sending it flying out the open doors, trying to kick it all the way to Coffee Lake.
Or maybe Canada.
“I could play soccer if I wanted,” Danny said. “But I’m a basketball player.”
Then he walked past the coach to be with his team.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MIKE LUPICA writes novels for sports fans both young and old. His first two books for young readers, Travel Team and Heat, reached #1 on the New York Times Best Seller List. He is also the author of the New York Times best-selling Miracle on 49thStreet.
Mr. Lupica is a nationally syndicated columnist for the New York Daily News and can be seen Sunday mornings on ESPN’s The Sports Reporters. He lives in Connecticut with his wife and their four children.
