Читать книгу Pull - Kevin Waltman - Страница 10

3.

The only event that shook things up was when the calendar hit September 9. Open season for recruiting a junior. And, man, the phone flat blew up. I didn’t even think that many people in the world had our number. But it rang off the hook. And then it shifted to my cell phone.

Everyone warned me, but I didn’t realize how relentless coaches can be. The big names are putting their assistants after me, so I haven’t talked to guys like Calipari or Pitino or Krzyzewski yet. Maybe they think they’re above it all. But at places like Clemson and VCU and Iowa State, the head man himself has been on with me. And Indiana—Coach Crean called me personally, but I bet that’s just because I’m in-state.

For now, I’m just hearing them all out, telling them I’m a long way off from making a decision. And that’s the truth. I’m taking everything slow. When I have news for schools, it’s coming through Coach or my folks. That’s the way we set it up in the summer. I even squashed my Twitter and Facebook so I wouldn’t send out something that got taken the wrong way. Besides, like my mom said, when’s the last time something good came out of a young athlete being on Twitter? And we decided—all of us together—that we’re playing things the right way. No freebies, no payouts, no kickbacks. I know that’s not how the game’s played these days, but that’s how it gets played when your parents are Tom and Kaylene Bowen.

But tonight’s the first practice, so I’m that’s all that’s on my mind when I hit the cafeteria. Then I see Wes. It’s not that he’s just a friend. That makes it sound like we hang sometimes on weekends, catch each other at parties, and say ‘sup when we pass in the halls. He is the friend in my life. I mean, I can’t remember a time when Wes and I weren’t tight. Mom tells me that even before we could walk, we were hanging together. Wes’ mom would drop him off at our place and we’d crawl around the living room getting into trouble. To me, Wes is more blood than friend.

So it kills me—just kills me—to see him catch my eye in the lunch room and then look away. He spins on his heel and makes tracks for a far table. Watching him do that makes me feel like a bone is breaking. It hurts worse than when he didn’t own up to the weed. Around me, Marion East churns on—students shuffle through the lunch line with their trays in their hands, teachers hover around the edges of the cafeteria on the lookout for trouble, and the whole room swells with the fast chatter of people spreading gossip. Meanwhile, I’m standing there like my feet are made of stone while I watch Wes bail on me.

“D-Bow!” Someone shouts, calling me by my nickname. “Over here,” another voice calls. I turn and see our two bigs—Chris Jones and Tyler Stanford—waving to me. They’re all amped for tonight. They’ve got some space cleared out for me at a table with a few cheerleaders. That’s where I belong. I head that way. But then something stops me, like there’s a hook lodged in the fabric of my shirt. My parents have banned me from hanging with Wes on our own time. If I walk away now, maybe that’s it. If he doesn’t want to hash it out, then I’ve got to be the man in the situation. Otherwise, what? Wes and I are through? No deal.

I stride across the cafeteria, confident as if I’m walking to the stripe to ice a game. I get to Wes and stand over him. Below me, he looks smaller than usual. He’s hunched over his tray, trying to just ignore everything and everyone. So I sit down next to him, putting us closer to an even level. “Wes,” I say, “man, we got to talk. It’s been a month.”

He drops his fork on his tray with a clatter. He pushes back from the table. “Talk about what?” he asks. He looks down at his watch, like he’s late to some important meeting. All I notice is that it’s a pretty heavy piece—way out of Wes’ price range.

“What is up with you?” I ask. I raise my voice more than I intended, and I can feel the attention of the cafeteria settle on us. So I try to act chill. I lean back in my chair and shrug. “I mean, seriously, why you getting all worked up on me?”

Finally, Wes relents. His shoulders slump down and he sighs. “Man, I’m just pissed at the world these days,” he says. “It’s got nothin’ to do with you.”

I don’t jump on him right away. Dealing with Wes these days is like handling a lit firecracker. “I feel you,” I say. “But, man—and I’m not trying to get all up on you—if you put weed in my car, then it has a lot to do with me.”

Wes stiffens. For a second, I think he’s going to bolt and that will be that. But at last he nods. “I’m sorry, D,” he says. “I just panicked when you got pulled over. I knew better, but I thought maybe they wouldn’t find it.” He pauses, squints his eyes like he’s thinking of the answer to some riddle. When he does, his face fills with tension. I get an image of what he’ll look like when he’s older. “I just didn’t want to get run in again.”

I nod, silently pleased that he at least apologized. Then it hits me. “Again?” I ask.

Wes juts his chin out. Now that his secret’s out, he puts on a tough face. Like getting into more trouble makes him cool or something. “Yeah,” he drawls. “I got busted back in June too. Got pinched lifting from Ty’s Tower when you were off playing AAU.”

Maybe that jab about me being at AAU is a guilt trip—like I’m supposed to be here to take care of him 24-7. Well, it works a little. It kills me that I didn’t even know. And it kills me more that maybe Wes is in real trouble. I think again about how he hangs with guys like JaQuentin Peggs. I think again about that watch he’s rocking. I also think about Kid’s warning. There’s a time to just cut out on someone. But not yet. Not with my boy. “Wes, man, I’m right here now. If you need—”

He cuts me off. Just holds up his hand like he’s heard it all before. “It’s nothing,” he says. “Home detention’s no big thing. Besides, JaQuentin says he’s got a guy who can get it dropped in another week. No sweat.”

We sit there in silence while Wes takes a few bites. Then he sets his fork down and waves his hand at his tray like he’s disgusted by his food. He crumples his napkin and throws it on his tray. He gives a nod to me, scoops up his mess, and he’s on his way—to where, I don’t know.

Wes was the one who got home detention, but it feels like I got it too. No wheels, no Wes, no Jasmine—it’s meant I’m pretty much just hoofing it to school and back, and only getting a sweat up when the weather’s been nice enough to hit the Fall Creek court. Well, no Jasmine isn’t quite right. I still see her. We even fooled around some last weekend when her parents were out. But it’s not like it was a year ago. In the middle of a conversation, her attention will wander. It’s like sitting with someone who’s got a plane to catch—they’re right next to you, but part of them is already leaving you behind.

But right now that doesn’t matter. Let every coach in the country call. Let Jasmine move halfway across the world. Let Wes waste all his time with losers like JaQuentin. I’ve got something else at last—finally, ball.

Already Coach Bolden’s put us through our sprints. And already a few freshmen have damn near bowed out. And already Coach Bolden’s gotten so mad at our lack of hustle that he’s kicked a ball into the third row, sending his assistant Coach Murphy sprinting after it. But that’s all show to get the new guys up to speed. Now the real practice starts—we’re going through offensive sets with the first team.

I’ve got a good lather worked up. I’d love to just run five-on-five. Let it rip up and down the floor. Instead, I obediently listen to Coach. “The whole focus changes this year,” he says. “We don’t have Moose around, so we can’t just work through him in the post. We want to spread teams out and look to drive.”

That’s my game right there—go to the hole. The next thing he says I don’t like so much.

“Usually, we’ll have Derrick at point, but he’ll be sitting the first game. If you don’t walk the line off the court, you don’t play for Marion East,” he barks. Coach Murphy nods up and down in agreement, both of them making a point for the younger players. Then Coach Bolden points at me. “Flip that jersey, Bowen,” he says. “Run with the twos until you earn that starting spot back.”

That hurts. Everyone in the gym—hell, everyone in the state—knows I’m the engine for this team. Bolden’s doing me dirty on the first practice. But what can I do? He’s in charge, so I peel off my jersey, and flip it from red to green—the color of back-ups.

That means I get to watch while the coaches work through the sets. They’re sizing up our horses for the season, and so am I.

At the bigs we’ve got Tyler Stanford and Chris Jones. Neither one’s a true center, but they’ve got some bulk. Stanford in particular. He must have spent all summer in the weight room, because he’s cut up pretty good. He’s a senior now, and he finally looks it—his face has lost that boyish innocence. Now if he sneers when he’s grabbing a board, people know they best step back. He’s honed his shot some too. I hit him when he’s facing from fifteen and in, he’ll knock it down. Jones, I don’t know about. He’s there by default after paying his dues for a couple years on the bench. He’s got size, but that’s about it. Only way he’s getting buckets are point blank—then again, Murphy and Bolden can work wonders, so maybe Jones will develop.

J. J. Fuller’s at the three. He’s been through the grind with me last year. I can’t say we’re tight, but I trust him on the floor. He’s shaved off his old flat top, which made him look like he was straight out of the 80s, down to a close buzz. But he still looks rigid. His face always has a serious expression, like he’s trying to figure out a calculus problem. His moves on the court are the same way—forceful but methodical, always in straight lines with no flow. Even his shot is a line drive, but it finds bottom if he’s within sixteen or seventeen feet. And the kid hustles. Even as Coach has them walking through the set, Fuller carries out his fakes like it’s game-time.

Then there’s Josh Reynolds at the two. A sophomore. Last year, he was a mess. If he can get some confidence though, the skills are there. He’s grown a little in the off-season, up to my height—6′3″. And that shot is smooth enough. His challenge will be on the defensive end, where older players will try to overpower him.

With me at the point, it’s enough. We’ve got some weaknesses, but you can say that about any team. The problem is, with me sitting on the sidelines, the point’s being run by Malcolm Rider, a scared-witless freshman. Even walking through the sets, he looks confused. Fuller rubs off a baseline screen, and Rider is still looking to the opposite wing.

“No, no,” Bolden says. He’s taking it easy on the kid, not raising his voice. Coach puts a hand on his shoulder and gently pivots him the other way. “Once the play to the wing is done, you’re looking for that baseline cut.”

They run through the offense a few more times, and then it’s live action. I take the floor with the second team. If the ones think I’m going to take it easy just because they’re my boys, I’ve got a wake-up call in store for them.

First thing I do is dig into Rider. He tries driving right, and I cut him off. He looks to make an entry to Jones, and I deflect it out of bounds. Next time I keep my hands active, scaring off any passes except a bail-out to the wing. Once Rider gives it up, it’s pretty obvious he doesn’t want the rock back. Scared. Since he’s no threat, I sag off him. And since I know where the offense wants to go, I give them fits. Reynolds passes to Fuller on the wing. I peel off Rider and jump the pass. I pick it clean and take a power dribble the other way—then I pull up since we’re supposed to give right back to the first team instead of running full. But everyone knows that was an easy throw-down in the other direction. Next time, the ones work it down to Stanford, but he’s too slow to make his move. By the time he rises, I’ve dropped all the way down from the elbow. I spike that thing out of bounds. Give a little holler of authority as I do it. That one draws some reactions all around. It’s nice to remind everyone that even if I’m in green I’m the boss on the court.

The ones start again. By this time, they look a little discouraged. Rider most of all. He’s extra tentative now, and I take advantage. I flick at the ball once and get a piece. He scrambles to control near mid-court, but then he picks up his dribble. “Dead! Dead!” I yell, and my teammates clamp down behind me. Rider pass-fakes, pass-fakes, pass-fakes. Finally he extends the ball too far. I pop it loose, corral it, and this time I can’t help myself—I push it down the court with a couple power dribbles and tomahawk one home.

Murphy’s beside me in a heartbeat. He’s all smiles, acting like he’s amped that I’m bringing it so hard the first day of practice—but then he pulls me aside. He calls down to the other end to tell them to keep running drills, then loops an arm around my shoulder. He walks me toward the side basket. “Easy there, killer,” he says.

“What do you mean?” I ask. With the bleachers pushed back, I can see all the dust that collects on the floor—it’s a faint line about ten feet away from the court where the shine of the hardwood turns cloudy. Murphy keeps walking with me. We cross into that cloudy area.

“I mean, dial it back,” he says. He speaks in a hushed tone, like he’s breaking some tragic news to me. “You have to let some of these other guys get their confidence up.”

I stiffen my back. Murphy’s arm slides off my shoulder. “Since when does it help other players to take it easy on them?”

Murphy takes a step back. He cocks his head and widens his eyes, giving me a look that tells me to cool it. “It’s one thing to play hard,” he says, “but you’re trying to embarrass your teammates. Especially Rider. You think it makes you tough to overpower a freshman in his first practice? You ought to be helping him out whenever you can.”

I hang my head. My temple throbs with anger. This is bullshit. That’s what I want to say. At home, I’ve got letters from every major college you can name. No other player in my position would be paying this big a price because he swerved in his car at the wrong time. No way. I get bounced from the opener. I get bounced from the first team in practice. And now I’m supposed to, what, be a cheerleader for my replacement? But I take a deep breath and look back up at Murphy. “Okay, Coach,” I say.

“It’s about what’s best for the team every time,” he says.

“Okay,” I repeat.

Then we turn back toward practice, neither one of us believing things are okay.

He grabs me by the jersey. I turn back to him. “Besides, D-Bow,” he says. “Save up some of those plays for when we get our rematch against Kernantz and Evansville Harrison.”

It doesn’t exactly make me cool with how I’m being treated, but I can’t help but smile at the notion of some payback against the guys who bounced us from State.