Читать книгу Pull - Kevin Waltman - Страница 14

7.

Stanford controls to Fuller. He kicks it to me. First touch all year, and I know what to do with it—rip it right to the rack. I duck under a challenging big for a reverse off the glass. Quick as that, we’re up 2-0 on Warren Central.

That’s all it takes for the blood to get flowing again. The crowd’s jumping too. The season’s on.

One thing’s for sure—Warren Central isn’t going to sit back and let me soak in the moment. They rip it back at us. Right off the bat, coach has me on Rory Upchurch. He’s their senior scorer, the guy who lit up everybody last year. A two-guard, he’s not my natural match-up. And it means I’ve got to locate him every time down, since he’s guarding Reynolds on our end. Right away, I see the problem—since I drove to the hole, he’s got about a twenty-foot headstart on me. They kick it ahead before I can catch up. Reynolds races over to help, but Upchurch shakes him fast. Next up, Fuller flies at him. It slows Upchurch down just a tick, enough for me to close some ground. He gets past Fuller to the baseline side, opening up a clean look from fifteen. He lets it fly.

And—whap!—I arrive just in time to put that thing in the fifth row.

Upchurch is a legit Mr. Basketball candidate, and he just got punked. Our crowd lets him have it, hooting and jeering and rising to their feet. Upchurch is too good to sweat it, but I check some of his younger teammates. Their eyes go wide. For a couple of them, this is their first road start and they’re realizing that we don’t set out the welcome mat at Marion East.

Their coach barks the in-bounds play to them. All I know is that I need to stay glued to Upchurch. Everything they run involves him. I fight over a screen and stay on his hip. Then I hear Jones warning me about a back-screen. I turn to locate, keeping watch on Upchurch at the same time. Jones gives me room to make it through, and I’ve got Upchurch locked down again. That leaves Jones’ man with a pop-out to fifteen. He catches the in-bounds, shot-fakes, then fires—way out of rhythm and way off line.

I can’t get a clean rip, but I tap it to Stanford. He grips it, then pivots and outlets to Reynolds. That’s when I see my opening. Warren Central has to switch just like we do. Upchurch is supposed to check Reynolds, but now he’s trailing. While he sprints to catch up, my man tries to slow down Reynolds—and I’m off. Reynolds crosses mid-court and fans out to the right wing. That gives Upchurch time to catch up, but when my man tries to recover it’s too late. Reynolds sees me and lobs one to the rim. With a free run, I sprint, gather, and rise. I catch that thing a good foot above the rack and muscle it home.

I’ve been there before. So instead of getting all swole about it, I just give a single fist pump and race back on D. But, baby, inside my chest the fireworks are going off. The crowd on its feet, the rim rocking, the opponents shell-shocked—this is it. This is what I live for.

After the grind of last year, I’m locked in with Fuller, Stanford and Reynolds. Jones is the only one who didn’t get meaningful minutes last year, so we have to coax him along a little—remind him where to go on some offensive sets, encourage him when he gets beat on the boards a few times.

That togetherness is the difference. Upchurch is a load, but Warren Central doesn’t have any backup for him. And the only time he really gets loose is when Bolden gives me a breather for Rider. Man, I hit the bench, and you can see Upchurch’s eyes light up. First time he gets a touch, he attacks—shot fake to get Rider off his feet, then a dribble to his favorite pull-up spot. Deuce. Next time he loses Rider on a screen and launches a trey. The kid’s shot is butter when he gets a look like that.

Bolden tells Reynolds to switch onto Upchurch, but that’s only a little bit better. Reynolds had a brief go at Upchurch last year, so he knows what he’s in for—but that doesn’t mean he can stop it. Upchurch has to work harder. He rubs off screen after screen, then has to shake Reynolds with a nasty crossover—but in the end, Reynolds is still beat. Upchurch buries another trey. The lead we’ve spent all game building is suddenly down to three.

“Don’t get too comfortable there,” Bolden growls at me. “Next dead ball you’re back in.”

That’s what I want to hear. I know he’s just trying to keep my legs fresh, but truth is I want to go all 32 minutes every time out. The only time I want to rest is when we’ve got the game iced.

On our end, Fuller goes flying baseline and gets bailed out with a reach. The whistle’s my cue. As soon as I stand, there’s a ripple of applause in our crowd. People know what’s up. When I jog onto the court, I point at Rider and he hangs his head in dejection. And Upchurch just smiles and claps. I know what he’s thinking—he’s loose now. He feels like he can keep it rolling, even against me.

Before the game, I eyed all the scouts checking us. Purdue, Michigan State, Louisville, Cincinnati. I know what they’re thinking too—showdown in crunch-time between two big-time guards. And, yeah, Upchurch is a senior so it’s not like an offer to him means they’ll miss a shot at me, but everyone’s always trying to figure out the pecking order. Time to prove to them whose name should be on top.

We run an in-bounds play for Stanford, but he doesn’t come free so Fuller lobs it way out top to me. And wouldn’t you know it—Warren Central’s coach has Upchurch switch onto me. Showdown time for real. I know better than to just force it. We run offense. A kick to Reynolds on the wing. A look to Jones in the post. Then a reversal through Fuller out top. Back to me on the left wing. I power past Upchurch, but their bigs jump to the action quick. There’s a look at a tough pull-up, but we can do better. Back out to Reynolds on top again. I glide on through the paint, getting a rub off of Stanford. It’s just enough to get Upchurch trailing by a step. Reynolds hits me right on time on the opposite wing. Just the slightest pump fake gets Upchurch leaning—and I’m gone. I knife into the paint, getting deep into the teeth of the defense before they pick me up. Their center rises to challenge my look. Quick as a whip, I duck under him and feed Stanford. Easy deuce.

Our crowd jumps back into full throat. Stanford pounds his chest and points in my direction—the points are his, but he knows who made that bucket happen. No time to celebrate though. I clap my hands and holler at my boys. “Stop now! Let’s get a stop!”

Even as I yell, Warren Central’s pushing for Upchurch. I find him on the wing. When he catches, I challenge with my hand but keep my feet balanced. He’s smart too. Doesn’t force. They run offense instead, which means I get pinballed off screen after screen. I keep contact, helped by my teammates hedging into passing lanes.

Finally I get a face full of shoulder from their center. Probably a moving screen, but not a call you get down the stretch. It gives Upchurch room on the right baseline, a place he likes to work. I close fast, and he passes on a catch-and-shoot. Maybe that swat from early in the game is still on his mind. Instead, he tries driving baseline. When I cut him off, he backs out to the wing to solo me up—and makes one bad mistake. He turns his back. Maybe he’s trying to set me up, but it gives me a clean look at the orange. Just a tap is all it takes. The rock ricochets off his knee and bounces toward open court. Their other guard dives after it, but I get there first. I tap it again, pushing it out toward mid-court. I leap over their sprawling guard. Then I’m all alone.

Corral. Push. Feel the energy of the crowd swell as I race to the rack. And then when I rise up, it’s all blocked out for the briefest of moments. There’s no crowd, no scouts, no coaches. Hell, there’s not even a game on. Just me attacking the rim. I break out a big tomahawk, throwing the thing down as hard as I can.

When I land, it all comes rushing back. The crowd is a mob, a rocking sea of red and green. My teammates are howling as our coaches urge us to race back on D. Upchurch turns to the ref and signals for time, his squad down seven again, chances dashed. And all those scouts from the blue chip schools have their answer: Derrick Bowen’s the king on this court.

Fuller just wants to talk hoops. Perfect. That’s why I hit him up after the game to go get some grub—I know Fuller is the one guy who won’t get up to any nonsense.

“We got to get Jones involved,” he says. “I’m not saying take shots away from you or Stanford, but we make him into a threat and teams won’t know what to do with us.”

“I hear it. Right now the only looks he gets are put-backs. But in practice he buries that J from the elbow.”

Fuller’s chuckles and shakes his head. He looks away like a wistful old man. “There’s no greater distance than the one between practice shots and game shots,” he says.

“Preach it,” I say. My agreement makes Fuller smile. All the kid wants, really, is to belong. He transferred here last year. As much as he’s found his fit on the court, he’s a tough fit off it. He’s so eager it kills him, so sincere he makes people roll their eyes. He falls in love with any girl who looks his way and—even worse—professes it to them right off the bat. And then there was his “party” the other weekend, which made everyone feel like they were back in sixth grade. But the kid’s steady. And right now, I can use steady.

So here we are, at Sure Burger on 38^th. It’s a new place, opened last month, but it doesn’t look it. The booths look so old and grimy, it’s like they pre-date the building. In the hall to the bathroom there’s a small mountain of wreckage—old aprons, a broken space heater, busted crates—and in the men’s room the window is clapped shut with plywood. And then there’s the grease—everything within 50 feet of the kitchen has a slick coat on it, like someone busted in one night and just doused the place in the oil from the fryer. But, hey, it’s got the good eats. That’s all we care.

I make the mistake of checking my phone. The scroll of texts is longer than the Constitution. On one hand, it makes me feel good. I mean, that’s part of the point, right? Ball out and get a ride to college. Then own it there and make it to the L. But already the voices are blurring. Good game! and Way to tear it up! and Saw your line, D. Way to be! and We need a scorer like that at Creighton! They all start to look the same after a while. The names of the schools change, but it’s all the same. I need to narrow them down. Fast.

Fuller points at me with his fork, a mess of stabbed fries on the end—I mean, the guy eats his fries with a fork! “More questions from Whitfield?” he asks. It’s a loaded comment. More snark than usual from a guy like Fuller. But I know I deserve it. The interview with Whitfield did not go over well in the locker room. Nobody was truly falling out, but Stanford and Reynolds both made sure to give me some static on it. Then again, I basically proved myself right on the court tonight. Maybe that’s why Fuller backs off when I don’t answer right away. “Probably schools, huh?” he says. “Where you thinking?”

I sigh. “I wish I knew. Indiana, maybe,” I tell him, but even that I can’t say with conviction. It’s just my default response.

“Playing it close to the vest,” Fuller says. He says it like we’re conspiring on something. Then he nods in approval, like he’s been down that road before.

“I’m just telling you how it is,” I say. “I’m not trying to hold back some secret.”

“Oh, I hear you.” But he has that look like he knows I mean something else. Whatever. Let him think what he wants to think. “But if you need to hash it out with someone,” he says, “I’m here.” On that I’ve got to fight back the urge to roll my eyes. It’s like he wants to sound like a pathetic guidance counselor. He must read my thoughts because he puts his fork down and bugs his eyes. “What? What’d I say?”

I shake my head. “Nothing, man. Just take it easy. It’s cool.” But when I look past him, now I’m the one bugging. What I see up at the front is the very last thing I’d expect late-night at a grimy place like Sure Burger: Jasmine Winters, a stack of books clutched under her arm. Her eyes look a little bleary, and she’s got her hair bunched up under a baseball cap, but she still looks good.

I don’t want to just rush up on her. But Fuller sees me looking and wheels around so hard that his chair scrapes on the floor. Jasmine turns, sees us gawking. She smiles and shrugs her shoulders. “Hey, Derrick,” she says. “What can I say? I needed to re-fuel.”

I figured Jasmine would head downtown, hit up some dimly lit coffee shop, instead of cracking her books next to a pile of chili-cheese fries.

“Come sit with us,” Fuller blurts before I can respond. Makes me cringe. If the guy had any subtlety, he’d wait to see what Jasmine wanted. Or, even better, hit the pavement so she and I could kick it alone. But that doesn’t seem to bother Jasmine—she jumps at the offer.

She comes over and slings her stack of books down to the floor. I know she came here with the intention of more studies, but she thuds those things down like they weigh five-hundred pounds each. There’s an ACT prep book, a thick novel for her English class, and then a little pamphlet. It’s got pictures of kids of all races, their eyes eager, all of them looking forward like they’re listening to some lecture. It’s got the IUPUI logo on it, but I know Jasmine hasn’t studied herself crazy for four years to go there. Jasmine catches me looking at it. She kicks the novel over to cover the pamphlet.

“Heard you won tonight,” she says.

“Ah, we put it down,” Fuller says. “Dropped Warren Central.” If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Fuller was trying to act the big man for Jasmine. Crazy move. She might not be my girl, but she’s not exactly nothing to me.

“Well, that’s good, I guess,” she says, a little ice in her voice. Fuller sits back, realizing just how unimpressed Jasmine Winters is by a high school basketball game.

Fuller checks his phone. It’s probably just a way of pretending like he doesn’t care that Jasmine dogged him out, but then he purses his lips. “Three missed calls from Mom,” he says. “I better bolt.”

He wads his napkins and wrappers on his tray and then hits it, giving me a clumsy fist bump across his tray before he leaves. That leaves me and Jasmine. For a few seconds we stare at each other in awkward silence. It gets broken by a guy calling her order number out, so Jasmine stands to go get it. As soon as she walks away, I kick myself for not having better manners—I should have got it for her. But before that thought’s even done, I do something else rude. I toe that top book a couple times until I can get a good look at the pamphlet she brought in. It’s from IUPUI all right, and it’s got some application materials. But it’s not for college exactly. Instead, it’s for dual enrollment classes. I’ve heard about that stuff, but it’s not the kind of thing kids from Marion East do, so I don’t know exactly what it means.

Before I can pry further though, Jasmine sets her tray down on the table. “Snoop much?” she says. Busted as can be, I start to stammer out an apology. For once, Jasmine lets me off the hook. “It’s okay, Derrick,” she says. “You’re digging, but I’ve been holding back. So it’s okay.”

“So what’s that about?” I ask, pointing to the pamphlet.

“It’s so I can take college courses next semester,” she says. “Get some basic credits out of the way before I get to college next year.” She sees some confusion on my face. She explains more. She’s not going to IUPUI for college, she tells me. She’s still holding out for a better ACT score. But the stuff she takes at IUPUI in the spring will transfer to college.

I nod and start chowing down on my last few bites of burger. Then it hits me. If she’s at the IUPUI campus next semester, then that means she’s not at Marion East. “So you’re gone?” I ask. I try not to sound hurt, but I think I do anyway.

She nods. “I’ve got everything I need to take at Marion East out of the way,” she says. “There’s not much more there for me.” She winces on that last sentence. It stung me and she knows it. “I didn’t mean it that way, Derrick,” she says. “I’ve been waiting to tell you because—I don’t know. Because you and I have always had this thing. But I guess I just realized it’s a high school thing. One way or another, we’re going separate ways soon enough.”

I feel blindsided. Coach Bolden could walk in the door and tell me that I just dreamt the Warren Central win, that Upchurch lit me up for 30 and we got run out, and it wouldn’t be a smack upside the head like what Jasmine just put on me. I can’t let it show though. I take a second to gather myself, and then point at her tray. She’s made a tragic mistake—she’s tried to go sensible at Sure Burger. Plain fries. A burger with no cheese or mayo, but extra lettuce and tomato. “Damn, girl,” I say. “Even when you’re trying to indulge, you don’t know how.”

She smiles. She offers a polite little laugh. Both of us know it doesn’t erase what she just told me, but it lets her breathe easy about it.

Besides, she’ll still be in the city even if she’s on a different campus. As long as we’re in the same state, it’s never really over. Both of us know that much.