Читать книгу Quicks - Kevin Waltman - Страница 13

6.

Warren Central. Their gym. So much for kicking off the season with an easy win. Their star from last year—Rory Upchurch—graduated and is getting minutes at Xavier now. But it’s not like he was lugging a bunch of scrubs up and down the floor last year. They might not have a star, but they’re talented and deep. Their center, Ricky Curry, is going to be a load for Jones. And they’ve got a senior point guard, J.T. Cox, who’s a savvy vet. We better lace ‘em up for real.

The clock’s dwindling on warmups. I call Fuller over to me, and we take turns with the ball on the perimeter. Shot fake, one dribble, pull up with the other one offering mock D. For me, it’s just about testing out that knee one last time. In my head, I know it’s good, but it hasn’t faced real game action yet. Every time I pull up, I’m thinking more about the knee than my follow-through on my J.

The crowd noise starts to swell as the clock dips under a minute. Season’s about on. I bump fists with Fuller, then step out to the three point stripe. I dribble the clock away, then with a few ticks left, fire a step-back three. Splash.

On the bench, Murphy gives us a few last words before they call out the starting lineups. He’s still flying solo, no assistant. “Run on misses,” he shouts. “We’re letting Jones play Curry solo, but sink down and show him some extra hands. On our end, keep your spacing to give room to drive. Got it?” I swear his voice almost cracks on those last words. And something about it seems off anyway. Coach Bolden never would have asked us if we “got it”—it was assumed that what he said was law. Murphy’s nervous.

I scour my brain for some way to give Murphy support. Some way to buck him up without sounding condescending. But there’s no time. The announcer starts in on the starting lineups, and I’m called first. As soon as Bowen resonates in the gym, I sprint to center court—and I’m greeted with a swell of boos and jeers. Truth? I love it. All it means is that I’ve broken their hearts a bunch over the last few years. Every baller knows that if the opposing fans hate you, you’re doing something right.

The only thing that bothers me is that I know Gibson is lurking on the bench. When Murphy wrote my name on the board pre-game, I heard this little pffft come from Gibson. He gave just the slightest shake of his head in dismay. I know where he’s coming from. When I was a freshman, I felt the same way every time Coach wrote Nick Starks’ name on the board instead of mine.

I scan the crowd for my people. They all sit together now. Dad and Jayson flank Mom, like they’re protecting her against the press of the crowd. Lia sits in front and gives me a quick wink when she sees me looking. Then, behind them, stands Kid. Arms folded. Sneer on his face. All business. He’s packed on too many pounds to play at pace, but the look on his grill says he’d love to shed those street clothes and pop on a uni tonight. When he makes eye contact, he just nods real long and slow.

They finish announcing our starters, and then the whole squad leaves the bench to join us. We huddle near our free throw line while the crowd buzzes in anticipation of the Warren Central starters. Then, as the announcer starts calling their names, the crowd loses their minds—basketball’s back at last. I get in the middle of our squad. “Game time,” I shout. “Game time.” I scan them, make eye contact with everyone. Even Gibson. “This is what we sweat for. What we wait all summer for. Game time.” I point above and around us. “Nobody here thinks we’ve got the goods this year. But we got news for them. The bodies right here on this patch of hardwood are destined for something special. I feel it. I know it.” Then I put my hand in the center and everyone layers theirs on top. “Starts tonight. Right now.”

Then we all shout Team! and it’s game on.

What I said to them? I don’t really know. I mean, I do feel that way, but so does every player on every squad in every corner of the state. But now I know there are no guarantees. All you can do is ball out while you can. And when the ref lofts that rock into the air and Warren Central controls, I dig into Cox and begin to do just that.

Cox comes into the frontcourt and decides to test me right out of the gate. He gives a little shudder then throws a crossover at me. It’s quick enough to get a step and he darts into the lane. It’s Xavier Green’s job to help, but he’s slow to recognize, and Cox has a clean path to the rim.

But I’ve still got my size. I time him up and rise. Years past I’d try to swat that orange hard enough to pop it. Now I just tap it straight to Green. He corrals, outlets to Reynolds. He crosses the mid-court stripe, pushing, then centers the ball. Fuller runs, widening to the wing. Jones is hustling on the other wing, hoping for an easy run at it, while Green and I trail. Reynolds knifes into the lane, then kicks to Fuller who’s spotted up. The D jumps to him, so he drives past. He looks for a lob to Jones, but by this time Warren Central has everyone back, pinched into the paint. For a second Fuller’s stuck. Creases of concern spread across his face. But he’s a year wiser. He knows there’s no need to panic. He pivots away from the pressure to get a clean look back to the perimeter—just in time to spot me filling out top.

I don’t even have to shout for the rock. He just puts it in my mitts and I rise in rhythm. True from the moment it leaves my hands.

From their pocket behind our bench, the Marion East crowd explodes. Always good to see the first bucket go down. But it’s more than that, I know. There’s a little extra throat to that roar, and it’s because I was the one to bury the shot. First touch, post-surgery. I point to our crowd in recognition. Then I point to my knee, as if to say it’s all good.

It’s not like Warren Central is going to stop the action to hand me the game ball though. Cox is right back on top of me, challenging again. He drives all the way down into the paint, but this time I stay pinned to him and he has to push it back out. I can see it in his body language though—it might not have ended in a bucket that last trip, but he got past me. I’m going to be dealing with his drives all night long.

As soon as I finish that thought, Xavier gets crossed up on his assignment, leaving his man at the rim for an uncontested jam. Now it’s Warren Central’s turn to pound their chests a little.

But that’s how it goes. In this game, nobody’s rolling over because of one play. The only play that matters is the next one. And it’s good—so good—to be back in the mix.

Warren Central finds their groove. They get Xavier so turned in circles that Coach Murphy has to take him out for a while. That means going to another freshman, Tony Harrison, who is way undersized—but at least he knows when to switch on screens. On our end, I keep us in it. A couple more Js. A nice drive and dish to Jones down low. A pick and pop for Reynolds.

Then it happens. With the score tied at 13, just a minute left in the first, Cox brings it up for Warren Central. He signals to his team like they’re running offense. Then he stutter-steps at me and is gone. Like a sports car ripping past a hitchhiker. This time I don’t have time to recover and meet him at the rim. Cox just curls around a late Jones challenge and scoops in a deuce. Plus Jones gets a silly whistle. Warren Central by two, at the line for a freebie.

The horn sounds while we shuffle toward our spots along the free throw lane. Probably Xavier coming back in for another go, I think.

“Derrick,” a voice says. “Hey, Bowen.”

I don’t have to look to know the news. It’s Gibson, subbing in for me. I trot to the bench but refuse to even look at Gibson on the way past.

When I hit the sideline, Murphy cuffs me on the back of my head. “Catch your breath,” he says. He wants to make it seem like he’s just getting me some much-needed rest, stretching out my breather over the quarter break. But anyone with an eye for hoops knows. It wasn’t just fatigue that beat me out there.

As I sit and grab some water, Cox sinks his free throw to put Warren Central up three. Their crowd’s feeling good now, the students jumping up and down. They get louder when, on his way up the court, Gibson mis-dribbles for a second and has to chase the ball down by the sideline. They think they’ve got him rattled—a short, white point guard seeing his first action. And there’s a horrible part of me that flares up—I wouldn’t mind seeing him fail. I swallow that bitterness down and make myself stand and yell to him. “You got this, Gibson. You good.” But even as the words leave my mouth I can tell how unconvincing they are.

None of this bothers Gibson a bit. He even smiles a little as he crosses the mid-court stripe. Then he loops to the right wing to run an exchange with Fuller. Only Gibson doesn’t give up the orange. Instead, he ducks his shoulder. He knifes into the lane. Then comes a step-back—just a filthy move—and he sinks a fifteen-footer.

The Warren Central crowd simmers down. Gibson trots back on D, clapping his hands in delight. He loves being on the road, feeling the heat of the other crowd. I have to respect that, at least.

Then he takes it next level. Just before Cox hits mid-court, holding up his index finger to say they want one shot, Gibson jumps him. At first, Cox tries to shrug it off. But when he crosses to his left, Gibson just rides him all the way to the sideline. Cox realizes they’re losing valuable clock, so he tries going between his legs to shake Gibson. No luck. Gibson times it and pokes the rock away quick as a cat. Before Cox can even react, Gibson scoops the ball up and then it’s flat-out quicks—there might as well be a cartoon puff of smoke where he leaves Cox. He’s to the rim for a lay-in with jaw-dropping speed. He gives us the lead, then just puffs his chest out at the crowd while the clock runs out on the quarter.

Our crowd’s so stunned they’re slow to react, but when they do it’s this high-pitched song of surprise and delight. The boys on the bench are just plain amped. As one, they leap up and start shouting at Gibson: You the boss and That’s what I’m talking ‘bout and D-Train rollin’! Gibson just bobs his head back at them, feeling pretty damn good about himself.

I stand and clap too. But there’s something about his head bob that makes it seem aimed at me as much as anyone else. I recognize it because it’s the same kind of look I used to give to Nick Starks when I was a freshman.

At least I get the bulk of the minutes. Problem is, when Gibson’s running point, our lead balloons to four, six, even eight in the middle of the third. But when I’m in, Warren Central tracks us down like prey. So here we are with a couple minutes to go, nursing a three-point lead. I haven’t fared any better keeping Cox in front of me, so Warren Central tries to solo us up. They just flatten out and let him go to work out top.

I concede a little space, dropping my heels down near the foul line. If he wants to rise up, I let him. I can still challenge from here. But it’s not enough cushion. He blows by left. I can’t do a thing to stop it.

There’s still time to meet him at the rim, but Jones gets there first. Clean up top, but he bangs him pretty good with the body, drawing a whistle. Cox manages to spin in the bucket too. A chance to tie at the line. The gym roars to a fever pitch, their crowd sensing blood.

Jones nods, not complaining about the call. It’s his fourth. We all look to the bench to see what Murphy’s going to do. With two and change left, it seems like a no-brainer to stick with Jones, but it’s his first crunch-time decision as a coach.

Then we get a surprise. The ref holds up his hand, signaling that it’s the fifth on Jones. Murphy, who was talking to Gibson on the bench, wheels around in disbelief. “It’s just four,” he says. He’s not angry. It’s like he’s trying to direct a lost person how to get back to the highway. “That’s only four.”

Jones turns to appeal to another ref. He starts rattling off his previous fouls on his fingers, but then I see him stop. It dawns on him. He got a cheap whistle early in the quarter we all forgot about. The first ref is breaking it down to Murphy too. By this time the Warren Central crowd is clued in on our mistake, and they’re heckling Jones pretty good with a Sit down! Sit down! Sit down! chant.

That’s a killer. Senior big man gone in crunch time. And totally avoidable. If Jones had known he had four, no way would he have challenged so hard. That’s on Murphy—it’s a coach’s job to remind his players in foul trouble. Jones doesn’t say anything, but on his way back to the bench he gives Murphy a stare that speaks volumes—just in case anyone in the gym was doubting who should be held responsible.

Murphy does what he can. Instead of subbing in with Tony Harrison, he sends in Gibson, opting for small ball. Gibson saunters onto the deck and tells everyone to slide up a spot in size—me at the two, Reynolds at the three, Fuller at the four, Xavier at center.

I’m still shaking my head in disbelief—first we lose our big, then Coach slides me to off-guard—as Cox coolly drains his freebie.

Our ball. Tied. Instinctively, I clap for the in-bounds, but Gibson’s right there. “Uh uh, Bowen,” he seethes. “You running the two.”

He walks it up, a little swagger to his stride. We run offense for a little while, nothing much happening. Everyone’s a little too tight to pull the trigger, especially playing out of position. I figure it’s time for me to ice it. So I break off a cut and flare out top, calling for the ball. Winning time.

That’s when Gibson does the thing that makes me want to strangle him right there between the circles. The kid waves me down. “Flatten out,” he says. “Stay wide.” Thing is, I can’t fight it. What am I gonna do, try to rip the rock from my teammate? So I set up behind the stripe on the right baseline, ready for the rock if I get a chance.

Gibson sizes Cox up, then darts left. It’s all set-up. As soon as Cox moves his feet, Gibson spins on him, ducks his shoulder past, and scoops into the lane for a sweet deuce. Cox just shakes his head. In the front row, a few old-timers whistle like it’s the baddest thing they’ve seen in years.

Gibson bobs his head like he owns the place. “Gotta get a stop,” I shout. But he’s all about that too. He may look like he’s not paying attention, but when the in-bounds pass floats a little, he jumps it. Taps it away from Cox. Chases it down by the baseline. Then puts a no-look laser on me that almost catches me by surprise. I take a power dribble to the rim and gather. But when I rise I don’t have that same old burst. Instead of an emphatic throwdown I have to try curling one in around the D. It rolls harmlessly off, but I get the whistle.

“Gotta bring the hammer on that,” Gibson tells me.

I don’t even respond. No way I’m giving him the satisfaction. Instead, I stroll out to the mid-court stripe and pull myself together. It’s game one back from my injury and instead of feeling the flow, my head’s full of noise. There’s so much up in the air: late night texts from Jasmine, the schools relentlessly recruiting me, Mom about to burst with a baby. And now my back-up point guard showing out on me.

Fuller comes out to me, puts a hand on my shoulder. “You got this, D. Bury these and let’s walk out of here with a win.”

I turn to look at him. All last year, I tried getting him to loosen up, but now he’s the one talking me down. I give him the best cocky smile I can muster, then head to the stripe. Once I get there, I remember the one good thing about a knee injury—lots of time to work on the form. That leather hits my hand and I feel it all come back—it’s just basketball, the thing I do best in this world. I take my dribbles. Exhale. Bury the first.

The next one’s easy. Straight bottom. And through it all—the mix-up by Murphy, my trouble corralling Cox, Gibson giving me static—we’re gonna start the season 1-0.

I can live with that.