Читать книгу Quicks - Kevin Waltman - Страница 15

8.

Against Richmond it’s the same deal. My J is smooth as silk, but I can’t get to the rim like I used to. All pull-ups in the lane. Then Gibson comes in and just rips past Richmond’s guards like they’re standing in sand.

If it weren’t for the fact that Richmond’s in a down year, we’d be in real trouble. Jones has foul problems again. Xavier can’t remember his defensive assignment to save his life. And Reynolds and Fuller are forcing—taking bad shots, turning the ball over, gambling on the defensive end. It all means this—with two minutes to go, we’re nursing a two-point lead. Richmond ball.

They’ve got a solid two guard, Randall Harrison. He’s basically kept them in it, dropping 20 so far. Now, their coach barks out some orders to them from the sidelines. As a group, the players all look at him and nod. There’s no secret though—everyone in this gym knows the rock’s going Harrison’s way. I’ve got their point out top, but while he motions to his teammates, I sneak a peek behind me. They’ve got Harrison flattened out on the right baseline. Their bigs are on opposite blocks. Again, no secret—Harrison’s gonna come flying off those bigs looking for the ball. Easy enough to see, but a lot harder to check. But that’s the job for Reynolds.

What I can do is pressure the ball enough to make a pass to Harrison harder. So I get up in their point’s grill. He takes a step back toward mid-court and I jump with him. Flick for the ball once. Nothing there—just a move to keep the pressure on. For a moment, their guard looks uncomfortable. He switches the rock to his left and backs up again. I stay into him. His eyes flash a little, and I know that behind me the play is unfolding. He takes a step left, then goes behind his back to the right. It’s a slow move and I jump to cut him off. I beat him to the spot, but I don’t have the quicks to check his response—a little cross-over back to his left. He gets past me, giving him a free look at the play. He finds Harrison right in rhythm on the opposite baseline. There’s no hesitation from Harrison. He grips and rips, burying a trey to put Richmond up one.

Their crowd gets loud. I see some shoulders slump on my teammates—doubt creeping in. I clap for the ball and Reynolds inbounds it to me. As I bring it up, the Richmond crowd starts stomping and clapping in rhythm. They can taste it. I take a glance to Murphy to see if he wants a special play, but he’s got nothing. He looks a little frozen by the situation, really.

Well, if the coach doesn’t know what to do, I do. Get to the rack.

I don’t even bother setting my man up, I just power into the lane with my right. When their bigs see that I’m not waiting around to run offense, they jump to me. I take one last power dribble, plant, and rise up on their center. He doesn’t have time to gather his legs, so he’s got to reach a little.

Turns out that reach is enough to check me. He meets me a foot from the rim and flat-out caps me. The rock ricochets off my elbow, then glances off his knee before rolling out of bounds. Their crowd howls. It’s still our ball, but that was an emphatic rejection. Their big just hovers beside me, scowling. He doesn’t even need to talk trash. That stare says it all. He owns me.

A year ago I would have flushed that thing, no problem. But now I’m going to have to get used to my limitations.

I’m about to signal the out-of-bounds play when the buzzer sounds. Gibson saunters between the lines. Reynolds takes a couple steps toward the sideline, thinking that we’re going with me and Gibson again for the stretch run. But Gibson waves him back. Then he points at me.

“I got it from here,” he says.

It makes me want to scream—louder than all these Richmond fans combined. Lord, I’m a senior! I’ve taken us to the state finals! And Murphy’s taking me out in crunch time? I know I’ve hit a rough patch, but this is a betrayal. You just don’t do a player this way. I don’t even look at Murphy as I walk past.

“Keep your head in it,” he says. “Just catch your breath and I’ll get you right back in.”

Keep your head in it. It doesn’t matter what’s going on in my head—I can’t help the team win with my ass on the bench. And the truth is my head is going to some bad places anyway. The worst thought a player can think flashes through—if Murphy’s going to play me like that then I don’t care if we win or lose.

We won. Not because of Gibson’s heroics. Certainly not mine either. Mostly because of Richmond being a mediocre team. They lost track of Fuller on the in-bounds—bucket, with a foul to boot. Then they did the unthinkable—when Reynolds offered a little false pressure on the in-bounds, their big man stepped across the line. Turnover. Then they just kept on fouling us.

I got back in there, sunk some freebies, but it didn’t seem as sweet as wins normally do. Even on the bus ride home, there was some chatter but not the hype atmosphere you’d think. Hell, we’re 2-0 with both wins coming on the road, and we’re not sure if we’re actually any good.

Whatever. It’s Monday after school and time to get things straightened out. I jet to the gym as soon as the bell rings. Gotta have a sit-down with Murphy. I’ve cooled since Saturday night. I know better than to go in guns blazing. Like it or not, he is the coach. I’ve got to give the man some respect. But I’ve also got to let him know he has to respect me. After all I’ve given this school I deserve better. He said again after the game that he was just giving me a last breather before winning time—but any fool knows that should come with five minutes left on the clock, not two.

Just thinking about it gets me boiling again. I make my way down the hall and put my hand on that thick wooden door to the locker room. I take a few deep breaths first—get my emotions under control.

Then I push that door open and walk on in. Only to find I’m not the first one in to see Murphy. Instead, there’s Uncle Kid, a whistle around his neck and a rock tucked in his right elbow.

They both turn to see me, surprise on their faces like I’ve just caught them sneaking from a store with their arms full of stolen goods.

“Hey, D,” Kid says. He saunters over and extends his hand, trying to act nonchalant. I accept his handshake but don’t say a word. Instead, I just turn my gaze to Murphy. I raise my eyebrows, waiting for an explanation.

Murphy tries to smile like it’s all good. It comes off as weak, like a kid trying to act cool when he’s busted in the hallway without a pass. “Tell me, Derrick,” he says. “Can you name a single person in this whole city who knows more about ball than your uncle?”

Well, yeah, I want to say. There’s like every damn body in the Pacers organization. And the whip-smart coaches over at Butler. And last I checked Joe Bolden still resides in Indianapolis even if he isn’t a coach anymore. Instead I just say, “Nah, I guess not.” Besides, I can see where this is headed—the secretive conversations, the whistle on Kid’s neck? It clicks now.

“Then what better man to ride shotgun on our bench?” Murphy asks. “I’ve got my hands full as head coach. I need some help. So Kid’s my man.” Then, as if to defend his decision, he starts rattling off Kid’s cred—a Marion East grad, a serious baller in his day, a man who knows his way around Indy hoops.

I nod, but to me it means two things. First, it means Coach Bolden is never walking through that door again. I knew he wasn’t coming back, but this kind of seals it—hiring Kid, a guy who went round and round with Bolden back on the day, is like defacing Bolden’s house. But I also know this: now I’ve got an ally on the bench. I might be lacking some trust with Murphy, but at least my uncle will have my back.

I’ve still got my doubts. For as long as I’ve known him Kid’s taken any good situation and screwed it up. Just last year he was set up with a job, hooked up with the finest woman he’s ever been with. And he sabotaged it. Got himself twisted up in an unemployment fraud scam. That’s why he’s still a full-grown man slumming rent-free at our place.

But whatever. Kid and hoops. Nothing wrong with that. I step forward and give Kid a quick forearm thump on his chest. “Like old times,” I say. “You and me running things on the court. Like when we balled out on the Fall Creek court when I was a pup.”

That makes it good all around. As the two of them laugh at my comment, I suddenly realize both Murphy and Kid were a little iffy about how I’d take to the news.

The door swings open again. Fuller and Reynolds file in. Murphy and Kid stiffen up, preparing to officially share the news with the team. I head to my locker and start getting ready for practice. So much for my talk with Murphy. Can’t sweat that now though. After all, there’s one thing I learned from Kid all those years ago on the blacktop—when things are breaking wrong between the lines, the only thing to do is to get back after it harder than ever.

I have to admit, practice hums a little better. With Kid on the scene, there’s less room for Xavier and some others to fool around. And Murphy can put more of his attention on the back-court. Right away he spotted a flaw in Reynolds’ game. He pointed out that his step into his shot is real long—it takes him more time to get the shot off, but it also flattens him out and leaves him firing line drives. Like always, Reynolds bristled at the advice, but after two minutes of work he started finding bottom a little easier and everything was gravy.

Murphy even cracked on Gibson a little. Three straight times Gibson drove hard middle when the play called for a reversal baseline. Three straight times Murphy corrected him. “Man, you’re so amped to show everyone that you’re the great D-Train that you only do one thing,” he said. “Drive, drive, drive. Instead of D-Train I’m going to start calling you One-trick Pony if you can’t mix it up a little.”

Gibson pouted some, but give him this—you can’t keep the kid down long. He bounced back after a minute and made some slick plays.

It all meant that I didn’t get to interact with Kid much. Oh, I’d hear him now and then, barking at the bigs about how to box out. I even heard him tell Xavier that if he had a little more heart and a lot less lip he might get his name in the record books for rebounds some day.

But now we’re all on one end, the ones against the twos, doing some early prep for White Station, a tough outfit from Memphis. We head there this weekend for a day tourney. Evansville Harrison will be there too, but we won’t play them. Instead they get top billing against Tennessee’s reigning state champ. Still, it’s a chance to show out in a spotlight.

Kid’s in charge of the twos, and he does his Kid thing—he huddles them up and gets them amped like they’re about to rock Game 7 of the NBA Finals. And, hey, maybe that’s been what’s missing. Murphy’s had to adjust to his head coach role, but nobody’s stepped in to do his old job of getting guys pumped. Kid’s a natural. “Remember,” he shouts at them as they step back onto the court, “only way to flip your jersey and run with the ones is to beat the ones. Ain’t nobody gonna give it to you.”

Hearing that kind of talk gets me hyped too. And when I glance at Fuller and Jones, I see that fire in their eyes. The twos gonna come at us? Bring. It.

Gibson strolls out toward me. He starts clapping his hands, rallying his boys. Then Murphy bounces the rock my way. “Ball’s in,” he says. I grin at Gibson. He glares back. Oh, it’s on.

I pop the rock to Reynolds on the wing and we run O. The twos know every move we want to make. Still, I carry out my fakes. I take a couple hard steps like I’m going to down-screen, then cut away from the ball to set a cross-screen for Fuller. Gibson jumps the play. He squeezes his body between me and Fuller, throwing off our timing. Fair enough. But if he’s going to do that, then I’ll improvise. I spin and seal him on my back, then cut straight down the lane, hands extended. But by the time Reynolds sees it, the lane’s crowded. Besides, Gibson’s got a hand on my hip, holding me back on my cut. It’s a cheap move. He knows Murphy and Kid are too busy watching everything else to catch a quick grab. But when I take the bait—swatting his hand away—of course they see that.

“Clean it up, Derrick,” Murphy snaps.

I just grunt in response and keep on. But before I can get my hands on the rock again, Jones gets free on the block for an easy deuce.

Next possession, Gibson gets right back to it. He grabs. Holds. Jumps plays because he knows what’s coming. It’s nothing new. Second-teamers have been doing this since basketball was invented. Still, that doesn’t make it any less irritating. And this time it’s made worse because we don’t get a bucket. Xavier gets his first touch and chucks a bad one—a fadeaway from deep right baseline—that barely catches iron. While the second team grabs the rebound, Gibson gives me a quick shove. Nothing dirty—just enough to get me on my heels so he can create separation for the outlet. He catches at the hash and the only thing that stops him from a run-out is Murphy’s whistle. “Bring it back,” he calls. “Let the ones keep working offense.”

But Gibson just grins from ear to ear. Everyone in the gym knew that was a run-out. And only I know he had it because of that push.

On and on it goes. It’s not like I’m getting stopped cold. I’ve got four inches on Gibson. A few times I just rise up over him to show him who’s boss. But I can’t get the offense humming the way I’d like. And every time we get slowed down—a cut gets bumped off course, a reversal gets denied—Gibson seems to swell up a bit more.

Finally, I’ve had enough. Forget about rising up for mid-range Js. There’s only one way to put a pest like Gibson in his place. When I flare baseline for a look, I don’t even think about a jumper when the leather hits my hands. I rip it to the rim. Only I can’t get the whole way past Gibson. That missing burst again. I push on into the paint anyway. I’ve got the size to muscle one up on the glass. But as I go up, Gibson gets another cheap one on me—he pins my right arm to his chest, then flops. He pulls me down, but it looks like I’ve charged into him.

Or at least it looks that way to Murphy. “That’s a charge, D,” he says. “Turnover. Let’s start it again—and this time try to stay within the offense.”

This time, I can’t help it. It’s that last dig about staying in the offense that sets me over the top. Hell, no team puts up points if they can’t just break down the D once in a while. But that’s not what I respond to. “Charge?” I yell. “Gibson pulled me down. A blind man could see that.”

Murphy rocks back on his heels. “Now, Derrick,” he says. “I didn’t see it that way. But even if you’re right, you’ve got to play through a bad call now and then.”

A bad move by Murphy. To even acknowledge my complaint is a sign of weakness. Bolden—or any coach worth his whistle—would have had my ass running stairs before the last word was out of my mouth. I glance around. Xavier and Jones are having a private little laugh off toward the baseline. Reynolds has his shorts sagging so far he’s about to trip over them. Rider, relegated to third-string point, is just staring into the rafters like there’s some movie playing up there. And then there’s Gibson with his snarky little smirk. This is not a tightly focused team. And that’s on the man in charge.

I scoop the ball up from the baseline and head back out top. I give a little sneer toward Murphy, testing him. No reaction. So I press the issue. I turn toward Kid. “You could see it, right?” I shout. I point at Gibson. “Foul’s on him, right?”

Kid clears his throat. “I didn’t really have an angle,” he says.

“Oh, come on, Kid!” I shout. “You were right on top of the play!”

Kid’s face darkens. It’s the expression he gets when my mom hints a little too forcefully that he needs to move out of our house. “Let’s just play ball, Derrick,” he says.

“Whatever,” I say.

“That’s enough. Let’s play.” It’s Murphy now, but he’s got no real throat behind it. Instead, it sounds like a gentle suggestion.

We go another twenty minutes without incident, then Murphy calls it for the day. All I want to do is get the hell out of here, maybe get some time with Lia. I’m thinking about the quickest shower in the history of basketball when I feel a presence beside me as I walk to the locker room—Kid. Scowl on his face.

Used to be, I’d back right down from Kid. He was always the big man on the court when I was playing, the guy who was better, the guy who knew more. Not anymore. Not after seeing him fail in a million different ways. And besides, with my extra height he can’t even lord his size over me these days. “What?” I snap.

“You want to apologize?” he asks.

A few of the guys give us some looks as they file past. Truth is, as much as I want to open it up on Kid, I don’t want a scene. That’s not a good look for a senior leader. So I lower my voice. “Man, I don’t see where I’m the one who should apologize.”

Kid rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he says. “Be a stubborn son of a bitch.” He points way down to the opposite baseline, where we were playing. “You don’t think I saw what Gibson did on that play? Hell, I been seeing guys pull out that garbage since before you were born.”

“Well then, why didn’t you say so?” I say. That comes out a bit sharp, and guys stare again. But they keep moving toward the locker room. They’re probably thinking this is just a family thing. Which it kind of is.

Kid sighs. He shakes his head at his shoes. “D, this is my shot. You see that, right? I could actually be a coach. Something more than a guy who sloshes beer in dirty mugs at a dive bar. But it ain’t gonna happen if everyone thinks I’m just doing this because you’re my nephew. So I can’t take it easy on you. I can’t just jump to your defense. Who’d respect me if I did that?”

I want to shout right back at him that nobody respects a guy who rolls over for some scrub who just transferred here. So much for having a man in my corner. But he has a point. I relax my shoulders and nod. Give Kid a little backhand to his arm to let him know we’re cool. “Okay, man. It’s just…” But I don’t know how to finish that sentence. I don’t know what it just is.

“Can I say something, D?” Kid asks.

“Sure.”

He takes a deep breath. Then he launches in. “That play down there”—he points to the baseline again—“it shouldn’t matter what Gibson does. A year ago you’d have been swinging from the rim while he was still trying to catch up to you. It’s the knee.”

My back stiffens. My mouth goes dry. I do not want to hear him start saying my knee’s not good. Hell, that may be the truth, but I don’t want to hear it.

Kid holds his hands up in defense. “There’s nothing wrong with it,” he says. “The only thing wrong is you don’t trust it.” Now he leans in toward me like we’re in on some shady secret. I can smell a day’s worth of coffee on his breath. “It’s there. The burst. You can’t see it, but I do. When you’re just in the flow, not thinking about it, you snap off a cut like nobody’s business. Or you top out going for a board. It’s only when you want to rise up for a dunk that you hold back. I can see it on your face. You just don’t trust it yet. But it’ll come.”

Maybe. That’s what I think. Maybe it’ll come. I know more than ever there are no guarantees. “Thanks, Kid,” I say.

Then we head to the locker room. Static squashed. Except I’m in for one more surprise. “You gonna miss that cash from tending bar on weekend nights?” I ask. “’Cause I know Marion East isn’t laying heavy green on an assistant coach.”

“Man, some things are more important than money,” Kid says.

“How’s Wes working out down there anyway?” I ask, checking on my old friend.

That stops Kid in his tracks. “Wes? That boy hasn’t shown up to work in almost a month.”

Wes being a fool again. That one hurts. Talk about not being able to trust something.