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7.

5 – GREEN

4 – STANFORD

3 – BEDFORD

2 – VARNEY

1 – STARKS

This hits me when I walk back in the locker room like a slap in the face. For a second I think maybe it was just left up there from last night. But, no, it’s fresh chalk. Same damn starting five.

After last night’s game, my parents and Jayson were thrilled with the win and with the plays I made when I got my chances. Wes and Uncle Kid came over afterward and we all crowded into the living room. My dad ran out for some pizzas and everyone felt celebratory, talking about how Arlington couldn’t check me, laughing about how late in the game when it was wrapped up Chris Jones went up for a dunk and popped it right off the front rim, Jones nearly falling down in the process. The play sent Coach Bolden into a fury on the sideline, stomping up and down the coach’s box in a ridiculous tirade, but now it was just material for our amusement: our back-up four-man playing the fool in the waning minutes. Wes scooped a slice of pepperoni from the box and said, “Yeah, Jones got blocked by Joe Rim on that one.” I’ve heard Wes crack that joke about a dozen times, but we all laughed like it was the funniest, most original thing we’d ever heard. We all stayed up late, even Jayson since it wasn’t a school night, and watched the West Coast game—Spurs-Blazers—and nobody even breathed a word about me not starting. Until the 4th quarter of that late game. Wes had gone home and Jayson was in bed and my mom was asleep on the couch. Uncle Kid leaned forward in his chair to get my attention. “I see Bolden’s out to mess with you, just like he did me,” he said.

“Sidney,” my dad said. He was over on the couch, Mom’s feet propped on his lap, so he said it softly so not to wake her, but there was a real warning in that one word.

“Tom, you know Derrick shouldn’t be sitting on that bench.”

“Let’s just watch the game,” I said, nodding toward the TV.

“We’ve talked about this,” my dad said.

That was it for a while. We watched Duncan own players half his age. Then, like an afterthought, Kid muttered: “Well, we’re gonna talk about it again sometime.”

And now, lacing up my kicks and staring at that starting five, I feel like talking about it. Last night, I just wanted Uncle Kid to let things be, but I almost feel like I deserve some kind of explanation for why my name’s not on that board, especially after the way I outplayed Starks last night. Maybe Coach Murphy senses it, because he comes over and gives my shoulder a quick squeeze. “Different ballgame tonight,” he says. “Lawrence North makes Arlington look like a bunch of grade schoolers, so we’re gonna need you to be ready.”

“I’m always ready,” I say, though I want to tell him that if they need me so much then Bolden best get my name up there on the board.

Murphy was right about one thing: Lawrence North’s no joke. There’s a reason they’re the favorite to win our Sectional, and why they’re a real threat to bounce Hamilton Academy in Regionals. Squad is loaded. Every single one of their starters is scholarship material, but the primary weapon is Marcus Tagg, a rangy 6'5" swing-man. All-City, All-State, Kentucky-bound blue chipper.

Bolden stuck Royce Bedford on Tagg, and even before the tip you could tell Royce was in too deep. You could see it in the way he dried his hands on his shorts a bit too nervously, cocked his head back and forth and rolled his shoulders like he was trying to act tough: he was scared. Royce is a good shooter, a decent athlete. On his best days he’s usually a good match-up for us out there—but nobody can play scared. First time down, Tagg catches it shallow corner and just rises for a 17-footer. Filthy good. Next time he cuts to the wing and Royce, wary of Tagg’s burst to the hole, doesn’t challenge hard. Bucket for three. And next time it’s just ugly: Royce tries to anticipate the pass to the wing and gets back cut. By the time he realizes he’s lost him, Marcus Tagg is up in the clouds, soaring for an alley-oop that has the Lawrence North fans jumping in our bleachers. Timeout. A 7-0 hole and their other stars haven’t even gotten warm.

“Shit, he can play,” Royce says in the huddle.

“Well, damn, Bedford,” Bolden says. “At least you’ve figured that much out. Took you long enough.”

“You all right,” Starks says, and gives Royce a quick pop on the shoulder to try and shake him out of it.

“No, he’s not!” Bolden shouts. He looks at me for a second, his eyes bulging and angry, but then he turns back to the starting five. “We can’t expect Bedford to just check Tagg on his own. We all have to know where he is. Help on drives! Hedge on screens! Now let’s dig our heels in and protect our home court.”

That rallies guys for a little while. Nick makes a few nice plays and Moose knocks in a mid-range shot off the glass. But it doesn’t last. Tagg and Lawrence North are just too much, and soon enough Tagg gets loose for another thunderous dunk. Coach Bolden hangs his head momentarily, hands clasped behind his back, looking more like a man lost in deep thought rather than one in the thick of battle. It lasts for a few seconds and then he pops his head up like he’s heard someone suddenly call his name. “Bowen, next whistle,” he says. I jump from the bench. In the background I can hear a few cheers, but as I start for the scorer’s table Coach grabs me by the sleeve of my warmup. “Not for Starks,” he says into my ear, “for Bedford. You get into Tagg and see what you can do.” I take another step and he pulls on my sleeve again. “You know what you’re doing out there? You know the three spot in our offense?”

“I’m straight, Coach,” I say, but that’s not entirely true. I’ve never played anything other than point guard, not even in practice, so though I know what the three does I’ve never actually done it.

By the next whistle, we’re down 9, and when Starks looks up to see me checking in, a pained expression flashes across his face. The thing is, when I point to Royce instead, Starks looks even more pissed. I watch as Starks walks toward the sideline with Royce, like he’s some police escort—in his ear the whole time. This is their third year as starters together. Whatever Starks is saying to his best friend it’s certainly not complimentary of the freshman coming in to replace him.

When I body up next to Tagg, he just gives me this long staredown, like Who you think you are? He’s bulkier up close, and his dark scowl makes him look like he’s about 25. On the offensive end, I get out of rhythm. Any time I’m a step slow on my cut, Starks shouts at me, once giving a frustrated look toward the bench—as if I’m the one that dug us a nine-point first quarter deficit. Moose has my back, though, and guides me a bit more subtly: “Flare now, D,” he’ll say. Then, during a dead ball, “You all right, D, just stay at it. Next time you catch it on the wing, I’m clearing for you.” And, sure enough, he does, so I dip my shoulder and get past Tagg, exploding so quickly that he has to relent so he doesn’t foul, and I get us a quick deuce off the window.

At the other end of the floor, it’s an even greater challenge sticking with Tagg. The guy is in constant motion—posting up down low, then spinning for that lob, faking to one baseline and dashing to the other, setting a cross-screen and slipping it to cut into the lane. Their point guard, a shifty kid named Patterson who’s a ringer for a younger Jason Terry, is always on the lookout for him too. I stay glued to Tagg, and the one time he gets me pinned on his back in the paint, Moose slides over to scare away the entry.

We dig. We claw. We fight. Bolden shouts maniacally from the sideline. But we can’t make a dent in their lead except to shave it to 8 with the ball for the last shot of the first quarter. With just under ten seconds, we get it to Starks at the top of the key so he can work. He idles for a moment and we all catch our breath. There’s just a hint of a buzz in the crowd. I look up in the stands and see Uncle Kid on his feet, urging us to get a bucket. I realize that if we could knock one down here, we’d actually be in the best shape we could have hoped for after that disastrous start. I’m on the wing to Nick’s right. He jukes a couple times up top, then crosses hard to his right and knifes into the lane, so when Tagg helps I drift deep into the corner. I know Nick wants that last shot, but he’s drawn a crowd in the paint, so when he leaves his feet he has no choice but to kick it out—and I’m his best option, standing all alone in the corner for a beautiful look at a three. The pass comes crisp but low and I have to re-gather. In just that hesitation, Tagg is rushing at me, hand outstretched. I’ve still got time to rise up for a look, but his presence bothers me. The release just feels off, a little flat and short. Sure enough, as the buzzer sounds, my shot scrapes front iron and drops straight down like a stone. Our crowd is dead again.

In the huddle, Nick doesn’t waste time putting a knife square in my back. “We need another shooter out there,” he yells. Coach Bolden frowns but doesn’t say a word about it, so Murphy steps in and rattles off about five straight clichés to try to raise our spirits. When Bolden finally does get in the middle of the huddle, he just re-iterates all the things he’s already told us: everyone help on Tagg, push the ball whenever we get a chance, be patient in the half-court. Like saying it all again will make any of it work better for us. Just before we break, he rattles off substitutions, putting Moose and Devin on the bench too. So Starks and I break huddle to face Lawrence North, down eight, with nothing but sophomore back-ups surrounding us.

It goes about as well as you might expect. I stick with Tagg, but with Moose out of the paint, he’s content to just feed their bigs. Even when we force a miss, they pound the glass, getting second, third, fourth shots until something drops. On the other end, it’s like I’m invisible. With this five on the floor, Nick decides he’s got to play savior, so he drives and drives and drives, penetrating into the teeth of the D but never kicking it out for shots. He never once looks my way, even when I pop open in the paint. “Ball!” I shout, but he just drives right at me, bringing more defenders with him.

“Get out of the lane!” he yells at me. He dribbles back to the top of the key and shouts at me again: “The three isn’t supposed to be in there. Learn the offense, man!”

Soon enough, Bolden gives up on his little experiment and sends Moose and Stanford back in along with Royce, so now I slide into the two spot that Devin usually occupies. But Royce arrives with instructions that I’m still supposed to check Tagg on the defensive end. The return of our starters gives us a little jolt and we slice away at the lead, getting it back to single digits. Our little run is fool’s gold, though, because Lawrence North cranks the intensity back up. They don’t explode like they did in the first few minutes, but they methodically stretch their lead, and our crowd goes kind of numb as if they’re watching a funeral procession edge along to the graveyard.

As the half nears an end, I’m spent. I’ve given everything I have keeping Tagg reined in. On the offensive end I haven’t had a single touch except to inbound the ball. It just wears me out. I’d as soon strangle Nick as look at him. Even Moose isn’t offering any words of encouragement. The silence of the crowd has been replaced by grumbles here and there. It’s not that they all expected us to beat Lawrence North, but they’re not exactly thrilled with our effort.

That’s when it happens: for the briefest of moments, I think about how Uncle Kid drove me up to Hamilton Academy and told me how I should consider taking my talents there. Tagg’s gone faster than a finger-snap, spinning away from me and throwing one down on a lob: the same move that froze Royce in the opening minutes. He backpedals to the defensive end and smirks at me. “Gotta stay awake, kid,” he says.

Next time down the clock’s dwindling, so they iso Tagg. He jabs at me once, twice—toying with me—then dips his shoulder and starts baseline only to pop back and bury one from three. I hang my head and hear the Lawrence North crowd go nuts. The buzzer sounds and I shuffle toward the locker room, not looking up. I don’t want to make eye contact with Wes, my family, anyone. I just stare at my AdiZeros as they make one step after another toward the locker room, until I almost bump into Coach Bolden.

“What the hell was that?” he yells.

“Tagg’s too good,” I say.

Bolden’s back stiffens and he puts his hands on his hips. “Don’t you ever say that again,” he says. “You make him good because you lose focus.” He started off in a controlled tone, but as he goes on his voice gets louder and louder. I realize we’re near the bleachers where Wes sits. “Then you’re out on the perimeter with Marcus freakin’ Tagg,” Bolden continues, “and you’ve got your hands down below your waist. You let your hands sink like that and you’re just waiting around to die.”

Waiting around to die. That’s about what halftime feels like. And much of the second half. By mid-fourth quarter most of the crowd has cleared, which is fine by me, because it’s fewer people to see me pile up garbage minutes with the other back-ups.

I listen to Coach Bolden’s post-game talk. After Bolden exits, I listen to Starks slam his fist into his locker and scream that we should be ashamed of ourselves. I listen to Moose talk shit about how it doesn’t matter if we win or lose, he’s still going to have himself a Saturday night, rattling off names of all the girls he claims want to share that Saturday night with him. I listen to a few guys laugh, unable to stay down around Moose even after a 19-point thumping. I listen to the shower hiss. I listen to the door to the locker room slam again and again. I listen to the sound of my footsteps echo in a dark, empty gym. Then I listen to someone call my name.

It’s Wes. He’s been waiting for me this whole time.

“You’re unbelievable,” I say.

“Derrick, if I’m gonna hang with you after wins, I’m gonna still be around after you get your ass beat.”

I laugh. “We did get our asses beat, didn’t we?”

“Like a drum.”

We go out the doors and get whipped by the cold November wind.

“You coming over to hang out?” I ask Wes.

“Hell, naw,” he says. “Your place will be depressing. Let’s go get some eats. We’ll pretend like basketball was never invented.”