Читать книгу Next - Kevin Waltman - Страница 9

2.

Once, a couple Christmases ago, I saw Roy Hibbert in Circle Centre. A train of about six or seven guys trailed him, each loaded down with about five bags worth of merchandise, and Hibbert just strolled, all 7'2" of him, right down the middle of the mall. You think he looks like a bad-ass on the court, you should see him among mere mortals. Even with his length, you could tell how ripped he is. I mean, I was already pushing 6 feet and I felt like nothing next to his mass.

The thing I remember most is how everyone—every single man and woman in that mall—stopped what they were doing and stargazed. People parted for him, like traffic making way for an ambulance, and Hibbert looked straight ahead like he was the only one in the mall, immune to all those stares. But there they were, grown men with their jaws hanging open, women frozen stock still with their Christmas gifts about to fall from their hands, cashiers stuck between ringing up sales. Even my dad, who tries not to make too big a deal out of hoops, grabbed me by the coat sleeve and pointed in Hibbert’s direction. Then my dad looked over at my mom, who was staring a bit too boldly. He drummed up some mock anger and said, “Oh, come on. He’s just a basketball player,” and we moved on down to the next store. But I’ll always remember how that whole mall just froze, astonished at the very existence of an NBA player in their presence.

That’s not the reaction I get when I walk down the halls of Marion East. At least not yet. Sure, people stare. Some squint and the edge of their mouth curls up and they might whisper something to the person next to them, but for a lot of them I’m just the freshman who’s six inches taller than the rest, something to be figured out, but nothing special. The most ink I ever got was last year this time, when I got my picture in The Indianapolis Star in their pre-season hoops section, and even then it was just a tiny picture of me squeezed into a corner for middle schoolers, about fifty words on the “kids” in a section labeled What’s Next. So instead of Hibbert’s posse following a few paces behind him, I’ve just got my boy Wes Oakes next to me as we make our way to Algebra, where I’m plain old Derrick Bowen, not “D-Bow.”

Then, as we round the corner, I see Nick Starks, the red and green of his jacket popping against his smooth brown skin, coming the other way. And wouldn’t you know it, he’s getting the Marion East version of the Hibbert treatment.

“Look at him,” Wes seethes. If Nick Starks is the man between me and a starting spot at the point, then he’s Public Enemy #1 for Wes too. “It’s like he thinks he owns the place.” He puffs out his chest like he’s ready to throw down, never mind that my man Wes is all of 5'5" on a good day. You gotta love Wes, though: the heart of a warrior in a miniature body.

You’d think Starks was royalty even though he hasn’t been able to get the Marion East Hornets out of Sectionals—hardly anyone has since my uncle played. Still, everybody’s head swivels as Starks struts along, the guys angling for fist-bumps or nods of recognition. The girls whisper to each other, eyeing first Starks and then his girlfriend Jasmine Winters. Personally, I can’t figure out why someone like Jasmine Winters would hook up with Nick Starks. She’s cool, but not stuck-up. Fine as hell, but not air-headed. Whenever I see her caramel face coming down the hall, always smiling like she knows some secret, I get to feeling a little wild. She’s only a sophomore, but she just seems better than Starks. As she walks down the hall, she seems a little detached from it all. Her eyes flash here and there, and she’ll smile at someone she knows, but she seems just over the whole scene.

Some of the other starters make a little semi-circle around Starks as if they’ve just broken a huddle and he’s leading them out onto the floor. There’s Devin Varney, the two, who depends on Starks for all those open looks he gets, and Royce Bedford, the three-man who’s a senior and best friends with Starks. And then there’s Moose Green, a junior. His real first name is Gavin, but nobody’s called him that in years. The man is Moose. Six-six and a good 250. He’s Marion East’s best post man and—there’s no two ways about it—the man is fat. Not “pudgy” or “bulky.” Fat. And nobody—I mean, nobody—can get around him in the paint. He gets gassed after three times down the court, but Moose catches it down low and he’s taking somebody for a ride.

Starks gives me the slightest of nods and says, out the side of his mouth, ’Sup, the last curl of ink of one of his tats edging above his collar when he nods. His hair, like always, looks just the slightest bit nappy, like he’s trying to show how little he cares, and he can’t be bothered to really even look at me before he rolls on down the hall. Jasmine looks me up and down once, and I could swear her eyes linger, but she gets swept away with the rest of them.

Moose stops, though, lingering large in the hall like some Indianapolis version of Shaq, only seven inches shorter and with a babyface that would make him look younger than Wes if he weren’t so big. “Little man!” he says and throws his arm around my neck. He’s the only person who can call me that and not make me get my back up. “We gonna see you on the court tonight?” He’s talking about the first practice of the season, immediately after school.

Before I can answer, Wes chimes in: “You know D-Bow’s gonna be there. He’s gonna be the best player you got.”

Moose rears his head back and laughs. “I see you got a fan club already!” He reaches out to shake hands with Wes, and it looks like a big bear offering a paw to a cub. “I’m Moose,” he says. Wes squeaks out his name in return, almost coming off the ground with the force of Moose’s shake. “You all right,” Moose says. “I like a guy who talks a little shit.”

Wes breaks into a broad smile, which is pretty much the reaction everyone has around Moose. Even during games, I’ve seen the team in a huddle so tense the sweat beads on Coach Bolden’s forehead. He’ll shout orders to them and concentration is carved into everyone’s face, but they’ll break that huddle and Moose will make some crack only the other players can hear. You can see them trying to hold back their laughter even if the game’s tied with 15 seconds to go.

He turns to me now. “All I can say is you got some hype to live up to.” He smacks me on the shoulder and then points down the hall to Starks and his crew. “They’ve all been hearing about this great D-Bow who’s gonna take us to the promised land. They just never gonna show it. Especially Starks.”

“Fine with me,” I say. And it is. Sure, I want the starting spot. I want the attention in the halls. I want my name splashed in headlines. But I know it won’t happen through hype alone. I’ll have to earn it.

“Good,” Moose says. He leans in. “All I care about is one thing. I get open in the post, you get me the rock. You feel me?”

He’s laughing, but I know he’s dead serious. “I feel you,” I say.

Moose pops me on the shoulder again, then gives Wes a playful bump—almost knocking him into his locker—and then he’s off, bellowing for his teammates to wait the hell up, his voice deep and loud as an amped bass.

I look over at Wes. We’ve been friends since first grade. There’s nobody as constant as he is. I always hated it when my middle-school teammates would brush him off just because he didn’t ball. He’s still smiling from our encounter with Moose, though.

“That guy’s cool,” he says, which is a pretty solid verdict on Moose Green. So we don’t have to say another thing as we head on to Algebra. But I have to rein myself in—just that encounter with Moose, just the mention of practice, has me playing out the season in my head, dreaming up all the ways my hype will become reality. I’ve just about mapped out the whole season, right down to me hitting a game-winner to beat Lawrence North in Sectionals, plus one more to drop Hamilton Academy in Regionals and send us to State. Then we walk through the door to Algebra, where Mr. Jenks, who probably hasn’t cracked a smile in a quarter century, has a stack of quizzes he’s handing out as students file in. An Algebra quiz—a reality check if there ever was one.

Coach Joe Bolden keeps a somber locker room, I can tell you that. In middle school, we used to be blasting Jay-Z before practices, getting ourselves loose. In the Marion East locker room, the sound system is a beat-up old stereo stuck in the corner collecting dust. The thing’s so old it’s still got dual cassette players in front. So the only beats here are coming out of Moose’s earbuds, and even Moose turns his sound down when Coach Bolden enters.

Bolden—his first year at Marion East was my Uncle Kid’s last. He hasn’t changed a single bit in those two decades except that once his hair started to go gray, he decided to just shave it all off. So now the locker room lights reflect on his bald, brown dome as he paces through the locker room, his almond eyes squinting so hard it forces deep wrinkles into his face as he takes stock of what he has this year. Since that first year, he’s won Sectionals exactly twice, but that’s not to say his teams have been bad. We’ve just never been good enough to beat teams when it counts. I’m sure the parents around here would like a few more Sectional banners, but it’s just as important to them that Bolden’s players stay out of trouble, which isn’t easy at Marion East. And if anyone does step out, Bolden makes sure their next step is to the curb. The man doesn’t tolerate foolishness. Just ask Uncle Kid.

I pull my new kicks from their box. I rocked Kobes, then LeBrons in middle school, but this time I’ve gone with the new Rose AdiZeros, black with the red trim to match the trim on our unis. It’s a tough move breaking from Nikes, but I figure new school, new season, new brand. I pull them out and smell that new leather. There’s something perfect about new kicks, like you can do anything in them, like every shot’s going to find bottom and you’re going to win every game.

Over in the corner, I see Starks getting ready. He’s got his ankles taped, his shooting elbow in a sleeve, his right knee covered by a black Ace bandage. But it’s all show. He’s never had an injury as far as I know of but wants to look like some soldier readying for combat. His tats creep out from under all that gear, dark against his light-brown skin. It wasn’t but a few years ago that Bolden would have made a player cover all those. Seems like only since Nick came along did Bolden come to grips with the fact that young guys want to get inked up.

“Time!” Coach Bolden yells, and like that everyone is out the door. I trail out, and I see every last player lined up on the baseline. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel nervous. Don’t get me wrong, I know I belong here. I know that even if I’m just a freshman all I need is a chance to unleash my skills. But there’s something about everyone lined up, the coaches staring at us with their arms crossed, everyone looking grim under the gymnasium lights. I try to squeeze in next to Moose, but even he shakes me off. “Freshmen on the end, D,” he says. “Don’t be playin’ now.”

I have to take my place all the way down at the corner of the floor. When I lean forward to take a look down the row, every other player is staring straight ahead, just waiting on Coach Bolden to make his way to center court and bark orders, like we’re in the damn military.

When he finally gets there and blows that whistle, I realize military isn’t much of a stretch.

Forget about drills—he runs us. I mean kills us. Down-and-backs, suicides, defensive slides, and more suicides. Nobody but Coach Bolden says a word, not even Moose, who’s doing all he can to hide how much of a struggle this is for him. After a while, Bolden’s assistant, Lou Murphy, walks over and grabs Moose by the elbow. They walk to one of the side baskets and Murphy acts as if he’s instructing Moose on post moves, but it’s really just a chance for Moose to catch his breath without drawing Coach Bolden’s wrath. Smart move. If Moose can’t finish the runs, then Bolden would have to come down on him, but everyone in the gym knows Moose is a threat for a double-double each night out, whether or not he can finish another down-and-back.

The rest of us are still waiting for Coach Bolden’s next whistle. This is nothing new. It seems like every self-respecting high school coach in Indiana has a reputation for being a hard-ass. Some places, it’s all show—the coaches put on a tough face but they know their best bet to move up the ranks is to keep their players happy and position them for the scouts. But I can see early on that Coach Bolden takes a special pleasure in this. When, finally, one of my fellow freshman falls out of a sprint and bends over on the sideline like he’s about to pass out, Bolden walks over. “You gonna quit?” he asks. The rest of us have finished the sprint and are gathered again on the baseline. I look over and can see Starks smiling, making some quiet crack to Bedford. It’s like the seniors have come to expect this moment.

The kid just shakes his head, but doesn’t look up at Bolden.

Coach shouts now: “I asked you a question! Are you going to quit?”

“No, Coach,” the kid manages.

“Then get back on the baseline,” Coach says.

Two more suicides and we’re done.

“Free throws,” Coach yells.

While we’re shooting, he rides us. He points out that only the seniors had taken time to stretch before hitting the floor, that it’s not up to the coaches to baby us and get us ready. He reminds us that if we can’t get ourselves ready to practice, then he can’t trust us to get ready for a game. He tells us that play time is over, that it’s November and Arlington is ready to come at us in two weeks. And then, for the freshmen, he says that he can see fear in our eyes, but if we want to suit up for Marion East then we better grow up and get over “that coddling middle school bullshit.”

Finally, the prelude is done and we jump into some drills. Bolden and Murphy spend their time on the end of the floor with the upperclassmen, but they keep sneaking peeks my way, checking to see how my jumper’s developing. The J from range is the one part of my game that needs work. It’s not a weakness, exactly, but if I could make myself a real threat from three, nobody could check me. While Coach Murphy is watching me, I drop in two straight from behind the arc. Just smooth as butter. I sneak a look back at Murphy, see his eyebrows rise. Then, when it’s time to D up one of my fellow freshmen, I don’t let any class allegiance get in my way—I pick him clean or, if he gets room for a shot, erase it fast. When the box-out drill comes around, I grab every rebound like it’s the final possession of a game, and at last I see that Murphy’s edged all the way down to our end of the floor. “Not bad, Bowen,” he mutters after a while.

But those are just drills. I need live action to really show out, and it doesn’t take much longer for me to get my chance. Coach Bolden calls the freshmen down to the other half of the floor and walks us through our basic offensive set. It’s not full court, but at least we’ll get to go five-on-five for a little bit. The only problem is, after he walks us through, he puts the first string in against the second—with the freshmen off to the side just watching. So I have to play spectator while Starks runs the offense.

I have to give Starks credit. He can make that offense hum. He’s fast and crafty and whenever anyone gives him a sliver of daylight he darts into the lane. The difference between us, though, is that even if he’s lighting quick, he’s got no explosion off the floor, so when he hits the paint he either floats up a little runner or has to kick it back out to Bedford or Varney on the perimeter. Sure, those two like the open looks, but I can get the rock to the rim.

Coach Bolden’s praise for Starks never stops, though. “Good look in,” he’ll say, or “Nice decision.” Then he’ll turn to the other players and explain why Starks made the right play. Meanwhile, I’m getting that itch again, like I did at the park while Brownlee was giving me shit, like if I don’t get on that floor soon I’ll bust.

As if he could read my thoughts, Coach says, “Bowen for Starks.”

I pop up and practically bounce onto the floor. Starks, on his way off, drops the ball at my feet, refusing to even look at me. Part of me wants to tell him he better get used to watching me, but I bite my tongue. I’ll let my play speak for itself.

When I get out there, though, it feels like my own teammates are conspiring against me. Devin cuts back-door when I think he’s going to pop out, and when I drive and draw the defense I thread a beautiful pass to Royce only to have him mishandle it—then shake his head at me and say it was low. Put it right in your hands, I want to say, but again I stay quiet.

“Right play, bad pass,” Coach Bolden says, and those words feel like hot little needles in my back. It’s killing me. I know this is my first time on the floor with these guys and I want to put my mark on the gym immediately. I feel shackled by this offense, though. It’s built for another player—Starks—and it’s all back-cuts and cross-screens, when it’d be a hell of a lot easier to have the other guys spread out and just let me work. Worse yet, everyone else’s timing is already built to Starks, and I can’t tell if I’m going too fast for them or too slow. It’s like the time Uncle Kid let me drive his car and he kept telling me to hit the gas every time I slowed down, but then yelled to mash the brakes every time I sped up.

I can feel the coaches watching me again, but now instead of their eyebrows raised with pleasant surprise, I can sense their expectations slowly sinking. Murphy’s blank stare might as well say, Well, this Bowen kid’s okay, but he’s got a long way to go.

Then, at last, Royce zips a pass to me near the top of the key, and I catch it in perfect rhythm just in time to see the lane open up. One dribble. All it takes. Boom! I thunder that thing down and let out a howl. Give a short swing on the rim just to let people know I’ve arrived.

Once I’m back down on earth, the basket support still rocking like there’s been an earthquake, I take one big stride over the kid on the floor, the poor sophomore who thought he’d try to stop me on the way to the rack. I stamp my foot and look around, get a chest bump from Moose that knocks me back a couple steps. Royce and Devin start hollering in approval, but they check that as soon as they take a glance at Starks. Murphy cracks a little smile. But Coach Bolden frowns.

“Man slid over to take away the drive,” he says. He nods at Moose. “You had our best post player wide open underneath.”

This time I can’t contain myself: “Why dump it off when I can do that?”

The players, even Moose, look down at their shoes, and Murphy looks away as if he doesn’t want to witness the crime that’s about to happen. The vein on Coach Bolden’s neck bulges, but he doesn’t scream. Instead, he says, very evenly, “Starks for Bowen.”

Nick hustles back onto the court and pops the ball out of my hand. “Thanks,” he says. He hits just the right tone—not so sarcastic that his contempt is obvious, but just enough of an edge to let me know. And there’s nothing I can do about it but go sit down.

That’s where I stay, on the sideline, for the rest of practice. Until the suicides at the end.