Читать книгу Slump - Kevin Waltman - Страница 11

5.

Moose goes first. He’s a coin toss from the stripe, so it’s one of Reynolds’ best chances. Moose takes a few slow dribbles, then lets fly with his awkward form. The free throw comes out flat, but zips through cleanly.

“That’s one,” Bolden says. Reynolds nods at him.

Devin’s next and there’s no doubt on his. It sings through the net and Bolden raises two fingers to Reynolds. He nods again. No choice, really, because he’s got no room to complain. Coach Bolden let him back on, just two nights before our first game, but the deal is Reynolds has to run for it. And he’s got to do the stairs in the gym while we practice below him. A set of stairs isn’t that bad, but Bolden lined the rest of us up at the stripe—for each one we knock down it’s a set for Reynolds.

Maybe Reynolds thought we’d take it easy on him, try to miss a few without being too obvious about it. No way. I want Reynolds back for his sake, but we’ve been busting it for weeks while he’s been coasting. Personally, after the way he turned me down at the park and then strolled in now? I’d like to see him run until his feet bleed.

Stanford’s up now and even he knocks one down, thanks to a friendly roll. After that one falls, you can feel this little ripple pass through us all—everyone’s gonna knock theirs down, one after the other. Jones knocks down his, then I bury one. A couple more and we’re into the freshmen. I figure if anyone gets the yips and breaks the string, it’ll be one of them, but they toe the line—one after the other—and it’s bucket, bucket, bucket. When the last one falls, a few of us clap. Murphy whistles in approval and retrieves the ball. He pops it to Coach Bolden who catches it and tucks it under his elbow. “That’s eleven,” he says to Reynolds.

This time Reynolds does hang his head, but only for a second. When he looks back up, he has a sheepish little grin. His eyes are wide and glassy again, but he just looks fearful about the running in front of him, not like he’s going to break down. “I figure I deserve that,” he says.

We laugh then, even Bolden, and that’s the first step toward Reynolds becoming part of the team again—a bigger step than all those he’s about to take on the arena stairs. It means something that he’s going to take his punishment with a smile. Well, we’ll see if that lasts.

“All right,” Bolden shouts. “Enough fun and games. Reynolds, you hit the stairs, and the rest of you hit the baseline.”

We stand there, stunned.

“What?” Bolden shouts. “You thought I was just gonna run Reynolds? That’s eleven down-and-backs for the rest of you. Now move!”

We’re working half-court sets, ones against twos. With just two days before our first game, we look a little rough. It’s that three spot that’s killing us.

The twos just sag back in, with one guy chasing Devin. I feed Moose down low and it’s like the whole damn world collapses on him. He fires it back out to me. When my man runs to recover, I leave him chasing a ghost. But I hit all that traffic in the lane, and there’s no look. Maybe a pull-up from fifteen, but that’s still not flowing for me. I look to kick, and the one with the look is J.J. Fuller. His eyes widen, almost filling up that blockish face. But then he does it again—lowers his head and drives. Head down so that Coach Bolden could jump in from out of bounds, and he wouldn’t see it. He settles for a tough baseline fade that barely grazes rim.

“Reset!” Bolden shouts. “We can get a better look than that for God’s sake!”

“Come on, guys,” Murphy encourages, “look alive now.”

We run another possession, but it’s more of the same. No looks to be had. Finally, instead of driving, I decide to do what I’ve been working on all off-season. I catch a reversal pass and rip it into the lane. I know I could get to the rim, but that’s easy against our twos. Instead, I rise for the pull-up. Feels good coming off, but it’s juuust a millimeter shy.

“That’s okay,” Bolden says. “Good look. That’s what we want out of our offense. Just get good looks. The rest will take care of itself.”

Murphy chimes in with more encouragement. “Keep firing, D. They’ll fall, baby.” But a look around at my other starters reveals some doubt that we’ll ever score again. It seems like the only buckets we’ve had all practice have been put-backs by Moose and Stanford. Stanford’s starting to talk more trash than he can back up. He gets this tough squint to his face, like something he’s practiced after watching too many gang movies. It doesn’t work for him. He’s got those high cheekbones in his thin face, making him look almost feminine no matter how much he scowls. But when Bowman Academy gets here Friday night, it will be good to have Stanford thinking he’s a bad-ass.

Bolden tries Chris Jones at the three now. Jones is basically our first man off the pine for Moose or Stanford, but things are getting so bleak at the three it’s worth a shot. Of course, first touch Jones gets, he freezes up. He dribbles once, then gets in a tangle in the lane, and the ball gets slapped loose. A few bodies hit the floor, but the rock gets knocked into Stanford’s hands. He’s off-balance, but hears the sharp “Ball! Ball!” from the corner. It’s Devin. More open than he’s been all practice. Stanford sends him the pass, but there’s not much zip on it. That gives Reynolds just enough time to race back outside, trying to challenge the shot.

Everyone watches the smooth arc of the shot, following the orange until it finds home. But just as it rips through the net, I hear a pained yelp from the corner. There, in a heap, is Devin. He’s clutching his ankle with both hands and writhing in pain.

Reynolds is standing over him with his hand still raised from challenging the shot, the way a big man will leave his hands up to show he didn’t do anything wrong after getting whistled for a foul. Finally, he lowers his hand and extends it to Devin, a late offering to help him up. That’s like giving a Band-aid to a man with a gunshot wound though—Devin’s not getting up anytime soon. He cries out a few more times, just animal sounds that aren’t even words, while Murphy and Bolden rush over to him.

Bolden is the world’s biggest hard-ass, but let one of his boys get banged up and he’s as protective as anyone. He kneels next to Devin and puts his hand on his forehead, like some nurse comforting a patient. He talks to him quietly so nobody else can hear, and Devin starts to calm down. “Ice,” Bolden says, and our manager Darius sprints off the floor to get some.

Devin finally lets go of his ankle. Bolden and Murphy help him up. He keeps that right foot a few inches off the floor though, while the coaches help him hop toward the locker room, one of them under each shoulder like they’re carrying a wounded soldier.

“What happened?” Stanford finally asks. He’s got that scowl working hard, one eyebrow pinched down like he’s taking sight behind a gun.

Devin speaks through gritted teeth. “Came down on Reynolds’ foot,” he says. “Rolled my ankle.”

“Shit, Reynolds,” Stanford snaps. “You’ve been back an hour and you’ve already hurt a starter.” If his comment hurts Reynolds, there’s no telling because he’s still standing where it all happened, eyes down while he slowly shakes his head.

“We don’t need that, Stanford!” This is Murphy, shouting over his shoulder while he’s still helping Devin to the locker room. “It could have happened to anyone.” They all pause, letting Devin stand on his one foot for a second while Bolden slips the whistle from around his neck and hands it to Murphy. Then Bolden turns back to Devin, giving Murphy the nod to take over practice for a while. Murphy claps his hands and points to me. “Come on, Derrick. Get ‘em going. Next man up for Devin.”

I check the ball and start the offense, but we’re all just going through the motions. Everyone is wondering the same thing—how bad is Devin’s injury? I try to keep the worst scenarios—a ruptured Achilles, a broken ankle—out of my mind. But even as I drive the lane and dish to Moose, my thoughts are with Devin. I can see it playing out. The trip to the hospital. The MRI. The long wait for results. The bad news. The lost season.

Damn. If we had trouble scoring with Devin, our possessions are going to be as jammed up as rush hour traffic.

Two days and Bowman Academy comes calling. Usually, I can’t wait. But right now, this season is starting to feel cursed.

5 – GREEN

4 – STANFORD

3 – JONES

2 – FULLER

1 – BOWEN

Seeing my name written at the point guard spot fills me with pride. I knew it was coming. Everyone knew it. I was this team’s starting point guard the moment last season ended. But it’s still good to see.

Problem is, I was counting on Devin Varney’s name being up there too. Now I’ve got Fuller in the backcourt and Jones at small forward. That’s a tough way to run.

I lace up my AdiZeros and glance over at Devin. High ankle sprain. Grade two. That was the word after the MRI. The doctor said three weeks before Devin’s back at full speed. That, we could live with. He’d miss five games and be back in time for Franklin. The Pike game at worst. But everyone’s seen the same kind of injury derail NBA seasons. We’ve watched guys miss a month just to come back too early, doomed for lousy play and a quick aggravation of the injury.

Devin looks back my way. He’s sitting in his street clothes at his locker, right foot in an air cast and elevated on a folding chair. “You got this, D,” he says. “I’ll be back before you know it, but you can run these first few in your sleep.”

“You got that straight,” I say. I give him a fist bump. Before you know it, it’s time to hit the floor.

The gym’s packed. When that band hits full volume as our kicks hit the hardwood, my heart’s about to burst out of my chest. Right now I don’t care if the damn Spurs walk through that door, I’m ready to go. I get myself into a solid lather and try to get the other guys amped.

As I go through the layup line, I keep hearing people calling my name like I’m a star on stage. It’s been a long time since someone with my potential has come up here. Everyone wants to be able to say they knew me way back when. I know it’ll get crazier next year—recruiters, boosters, money men. But it’s nice to get recognition. I hear a particularly high-pitched shout—Hey, Derrick!—and I turn to see Daniella Cole staring at me. She’s not bad looking, but she spreads it around and everyone knows it. I nod to her, but I don’t make any kind of big deal. Last thing I need is Jasmine thinking I’m trying to hook up with Daniella.

A deeper scan of the crowd shows that my people aren’t in the house yet, which is strange for them. They usually like to set up camp early so they get prime seats. I do catch a glimpse of Jasmine—she still hits the games, no matter how much she badmouths sports. She’s next to Iesha. They’re too busy laughing at something to see me. At least I get a nod from Wes in the band.

“Let’s just stay calm and focused,” Bolden says in our last huddle before the tip. “Don’t get all crazed ‘cause it’s the first game. Patient offense, tenacious defense!” Then we all put our hands in together. Bolden smacks that top fist on the stack and we shout, “Team!”

Game time.

Now, I trust Coach Bolden. So I’m all for running offense and following orders. Learned that the hard way last year. But when that ball goes up and Moose taps it to me, I’ve got other plans. Bowman Academy can play, I know, but they’re not getting guys like me every night out at 2A, so I take a couple rhythm dribbles into the frontcourt, nod toward Fuller to start into the offense—and then just rip it to the rim. I blow by my man and get to the rack before their bigs can even catch their breath. I have to angle around one of them, so I can’t throw it down, but it’s a quick deuce—not to mention a little wake-up call to Bowman that they’re in for the real deal tonight.

My early bucket gets the Bowman players back on their heels a little bit. When they bring the ball up, their guards look a little shell-shocked. They’ve got a nice big, Alex Danks, who’ll wrestle it out with Moose all night. But on the first trip, their perimeter guys seem almost scared to make a post entry. They reverse and reverse, then settle for a tough pull-up from the wing. It bangs back rim and falls to Stanford. He pivots and outlets to me at the hash, and I push—get right on top of their small point guard and get him off-balance. He has to reach late, and I just miss a chance at a hoop-and-harm.

The crowd’s already into it, like sharks sensing blood in the water. I square up the first and knock it down, get a round of fives from my teammates, then set my toe on the stripe again. Ref bounces me the orange, and I go through my routine. Take another deep breath, let fly, and bury the second—4-0, and we’ve barely broken a sweat.

When they inbound, I jump into their point. Coach didn’t call for a press, and I’m not really trying to turn him over, but I want him to know we’re gonna defend every inch of hardwood. Maybe get in his head a little. It works. He gives it up to their two-guard. I wave for Fuller to come pick him up. He comes in too hot, and the two rips past him, but all that does is get him sped up past his comfort zone. He flies into the frontcourt, gets off balance, and then tries to throw cross-court. There’s no zip on it and Jones snags it easily.

This time they get back, so no easy ones for us. But now it’s time to follow Coach’s instructions. We work it through our set a few times, everyone getting a touch. Fuller hits his man with a spin, then kicks it baseline for me. I square my feet, but see my man running at me—so I slip past him, then drop a dime to Moose for an easy deuce. On top of that, Danks takes a cheap swat at him and gets a late whistle.

Bowman’s coach has seen enough and calls time. Not even two minutes in, and we’ve got a six-point lead with a chance to make it seven. Our crowd gets up, half cheering us and half jeering Bowman, reveling in exactly what they came here to see—total domination. I scan for my family again and see that they’re just now squeezing into some seats in the next-to-last row behind our bench. There’s Mom, Jay and Uncle Kid, all with their coats still on. Dad’s nowhere though.

It doesn’t last. Moose knocks in his freebie, and it feels like everything’s going to be easy street. We even get a stop next time down. But with a chance to really stretch out a lead early, the offense grinds to a halt. Bowman just packs it in. I swear, every player has one heel in the paint. No room to drive, no chance to feed Moose on the blocks. Fuller and Jones have looks, but they hesitate and by then their man recovers. I figure it’s on me again, so first chance I get I flare out to the right wing, my favorite spot to shoot from. I get a clean bounce from Fuller and rip it to the lane for a nice, clean pull-up.

Front rim and off. Felt good too. I shake it off and hustle back on D, tell myself the next one will fall.

But it doesn’t. The next one is right on line, but just a hair long.

Fuller and Jones both give it a go, but they fare no better, rattling out open looks.

Meanwhile, Bowman starts to chip away. A free throw here. A put-back there. By the end of the first quarter, that seven-point lead is down to three.

It’s not like we go scoreless. If we turn them over, they don’t have a prayer of stopping our break. And Moose keeps fighting on the blocks, getting looks when he can. But the whole flow of the game has stopped. It’s like we went from the pace of the Indy 500 to a slow, slumping limp.

By halftime it’s tied, and you can feel the anxiety in our crowd. There’s this unsettled murmur, like they’re at some concert and are getting impatient for the act to finally take the stage.

Front rim and off. Front rim, back rim, out. Back rim and off.

Three different times in the third quarter I get a wide open look and miss. Each one could have stretched out our slim lead too, given us some breathing room against these guys. And with each one I could feel the crowd hold its breath, ready to explode, only to simmer back down when it rattles off.

At the break before the fourth, Coach Bolden tells us all to calm down. “We’ve got a three-point lead on these guys,” he shouts. “No need to get frustrated and force things. Just defend, then stay patient on our end.”

We break. As we take the floor Murphy hollers after us, “Let’s go now! Let’s bury these guys.”

Bolden looks at him like Murphy just spat on his mama’s grave. “What did I just say?” he yells. “Don’t go getting them all stirred up.” Then he shouts to us again. “Patient! Be patient.”

He’s right, I guess, but it’s easier said than done. We come out and Bowman Academy sinks back on defense again. Every touch on the perimeter gives someone a decent look—but we pass them up, both because of Bolden’s instructions and because nobody’s been able to buy a jumper all night. Every time the ball gets reversed my way and I pass up a shot—even open threes, looks I’ve worked on forever—I hear our crowd get a little more restless. Finally, Fuller makes a nifty little pass inside to Stanford, but the whole defense collapses so there’s nowhere to go with the ball. I flash to the top of the key to bail out Stanford. When the leather hits my hands I look up to find I’m all alone. My feet are just an inch past the arc, and I start into my motion. Then I think better of it and reverse the ball to Jones on the opposite wing.

This brings out the frustration from the fans. Through the collective groan, I hear clear shouts of Shoot the damn ball! and That’s all you, Bowen, come on! My cheeks grow hot and a bitter taste settles onto my tongue—getting heckled in our own gym! It’s about more than I can take.

Obviously, it is more than Fuller can handle because he forces—drives baseline into traffic and floats up a weak runner. Danks corrals it for Bowman and they rip it back at us.

They’re in no hurry on their end either, working and working until they get Danks on a flash in the lane. He misses, but Stanford gets a cheap whistle and sends him to the stripe for two.

I walk to the other end of the floor, head down, just trying to gather my thoughts. The crowd keeps murmuring, not just frustrated now but actually worried that we might lose this game. That’s just noise, I tell myself. Just static. Play it one possession at a time and everything will be fine. The Bowman crowd cheers, and I know Danks made the first. That murmur in our crowd gets more anxious. When I glimpse at the bench I see Murphy gnawing on his fingernails. Tight all around. Then Danks knocks down the second. One point game.

We come down and face that same sagging defense. We reverse and reverse and reverse the ball to the same old results. Nothing. When Jones catches outside, they don’t even bother giving false pressure. It seems to go on forever, and I feel like the only way we’ll loosen up this defense is if Devin hops out here, air cast and all. Finally, Moose takes control. He spins on Danks and seals him right at the rim. It’s a full-grown-man move. Before he can even holler Ball, I put the orange in his mitts.

Bucket. At last. Our crowd leaps up, voicing their pent up shouts. Our bench is up too, pumping their fists and urging us on. It’s like just seeing the ball go through the hoop flared up a fire in us.

The Bowman guards try to look chill about it, like We got this, but when they finally hit the offensive end they act a little confused. They hesitate, ball fake, start to cut and then back out to the perimeter again. After about thirty seconds they get antsy and force one into Danks. It squirts away from him and Stanford grabs it. He outlets to me and I push it up the floor. Their guards race back, and I pull up on the wing. I fake once to a cutting Fuller, but that’s just to give myself some rhythm for a wide open three.

When it leaves my hand, I know it’s true. Backpedal with my right arm still raised. Only to see it spin out after being halfway in the hole.

Bowman Academy clears and then their coach calls time when they hit the frontcourt.

Bolden just stands over me in our huddle. “What the hell, Bowen?” he shouts. “What are you trying to do with that shot?”

Before my better instincts can stop me, I blurt an answer. “I was trying to end it!”

Bolden’s eyes bulge, but he doesn’t jump me. He just shakes his head and turns to Murphy. “I swear sometimes I like dealing with freshmen better than sophomores. At least freshmen don’t act like they know better than me!”

After that he just stresses the same things again. Defend, rebound, work the offense. And I don’t dare object to anything. It all makes for a tense final quarter, but we wear them down. Moose gets free for a lay-in, then uproots Danks for a put-back, and we string together a few stops until Bowman has no choice but to foul. We knock in a few and that’s that. But as we shake hands with the Bowman players and the crowd files out, there’s a bittersweet feeling to it. Anyone will tell you that a win is a win, but this one doesn’t quite feel the same. An ugly 40-35 opener is not what anyone had in mind.

When I exit the locker room, Uncle Kid’s waiting for me. There are mostly just other players and their families lingering now, and the big lights over the court are killed so everything is dim. It makes it look like a party where the host is trying to get people to leave, but nobody’s taking the hint.

The other players and their folks don’t seem too upset by the game. Moose and his people are laughing it up. Reynolds gets a big bear hug from his dad, congratulating him on his first varsity game, even if he didn’t get but a minute or two of action.

Kid knows better, so he just gives me a firm handshake and says, “Better than a loss.”

“Barely,” I say.

He slings his arm around my shoulder and directs me toward the exit, out into the night. It’s like someone guiding a child away from a disaster so they don’t see too much. When we get out there, he anticipates my first question. “Your dad couldn’t make it, Derrick.” He says it toward the cars on 34th, like he’s giving directions to a lost driver. “He got called to cover for someone at the last minute.”

I shrug it off. No sense in acting hurt, but it’s the first time my dad’s ever missed a game. He doesn’t get as juiced as the rest of my family, but since I started in youth leagues he’s always been there, at least ten minutes before tip, every single time.

“Don’t get upset at him,” Kid says. “He’s doing all a man can.”

The thing Kid doesn’t say is that he wouldn’t be pulling these hours if I’d have bolted to Hamilton Academy. Damn. I know they wouldn’t have had to fight tooth and nail to eke one out against Bowman. Things would be a whole lot easier up there. But there’s no sense in wondering about what if. My mom tells us that all the time—You get too busy worrying about what ifs, and you forget to take care of what is.

And what is is that we’re gonna have to scratch every night out. At least until Devin gets back.

We reach our walk and Kid pops me on the back. “Gonna be a lot better nights than this one, D. Maybe some worse ones too, but a lot better. Bank on it.”

“Thanks, Kid,” I say. Then I nod toward the door. “You coming in?”

“Nah,” he says. “I got plans.” He looks away, that anxious, antsy expression he gets when he’s up to something he doesn’t want us to know about. I don’t bother asking, just tell him Later and head for my door.

Inside, Dad’s racked out on the couch again. It’s not even late, but my mom and Jayson have beat it back to their rooms. I see slivers of light under each of their doors. A quick stop at the fridge to pull out some leftover pizza, and I head for my room too.

On my dresser sits a stack of camp brochures, team logos on each one. Indiana, Purdue, Michigan, Illinois. They can’t start sending me letters yet, so this is how the big boys let me know they’re interested. I wonder how jacked they’d be about signing me if they saw my line for tonight: nine points and four assists, 4-13 from the field. I did get eight rips, but these people aren’t sending me mailers because I can get some boards.

There’s a rustling in the living room as Dad wakes from the couch. The floorboards give a few creaks under his weight and then there’s the sound of the fridge opening. I think about going out to join him, but somehow it’s just comforting hearing him move about the house, listening to him turn on the TV and then quickly squelch the volume to a low murmur because he thinks he might wake someone.

I flip through the latest mail. Wisconsin, Cincinnati, Louisville. When I first started playing, the dream was to go to some powerhouse—Indiana or UCLA or Carolina. But now, as the mailbox fills up again each day, I consider how many options there are. Maybe a dark horse like Mississippi State or Clemson. Maybe a smaller school like Gonzaga or Wichita State. The dream at this point is to make it to the League—and you can do that from anywhere. I mean, George Hill went to IUPUI, and now he’s running point for the Pacers and just tearing it up. If you’re good enough, the NBA scouts will find you.

Then again, maybe I ought to just cool it. A good first step would be scoring double figures at Marion East.