Читать книгу Slump - Kevin Waltman - Страница 12

6.

Tomorrow night we head to Gary to play King, a Chicago team. It’s a chance for cross-state bragging rights. The game after us is Hamilton versus another legendary Chicago team, Simeon. Which means another chance for Vasco and company to steal the show. I’ve got to stay focused on King though. Always gotta remember—the only team you can beat is the next one on your schedule.

Uncle Kid has drilled into me all the famous King names from back in the day—Marcus Liberty, Jamie Brandon, Rashard Griffith. I let Kid tell his old war stories, but I know those guys aren’t walking through the door. The guy who is hitting the hardwood tomorrow night is Martin Randle-El, the best player we’ll see until Vasco. He’s 6’11” and just a load down low. Got a little range to keep guys honest too. If you could still jump straight to the League, he’d be a lottery pick with that size, but instead he’ll spend a year at Kansas before bolting.

“Where’s your head at, Derrick?”

“Right here,” I say.

We’re upstairs in Jasmine’s room, working through some geometry problems. She’s got this stuff down from last year, so she helps me out some. It’s not like I’m some dumb jock getting his honey to write his papers for him, but this stuff is no joke. Besides, it’s a good excuse to get close to Jasmine without her pushing me away.

We’re sitting on her bed, the book between us like a little border. Even her room just seems so perfect. Always clean, never a stray sock on the floor, books all ordered on the shelves just so. But it’s more than the order. It’s her plush comforter on her big bed, her framed posters behind glass, her bookshelf—made of thick, solid wood instead of one of those throw-together things that break if you bump it hard. Her parents are dropping coin for stuff instead of scouring thrift stores. I know her folks well enough to know they have the same ongoing fight as mine—whether to keep on keeping on or save up to jump to some nicer neighborhood. From the looks of this place, I’d say Jasmine’s folks have the money to leap if they want to.

“You’ve been staring at that problem for five minutes,” she says. “You sure you’re still working on it?”

“I’m concentrating,” I say, but my smile gives me away.

She laughs at me. “I swear, Derrick, you can’t keep your head clear of hoops for even ten minutes. You’re obsessed!”

“Look, Coach Bolden always tells us it’s a game of angles, so maybe it’ll help me with geometry.”

She rolls her eyes. “You go on thinking that. See how it works out for you.” She sighs and rolls away from me, leaving me sitting up by her pillows while she stretches on her back across the bottom part of her bed. Her sweater rides up from her jeans, showing a little sliver of skin. My eyes trace from there up her body to those fine curves. Her parents are gone, and it’s almost dusk outside.

I put the textbook over on her nightstand, then lean down to her. I behave, keeping my hand on her stomach and not trying for too much too fast, but when I kiss her she rises up to me. It’s like somehow I turned on a switch in her. Jasmine pulls herself up by my shoulders and presses against me. Her tongue pushes into my mouth, and then she pulls back to kiss me down along my neck, peeling back my shirt a little to bite my shoulder. I try not to lose my cool. I know rushing things could kill it but as I hear her breaths get heavier and faster, all I can think is, This is finally happening.

Jasmine backs me up so my shoulders are against her headboard. Then she swings her right leg across me so she’s straddling me. I can’t take it. She’s practically begging me. So I lower my head to kiss her neck. Then lower. Then lower again. I can’t stop my hands.

“Derrick,” she sighs. “What are you doing?”

I don’t answer. Just keep moving my hands wherever they want to go.

“Derrick,” she says again. “Don’t.”

My hands move away from her chest, but slide down to her waist to pull her tighter to me. She pulls her arms from around my shoulders and squeezes them in between us like two bars along my chest. “Derrick,” she says one more time, her voice full of warning.

I know to stop. Anyone who’s listened to my mother preach for years about the right way to treat women knows to stop. So I do. But I don’t know how not to act upset. “Shit,” I say. It’s under my breath—same way I’d say it when I miss a free throw in practice—but Jasmine’s right next to me.

“Don’t be that way,” she says.

I lace my fingers behind my head, like that’s the one way to keep my hands still. “I know,” I say. “But…”

Jasmine stares hard at me, the heat in her eyes that was lust just a minute ago turning quickly to anger. “What?” She cocks her head at an angle. “What, Derrick? Go ahead and say it.”

“Nothing,” I say.

That’s it for a while. Both of us breathe heavily into the silence. Then we hear the front door unlock and her parents come in, calling for their daughter.

The gym in Gary is boiling. Like mid-summer hot. Even a minute into warm-ups and everyone’s streaming sweat. When I check the stands, people are fanning themselves with programs and mopping their foreheads with whatever they can find.

This time my family—all of them—made it on time. I see Jayson waving to me. He and Kid are squeezed between my parents, who are looking in opposite directions, like there’s some other game they want to check out on different ends of the gym.

Jasmine didn’t make the trek to Gary, so the only other person to check for is Wes. He’s in his usual spot in the middle of the band. I throw a look his way every time I go through the layup line. His head’s down though. He’s trying to be all subtle and text, something that would get his ass jumped by the band director if he gets caught. Would serve him right, I think, because I know he’s just hitting up Iesha. Like if they go five minutes without checking in, they’re both going to melt.

We step between the lines with the same starting five as the first game. It doesn’t take long to realize we’re in for the same kind of dog fight. King sinks back in around Moose and Stanford, but the tougher part is that when we finally do get Moose the rock, King doesn’t have to double. With Randle-El down there, they’ve got a guy Moose can’t uproot. First few trips we settle for jumpers from Fuller. He gets one to spin in, but it’s just the kind of possessions King wants for us.

On their end, no hurry. It’s pretty clear they like these kinds of games. Maybe try a drive here, a shot fake there. But it’s all built around Randle-El. They get him in the post once and Fuller’s late on the double, so Moose just goes for a ride to the rim. Next time down Randle-El catches shallow wing and drops in a little J. Third time down he posts again, we double hard, and he hits a cutter for a lay-in. All so easy.

It goes on like that the whole first half. We work forever to get an ugly look, and they stay patient and get a gimme. It’s not a total runaway, but when that horn sounds to hit the locker room we’re down eight. It feels like 28 though. With the heat in this gym, it feels like we’ve been running suicides all night long. The locker room is just as hot, and we can’t catch our breath. Moose hangs his head and sweat just streams off his nose. Coach Bolden’s shirt is so drenched it looks like he got caught in a rainstorm.

“Got to know who’s doubling on Randle-El,” he says. “They’re killing us every time we get crossed up. And on offense—” he trails off. Maybe he doesn’t have any answers either. Then he straightens his back, regains his form. “On offense, let’s make their asses work. I mean it. We’re going through the motions.” Here he imitates us, lazily acting out a shot fake and slow, methodical pass. “Shit. It’s five-hundred degrees in that gym, and we’re not making them jump. Get some pace going.” He pauses again, smiles. “I don’t run your asses all pre-season for the fun of it. Let’s wear these guys down! Now come on!”

That gives us enough of a boost to make a rush at the start of the third. We get the rock popping on the offensive end and get some results—I get a little leaner, Fuller buries a mid-range J, Moose gets a deuce off my drive.

But by midway through the quarter our legs are mush. The ball rotation slows down and our cuts lose their zip. “Move!” Bolden yells from the sideline. “Pick it up!” But even Coach Bolden’s urging can’t get us going again. Eventually, the ball swings back to me baseline, and I figure it’s as good as any look we’ll get. As soon as the three leaves my hand though, I know it’s short. I sprint in to follow my shot, but Randle-El rips it down and outlets to my man—who’s floated all the way out near mid-court for a run-out. He races ahead for an easy deuce. And just like that, whatever comeback momentum we had dies. We’re back down six and you can feel our crowd deflate, spent in this sauna of a gym.

At the break between quarters, Bolden walks a few paces out from the sideline to meet me before the huddle. Instead of jumping me like I expect, he just puts his hand on my shoulder. “Stay with it, Derrick,” he says. “We’ll get some shots to fall. Don’t get frustrated and impatient.”

I nod, and he cuffs me on the back of the neck as we head to the huddle. He knows something has to give. Without another shooter, there’s just no climbing back against these guys. Bolden scans down the bench, looking for answers. “Reynolds,” he says. It takes Reynolds a second to register the news—he just sits there. Murphy slaps him on the shoulder, tells him that means he’s supposed to shed those warm-ups and go check in. As he goes, a few guys shake their heads. The guy’s only been with us a week and hasn’t shown much yet. Seems like we’d be better off sending Devin in to play on one leg.

Bolden gets about an inch from my face. I can see the sweat beaded all over his forehead. “Tell Fuller to slide to the three. Then get Reynolds going,” he tells me. Then, right into my ear like a secret, he says, “He’s got as good a chance as stretching that defense as anyone.”

It’s a gamble, but it’s not like the rest of us are setting the world on fire. Besides, Bolden’s had weird lineups pay off before. I mean, just last year he had me running at the four, and that worked out, so I’ll give the man the benefit of the doubt. When I glance at Reynolds, the kid looks shook. He keeps kicking his feet out like he’s trying to loosen up his legs and flapping his hands out like he’s trying to shake water off them.

“Easy,” I tell him. “You get a look on these guys, bury it.”

“I feel you,” he says, but his body language tells a different story. He’s still all twitch and fidget. I can’t fix his head for him though.

The first trip down, I know better than to give him a touch right away. Let the guy get a sweat up at least. I kick it Fuller’s way. When I get it back, I try a drive. There’s nothing doing, so I kick to Fuller again. He feeds Moose, but Randle-El has him moved way off the block, so I swing over and get it back. This time when I drive middle, I get a little crease and the whole King defense jumps. I pull up with a choice—force it over two guys or kick it out again. There’s Reynolds on the wing, hands outstretched. I zip it his way, hit him right on the money.

And he leaves the thing a good two feet short. Misses so bad it just falls to the floor and rolls out of bounds. Reynolds hangs his head and trots back on defense, but I know he can hear the laughs and jeers from the crowd.

Next deadball, it’s back to the old lineup. So much for the Reynolds experiment.

We make a little run. I turn one of their guards and get a run-out jam to get our crowd on our feet. Then Fuller finally gets a trey to fall. But that’s all we can do. Randle-El keeps banging away down low and they ice it at the line. Final: 49-40, King.

It’s a long haul back to Indy. Lots of dark miles on I-65. Coach Bolden has Murphy up beside him in the front seat. They’ve got a light on and all you can see is the back of their heads bent down. They’re going over plays, over notes, but it looks like they’re praying.

Moose, usually one to get guys laughing on a bus ride—even after a loss—has been snoozing in the back seat since the exit for Crown Point. So the bus is stone quiet. We all expected better than this out of the gate, even with Devin hobbled. After the game, we hit the showers and made a straight line for the bus, but on the way I caught a peek of the early action in the second game. Hamilton was already up double figures, and the one play I saw was Vasco on the drive, whipping a behind-the-back pass to his teammate for a bucket. We don’t improve before we step up to them and we’ll get run out by 40.

In the darkness, that play by Vasco haunts me. I see it over and over. Smooth and efficient. It would be showboating if it weren’t so effective. And, yeah, I see that bomb he dropped on us in Regionals last year over and over again. It stings just as much now as it did then, like we keep losing that game again with every mile.

It’ll get better, I tell myself. We’ll get Devin back and defenses will have to come out after him. Room to drive. Room to feed the post. Everything will be better. But, damn, we should be steamrolling teams anyway. Maybe instead of just staying patient like Coach says, I should be forcing the issue more. I could drop 20 on just about any team we play.

I try to check those thoughts, put my mind on something better. Problem is, there’s nowhere for my mind to go that isn’t trouble. My family? Friction. My dad looks more and more exhausted and my mom keeps sniping at him to go see the doctor. Wes? My best friend is AWOL with his girl 24-7. And Jasmine? That’s the most frustrating thing of all. There are times when Jasmine’s voice runs through my head—a nice little compliment she gave me, her laugh—and it fills me up, but anymore I just hear her saying, No. Stop. I can’t. That’s when my pulse starts racing, and I feel like I’m going to burst.

Coach Bolden clicks off the light in the front seat, and the bus goes dark. The only light is the glow up ahead—the exit for West Lafayette, home of the Boilermakers. At home, I’ve got a mailer from them crammed in a box with so many others. But right now I’m just another rider on another bus, an hour from home with a loss hanging over my head.