Читать книгу Slump - Kevin Waltman - Страница 13

7.

Ty’s Tower is covered up. Word is the city’s about to get hammered with snow. It’s like everyone’s decided to get their Christmas shopping done now in case they’re house-bound for a couple weeks. Wes turns over some Timberland New Market Slip Ons in his hands. They’re real light blue, the kind of thing Russell Westbrook might wear if he’s trying to look casual at a press conference. Wes lifts them up and down, marveling. He could probably use a reminder that last year his dad stood him up on Christmas—didn’t visit and didn’t get him his kicks—and I had to help him out. That would be cold though.

“I need to rock these,” he says.

He looks at me for verification, but he knows I always bow to his shoe knowledge. I make one decision a year on shoes: kicks for the season. I’ve gone Adi Zeros again, because who cares if people are down on Derrick Rose. He gets healthy, and he’s still the best point in the world. He comes back, and people will come around. That’s how it’ll be with me when we get this season kick-started. We’re sitting 3-2 right now—a couple grind-it-outs around a heartbreaker at Cathedral—but Devin’s back in the lineup tomorrow night against Franklin.

“Iesha’s gonna die when she sees me in these,” he says.

“All about Iesha, right?” There’s a little edge to the way I say that, more than I meant. So I laugh it off. Truth is, it wears on me. Every other word out of his mouth is Iesha now. He was a lot more fun when he couldn’t get any.

Maybe he senses it because he nods toward the other end of the store. “Let’s check the jerseys,” he says. This is for me. Neither of us are going to buy anything, but Wes likes to scan through those racks of shoes like he’s mining for a diamond, and I like to try on the throwback jerseys.

I grab a handful—Pip’s old Bulls 33, Nique’s sweet Hawks 21, and an Alex English just because those old Nuggets jerseys are sick. Used to be when we did this, we’d get the hard stare from the manager, but now he knows who I am. My stat line is nothing to swagger about. But on these blocks everyone’s always so hyped for hoops that if you show even a little promise, people recognize you.

Wes tells me I have to get the Dominique jersey until I go back into the dressing room one more time. When I come back out, I sport the one I didn’t show him before I went in. It’s old school Iverson, blue with red trim, just the PHILA over top the 3 in front.

As soon as he sees it, Wes just raises his hands in the air. “Amen, D. That’s the bullet,” he says. “It looks so good on you, I’m gonna start calling you The Answer if you wear it.”

I laugh, then remind him that I’ve got a couple inches on Iverson. Plus hops he never had. It’s a crazy boast, and Wes knows it. He just shakes his head at me. But then his phone gets hit up, and he’s gone—off to the other side of the store again, mashing out a text to Iesha.

Used to be our house was buzzing the hours before a game. Jayson would have his music cranked up and Mom would be pacing in anticipation. Dad got into it, even if he didn’t want to admit it. He’d be egging Uncle Kid on, getting him to tell stories about his playing days until he got worked up.

Now, it’s basically silent.

Jayson’s back in his room. He’s got his music going, but it’s so low I just hear a muffled bass thump once in a while. Mom and Dad are each reading a book. They’re on opposite ends of the living room, like they’re trying to put the most possible space between them. Uncle Kid didn’t even come over. He’s probably hanging with his boy Brownlee somewhere because the most action here is that Dad’s head about bumps into his book every few minutes because he’s having trouble staying awake.

It’s about ten minutes before I have to hoof it to the gym, and nobody’s said a word to me. I’m just idling on the couch, gym bag beside me. Finally, my dad looks up.

“Derrick, you doing okay?” he asks.

“It’s all good,” I say. “We get Devin back on the floor tonight.”

Dad rocks forward in his chair and sets his book down. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes, then looks at me with full attention. “I don’t mean basketball,” he says. He waves his hand in the air, dismissing the very topic. “That will work itself out. I mean you. You’ve been walking around this place looking pretty serious the last couple weeks. I just wanted to know how you’re doing.”

“For real, I’m good,” I say.

Dad bites down on his lip, trying to decide whether to let it go at that. He picks his book back up, but glances over at me one last time. “Okay. It’s just that we get so caught up in the day-to-day that I think sometimes your mom and I take it for granted that you’re fine. You can tell us if you’re not.”

I don’t respond, but I steal a glance at Mom, who’s put her book down to check out our conversation. Her face is calm, patient, like she’s open to anything I might have to say. I don’t say a word. No need getting into some conversation about girl trouble or anything this close to tip. But it’s nice to hear my dad talk to me like that. It feels like for the last month my only conversations with my parents have been the same-old. Be back by ten, I get from them. Or, remember to help clean the kitchen. And all I’m telling them is if they need to drop me somewhere or pick me up. I don’t want to hash anything out with my parents, but it’s a nice reminder that I can.

Right now, it’s time to shake this place up a little. Get people’s pulses going so they can make some noise when they hit the gym. I grab my bag and head to Jayson’s room. He looks up at me as he’s softly rapping along with a Kanye joint. I just raise my thumb toward the ceiling a few times, and he gets it. Jay cranks the volume as high as he can, and in an instant the beats are pounding so hard they’re rattling my ribs. I turn and hit the door just as Mom and Dad rise in unison, hollering to Jayson to turn it down. I know he can’t hear them, and I’m all the way to the street before the music cuts out.

Franklin’s on tap. Another big test, especially because they got a forward in Chuck Nash who’s a real beast. But the good news is Devin’s back. All through warm-ups, he’s just stepping out to the stripe—bucket, bucket, bucket. There’s not gonna be any packing it in on us tonight.

“How’s the wheel?” I ask, motioning to his ankle.

“Good to go,” he says, but I can tell he’s still being careful every time he plants on it.

When we get to the huddle, Bolden senses that we’re extra amped. The crowd’s more juiced too. You can feel it in the way the gym’s been buzzing since warmups.

“Just because Devin’s back doesn’t mean it’s easy,” Bolden says. “You still need to guard and stay patient on O. And keep Nash in check. That means helping down on him when he gets it on the blocks.” He takes a look around. “Come on now,” Bolden shouts. “Heads in the game.”

That’s all he’s got before it’s time to get between the lines. Doesn’t matter. With Devin out there, we’ve got a little swagger for the first time. Nash controls the tip for Franklin. But when their point brings it across, I get into him hard. He tries to shake me with a crossover, but I get a piece and he’s lucky just to pick it up. It all gets him off balance. When he tries to get the ball to the wing, it sails about three feet wide of his teammate for a quick turnover.

“There it is,” I shout and pump my fist to Devin. The crowd noise swells. They’ve been aching for something—anything—to get excited about. When I bring it up, I figure there’s no sense wasting time. Let’s test out Devin’s J. He comes off a screen from Stanford. I give a quick head-fake the other way to freeze the defense, then zip it to Devin in the corner. Wide open. He catches it clean and lets it fly. His stroke is so pure, that thing’s wet as soon as it leaves his hands. When it finds bottom, our crowd goes insane. Our whole team does too. Seeing a long-range three find bottom is such a release, it feels like when you were a kid and got cut loose for summer vacation, free to run at last.

Their point is as shook as a boxer who’s about to go down. I hound him over to the right wing and make him give it up. They’re supposed to reverse the ball back to him. He claps for it, but he doesn’t really want it. When it comes his way, he stays back on his heels rather than stepping to meet the ball and that’s all the opening I need. I jump the pass and deflect the rock toward mid-court. I chase it down and would have a free run at the rim, but their off-guard hacks me to stop the run-out.

Even after the whistle, I push it ahead like I’m going to dunk it, holding up at the last instant. I dribble behind my back and then shake my head as I hand the rock to the ref. Our crowd boos. Coach Bolden starts screaming that it should be an intentional foul, but the ref just holds his hand up at Coach.

Turns out, I don’t even need a run-out. This time down, they’re too eager to jump at Devin. So when he comes off that Stanford screen, it’s like the seas have parted. I get an easy entry to Stanford, and then I slice down the lane as soon as my man turns his head. Stanford pops it back for a quick give-and-go, and I catch it right in the heart of the lane. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Nash jumping toward me. I know I should dump it off to Moose, but it’s too good a chance to pass up. I take one power dribble and get right on top of Nash. He keeps me away from the rim so I can’t throw it down, but I get a finger-roll finish, plus a whistle.

My feet hit the floor and I arch back and shout at the ceiling, letting loose all that pent up frustration. Moose comes over and shoves me so hard he almost knocks me into the second row. “That’s what I’m talking about, D!” he shouts. “Let’s run these bitches off.”

That’s enough woofing for the ref to step in and tell us to cool it. We do. We know he could whistle a T just for Moose cussing, so we behave. Turns out it was enough to get under Nash’s skin, because he gives me a cheap bump as I walk to the free throw line. “That’s a lot of noise for one bucket,” he says.

“Gonna be plenty more,” I say, stepping up to him. “You think you can keep pace?”

“Shit,” he mutters. “I’ll get mine.”

By that time, all the refs are on top of us, telling us to ease off. Good thing too because Moose has his back up. One more word out of Nash and it might just get out of hand. The Franklin coach asks for time, maybe trying to get his team settled. As we walk back to our bench, I just nod my head, like Yeah, we got them rattled already.

When we get there, Coach Bolden isn’t having it. He grabs me by the jersey and yanks me toward the bench. “What in the hell is wrong with you?” he shouts. I start to answer, but he cuts me off. “We’re up five. Five! And you’re acting like you’ve just won State.” He shakes his head and looks at Murphy, like now he does want some kind of explanation, but Murphy knows better than to say a word. It’s Moose’s turn next. “And you!” Bolden shouts at the big man. “Lord, I might expect such foolishness from a sophomore, but you should know better!”

Darius, our equipment manager, offers me a towel, and I snatch it from him. I give a quick mop of my face and then angrily sling the towel down at my feet. Just once it would be nice if Coach Bolden didn’t kill our momentum.

He takes a long look at me. He decides not to say anything, but when we hit the court again the vibe has changed. I go through my routine and let fly. The ball feels perfect coming out of my hands, and I start to back away from the line with the free throw already good in my head—6-0, I’m thinking, keep it rolling—so I don’t even see how it misses. I just hear the groan from the crowd and then see Nash looking for his outlet man.

Nash does nothing flashy. No jams, no fadeways, not even an up-and-under. He just keeps plodding along—a post move here, a short jumper there. Slowly, Franklin edges ahead. By the early fourth quarter they’ve got a six-point lead on us. Devin has only been able to go a few minutes at a time. Even when he’s out there, he’s not the same old Devin. He’s knocked in a couple more from range, but he needs wide open looks so he can take his time. When he’s out, it’s the same story. Fuller, Reynolds, Jones—none of them can stretch the defense.

I bring the ball into the frontcourt and kick it to Fuller. He looks and looks, the ball high over his head, waiting for Moose to post. There’s nothing. Fuller swings it back to me, and Moose claps his hands a few times angrily, like Just get it to me. The big man has a right to be frustrated, but they’ve practically got him doubled even before he touches it.

Our crowd urges us, but there’s no longer that bloodthirsty buzz from early in the game. Now it’s an agitated cry. They can feel the game slipping away with each tick of the clock.

I take a deep breath. Time to take over. I know my man can’t check me, but I also know if I lower my head and drive, the only look I’ll have is that pull-up. And it’s like that thing’s jinxed. So I set him up. I give a bounce, then another to my right, then dip my shoulder and go. It’s all show though. As soon as he bites—jumping back into the lane—I cross the orange back to my left and set my toes behind the stripe. The shot leaves my hand pure. I just know I’ve cut their lead in half and put this game back within reach. Except it’s front-rim-back-rim and out. A killer.

Nash grabs the board and outlets. But this time their back-up point, who’s been so steady all game, gets too full of himself. He decides to challenge me. He pushes into the frontcourt and drives toward the hole. I stay on his shoulder the whole way. When he offers up a little scoop—Whap!—I smack it off the backboard and then chase it down to control. That show pumps a little life back into our crowd. They rise again for one last run. It amps me a little too, like I needed to remind myself that I’m the best damn player on this floor.

Coach Bolden windmills his arm to tell me to push it up, but I don’t need any telling. I zip it ahead to Fuller, who takes one dribble and then finds Stanford in the paint. Stanford gives a pump and a power dribble, then stops near the rim, not quite free for a look.

“Ball, ball, ball!” I shout. I’m standing all alone on the left wing, praying Stanford finds me. He does, and I let go of another three. Head still, follow-through high. It’s picture-perfect form. Only this one is a tick long. The rebound kicks toward the top of the key, and Fuller dives to tip it away from Franklin. Stanford chases down the rock. When he looks up, he sees me still in the same spot, all alone again. He rifles it to me. I take my time, setting my feet. I can hear the crowd yelling for me to bury it, a clear shout of Bucket! coming from just behind me as I let it go.

But this time, even I know it’s off. A scraper that leads to a little fight for the board, which ends in the ball going out of bounds off Moose’s knee.

The gym is dead. I glance over to see Coach sending Devin back in for one last charge. The game already feels over. We slouch back to get ready to defend, Moose shaking his head the whole way.

“Damn,” I say, to nobody in particular. “Those were good looks too.”

That’s all Moose can take. “Hell with your looks, man,” he snaps at me. He’s never looked as big as he does at this moment, right up on top of me. “Get me the damn ball!”

The ref hears it and gives Moose a look, but Fuller jumps between us. “Come on!” he pleads. “When I transferred here I thought I was coming to a team that was gonna get after it. Not guys who were going to get after each other.”

Moose is in no mood. “Shut up with that bullshit, Fuller,” he says.

This time the ref won’t let it slide. It doesn’t matter that Moose was talking to his teammates instead of arguing a call, the ref jacks him up.

And that’s that. Down six, Franklin at the stripe for two, plus their ball after. Moose comes out too, exiled to the bench on Bolden’s principles—a T sends you to the bench, no exceptions.

While Franklin’s best shooter toes the stripe and some people in our crowd start to gather their stuff to hit the exits, Nash slides up next to me. He bends over and puts his hands on his knees so it looks like he’s just catching his breath. But I know what’s coming, and I deserve it. He asks, just softly enough so the ref can’t hear, “You wanna talk some shit now, Bowen?”