Читать книгу Slump - Kevin Waltman - Страница 8

2.

We hit those boards in our practice unis, and I feel the jump in my legs. Been too long. I see Moose getting his hammies loose at mid-court, then Devin takes a break from knocking down Js to come over to me. It’s his senior year. If we had a little static last year, it’s gone for real now. We know that together we can form one of the top backcourts in Indiana.

“You ready for this, Bowen?” he asks.

“Born ready,” I say.

AAU in the summer just isn’t the same. I know that it matters, that scouts get all over it because it’s the best against the best. But aside from bumping into Vasco and hearing him talk trash—something I seem to mind in everyone but him—it felt like I was just going through the motions. Real basketball is here. In the gym. With my boys.

Stanford busts out of the locker room at a near sprint, then joins Moose in his stretches. With those two, Coach Bolden’s dream has come true—Moose shed a good fifteen pounds over the summer. It’s like every ounce of it turned into muscle on Stanford’s frame. Stanford’s shaved his head for the dawn of the season. It makes him look a little younger somehow, like it shows off how lanky he is, but there’s a little more rip in those arms this time around.

I nod toward Moose. “It’s here,” I say. All those blazing July days we ran at the Fall Creek court, we kept telling each other we were sweating to be stronger for November.

Finally, the doors to the locker room swing open and Bolden comes striding out, looking like a man who means business. Murphy’s on his heels. When he hits the court, he jogs to the center, clapping his hands. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” he shouts. The freshmen straggle in behind him, one of them without his kicks even laced yet.

I try not to laugh, but I steal another peek at Moose. He just grins and shakes his head—freshmen. Always the same. One of them, a wire named Josh Reynolds who’s got a chance at finding some perimeter minutes, sidles up next to me. Maybe he thinks standing next to me will make him look good by association or something. He’s got this naïve smile that makes him look even younger than he is. He’s all eagerness, a little sheen of sweat on his face. I just give him a quick elbow. “Freshmen on the end, Reynolds,” I say. His face sags into a mope and he looks like a ten-year-old who lost his lunch money, never mind he’s 6'1".

No time for pity. “Down and back!” Bolden shouts, and he blows that whistle like an angry sergeant. Boom! We’re off. Already loose, I go full tilt and get out in front. Behind me, I hear the thunder of a dozen pairs of shoes pounding hardwood. I feel this rush in my chest. That sound means I’m back with the team. It means the season’s in swing again. It means in a couple weeks Bolden will have us worked into a frenzy, ready to tear apart Bowman Academy when they step between these lines.

We get back to the baseline and Bolden doesn’t even pause. “Down and back!” he shouts again. Then again. And again. And again. He follows this up with a few sets of suicides. I watch the eyes on the freshmen grow wide, like they’re trying to ask How long is this crazy man gonna run us? They’ve heard the stories about Bolden, but the reality of the man is bigger than the myth.

After the second suicide, Murphy walks over to Moose. He’s got a basketball in hand and bounces it to the big man. He nods to a side bucket. “Free throws?”

“Naw, Coach,” Moose says. He zips the ball back at Murphy, a little pepper on the pass to let him know he means it. “I didn’t bust ass all summer so I could ease off now.”

“Atta boy, Moose,” Bolden says. He loves it. It’s not like anyone’s going to confuse Moose with a long distance runner. He’s still built more like Glen Davis than Blake Griffin, and his chest is heaving with the effort. My man’s gassed. But when Bolden blows that whistle again, Moose is off, digging hard. Better than can be said for some of the freshmen who are dragging like they’ve ruptured an Achilles.

Bolden puts us through more suicides, then has us go down and back a few times in a defensive slide. By the time we’re into the third one of those, even my thighs are burning. I see Moose start to straighten up when he thinks the coaches aren’t looking. And, at last, a freshman bows out. As I turn at the baseline, I see him at mid-court. It’s Reynolds. He just raises up and puts his hands on his lower back. He takes a couple steps off to the side and doubles over. I see Bolden approach so quickly his whistle bounces off his chest as he walks.

We finish the drill leisurely, everyone easing off now that Bolden’s locked in on Reynolds. Coach works on him, daring him to quit, shouting to make an example of him. Reynolds has a lighter complexion, almost amber. It makes it easy to see the blush rising in his cheeks. He tries to make eye contact at first, but soon that head just sags, sags, sags, until his chin’s down on his chest. “You think this is bad?” Bolden shouts. “If you hang your head at this, how are you gonna react when things get tough in a game?” We’re all on the baseline now, catching our breath. Now Bolden just stares at him, trying to decide whether he’s made his point enough yet. It’s a brutal silence for a few seconds before Coach just says, “Go on,” like a father finally letting a kid go out to play even though his chores aren’t done. Reynolds trots back but doesn’t look at anyone, his head still down. I feel for him—something about the way he looks reminds me of my little brother Jayson—but I’m not here to hold some freshman’s hand every time Bolden gets mad.

“All right,” Coach barks. “Let’s see what we’ve got. Bigs down here with me. Perimeter guys stay there with Coach Murphy.”

First drill we do with Murphy is just a catch and shoot. We jab baseline and then flare to the wing for his pass. Devin goes first, since he’s a senior, and he drains his.

“One!” Murphy yells.

Then me—a splash from range with the form I worked on all summer.

“Nice motion, D,” Murphy says. “Two!”

Murphy keeps counting out how many we’ve made in a row. We make it up to six.

Then it’s Reynolds. Maybe his legs are still a little wobbly from the sprints—as soon as he releases, you can tell the thing’s short. It barely scratches iron, and Murphy yells out, “Start over at zero!”

We hit the opposite wing. That rhythm of kicks cutting on hardwood, of leather finding bottom, of Murphy keeping track of our makes—it all clips along at a cracking pace. But this time, Reynolds misses even worse. It hits glass first and then bangs off the rim toward the opposite sideline. He runs after it with his head down, and I can see it happening. The kid’s coming undone right in front of us.

When we shift to the baseline, I bury my J and then hurry to the back of the line to get in his ear. “You’re good, man. It’s all good. Just keep with it here.”

Reynolds nods real quick, but he doesn’t look at me. He takes a deep breath. When it’s his turn, I can see the doubt on his face even before he catches Murphy’s pass. Sure enough, his shot sails long—an air ball—and he mutters to himself and shakes his head as he chases it down.

Reynolds is going to have to get it straightened out on his own, I decide. I know I’ve got to use every possible moment to get better if I’m going to close that gap between me and Vasco. The J stays true for me on both baselines, then the top of the key. On the last one, I bottom it out so true it draws a long, impressed whistle from Murphy.

“Way to stroke it,” Devin tells me.

“It’s on this year,” I tell him. “We get someone to step up at the three, and we’ll run fools off.”

“Might be a big if,” Devin says. He nods toward our teammates, and I see what he means. Reynolds has potential, but he’s a disaster so far. Then there’s a sophomore who moved in at the end of last school year, J.J. Fuller. But he’s hard to read. Nice stroke. Some bullish bulk to him. Except he has no burst as far as I can tell. That’s about it.

When we finally start running sets, that problem becomes apparent. Fuller gets first crack, but it seems like the only move he’s got is to lower his head and go straight to the rim. Once in a while it works out, but more often he gets pinned deep with nowhere to go. He looks mad all the time too. The more he struggles to make plays, the deeper his brow pinches down. If Reynolds looks like a fourth-grader, Fuller looks like he’s forty—a stocky build with a big, blockish head. He’s darker-skinned too—it all makes him look like some severe old man who’s going to yell at you for playing your music too loud.

Meanwhile, Reynolds is running at the two spot with the second team—a tough draw. That means he’s trying to check Devin, who just turns him inside-out. One possession Devin drives past Reynolds to set up an easy dunk for Moose. Next time Reynolds gets pinned in the lane, and Devin calmly buries a three. Next time Reynolds darts to the passing lane, only for me to drop a back-door to Devin who lays one in.

On that one, Reynolds doesn’t even try to recover. He just stands there, his heels on the three-point stripe and watches his man score. “You better work harder than that!” Bolden yells. “Your man’s scoring, and you’re out there feeling sorry for yourself. You can’t let one mistake turn into two!”

And then it happens. I see Reynolds break, right there. This horrible pained look crosses his face, and he hangs his head again. He juts out his lower lip, and his eyes get wide and glassy. It looks like he’s going to cry. I’d be embarrassed for him if he did that. Instead, he just turns and starts for the locker room. He peels his jersey off and lets it hit the floor behind him.

We all look around, like someone ought to stop him. Bolden’s not one to let off the gas. He doesn’t even look at Reynolds. Just starts the next drill. Ruthless.

But that’s the way it has to be. Practice clips along, drill to drill. Nobody so much as mentions Josh Reynolds. His exit does cool our fire a little bit, like it’s cast a curse over us. It just seems wrong that less than an hour into the season, we’re already down a man.

Coach Murphy feeds me as I rotate around the arc. This will be our after-practice ritual same as last year, only this time Coach Bolden is down on the other end feeding Moose in the post. We’re determined to make this year the one.

I rattle one home from the wing, but my shot from the baseline skims off the back rim.

“One more,” I shout to Murphy. I keep my hands out, waiting for the pass. He zips it to me, but runs at me with his hand up. I shoot fake and go. One dribble to the short baseline for a pull-up. Long again.

I rebound it and lay it in, then grab the ball again and back up. I knock in a short J just to end on a make. Still, those two misses leave a sour taste.

“You’ll get it,” Murphy says. He knows it’s that pull-up jumper that’s the real key. Nobody’s going to confuse my shot with Stephen Curry’s, but people will have to respect it this year. And if I can get all the way into the paint, I know I can finish near the rim. It’s the intermediate game that I need to work on, and it’s coming as slowly as the long-range jumper did last year. I get that down though, and nobody will check me. Only thing left, I guess, would be to work on hitting jumpers coming off of screens, but Bolden wants me working on one thing at a time.

“I know,” I say. After last year, I trust Bolden and Murphy a little more, so even if I’m frustrated at missing the pull-up, I’m not letting it get to me. I catch my breath in the lane. I see sweat stream off my face and fall on the ball, streaking the leather. It’s been a good first day. Except for Reynolds. Something about watching him wilt was hard to handle.

“You okay?” Murphy asks.

“Yeah,” I say. I don’t want to gripe on the first day. But then I figure it’s just Murphy. You can tell him whatever you want, and he won’t go telling Bolden if he doesn’t need to. So I jersey some sweat off my face and say, “Bolden got after Reynolds pretty hard.”

Murphy glances down to the other end of the court, where Bolden’s still working with Moose. We keep our voices low. “What are you trying to say?”

“Just—” I falter. It feels wrong criticizing Bolden right here in the gym. It’s like swearing in church or something. “I don’t know. I didn’t think he needed to run him off. He could have told Reynolds to stop before he just gave in.”

Murphy narrows his eyes at me. It’s not an angry expression, just him trying to figure out how to respond. “Derrick, I didn’t want to see the kid quit either, but what’s Coach supposed to do? He can’t go beg a freshman to stay just because the kid’s feelings got hurt. He does that and how is he supposed to come down on Moose if he has to sometime? Or on Devin or you?”

I nod. He’s right. I figure that’s that, so I tell him I’ll catch him tomorrow, and I head for the showers.

“Derrick!” Murphy calls. I turn and see that he’s got this half-smile on his face and he’s shaking his head at me. “You’re not hearing me. Someone should have stopped Reynolds, but that was your job.” I stare back at him. “If you want to take charge, then you need to be a leader. You should have been talking Reynolds back onto the court before he got halfway to the locker room.”

“All right,” I say, but I don’t buy it. It’s not until later—after my walk home and a quick text to Wes to tell him what went down and a short conversation with Jasmine who doesn’t want to hear a word about it and after I eat dinner and hear my dad and Jayson get into some nonsense, when I crack the books and stare down at the page—that I finally have to admit it—Murphy’s right. That one was on me.