Training Camp

by Kobe Bryant

  As he approached the door, he saw something written across the old, dull metal in flowing cursive silver ink.

  Rain stared at it, confused, as the silver ink faded away.

  He pushed open the door and hurried into the morning alone.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Rain shuffled into Fairwood, dejected. The entire team was already there, sitting on the benches and talking quietly among themselves. He plunked down beside them.

  “Did your mom—” Big John started.

  “Yes,” said Rain.

  “And—”

  “No.” Rain scowled. As soon as his mama had gotten home from work he’d given her the card. It’d been almost ten p.m., but she had punched in the string of numbers anyway—informing him the whole time it was a fake area code—and then she had suddenly gone quiet. She had managed an “Oh,” and an “I see,” fiddling all the while with her stained waitressing uniform, and then hung up, stared at Rain, and slowly walked upstairs. For once, she didn’t take off her shoes.

  “What happened?” Rain had shouted after her.

  “You got yourself a new coach,” she said quietly.

  He didn’t get another word out of her on the subject for the rest of the night. He had been tempted to talk to Larry, but he didn’t want him getting worried. Larry was nine, shy, and not very popular at school. Rain was protective of him, and he didn’t want Larry to think there was trouble with Rain’s career. Rain told him every day he was “going to get them up out the Bottom,” and he had to keep Larry thinking that at all costs. It was easy to lose hope in this place.

  “If Ms. Adams can’t do something, we in trouble.” Jerome shook his head. “It wasn’t even a real phone number,” he muttered. “I don’t know how—”

  “You didn’t figure it out?” Reggie asked.

  “What?” Peño said.

  “The number. Didn’t you spell it out on your dial pad?”

  Rain frowned. He hadn’t. His mama hadn’t said anything either.

  “No,” Peño said.

  “It spells Rolabi Wizenard,” Reggie said.

  There was a long silence, and then Peño whistled.

  “He’s got his own phone number,” he said. “That’s baller.”

  “So, our parents are out,” Vin said. “Any other bright ideas?”

  “We can talk to Freddy,” Jerome suggested. “Get Rolabi fired.”

  Rain perked up. Of course. Freddy could fire the new coach.

  “We’re talking like this is normal,” Big John said. “It ain’t normal. It was magic, man.”

  “He’s a mitch,” A-Wall agreed.

  Lab rolled his eyes. “There’s no such thing as magic.”

  “Is that so?” someone asked from behind them.

  The effect was like a perfect strike in bowling. The entire team yelped and spilled off the benches in a tangle of limbs. Rain took an elbow to the ribs. Grimacing, he turned and saw Rolabi standing behind the bench. The coach stared down at them, still wearing the same clothes.

  “If you don’t believe in magic,” Rolabi said, “you need to get out more.”

  Rain watched—still lying speechless on the floor—as Rolabi strode onto the court. He thought back to his mama’s phone call last night and the dazed look on her face afterward.

  “Did you hypnotize my mama?” Rain said indignantly.

  Rolabi stopped at center court. “The truth is hypnotizing. I fielded calls from seven parents last night. I believe they are appeased. If any others would like, they can call as well.”

  “About the whole . . . tryout thing . . .” Peño said.

  “We will start with laps.”

  The team unfurled themselves, groaning and muttering and falling into a broken line. Rain was last to start running, sparing a quick glance at the professor. Rolabi’s eyes found his—with a noticeable twinkle—and Rain took off.

  There are two types of runners. Some run toward. Some run away. Only one wins.

  How about you run away? Rain thought angrily.

  Freddy had them run laps once in a while, though usually just one or two as a quick warm-up. They had traveled five times around the gym—and many of them were already sweating profusely—when Rolabi spoke again. His voice seemed to chase them and nip at their heels.

  “We will take free throws,” he said. “One at a time. As soon as someone scores, you will stop running for the day. If you miss, the entire team runs five more laps.”

  “I got this,” Peño said, gasping for air.

  Rain was about to argue that it should be him shooting, but Peño proceeded right to the free-throw line with a hand perched on his thigh like an elderly man with a hip replacement.

  “What . . . How am I supposed to . . . ?”

  “Shoot it, please,” Rolabi said.

  Peño frowned, his thick black eyebrows forming a V that peaked at the top of his nose.

  Then, with a strange, jerking motion, he heaved the ball upward like he was doing shot put. The basketball sailed over the backboard and struck the wall before pinballing its way down between the two and finally rolling away into the corner in an oddly dejected manner.

  The entire team slumped.

  “Five more laps,” Rolabi said, his voice maddeningly calm.

  Rain was furious with himself. He should have insisted on taking the shot. It was always his job in games to make the big shot. It had been since day one. He had to drag the team with him.

  To where?

  Rain ignored that one. They had finished 3 and 12 last season—last place in the league. He turned to start running again and froze. His eyes widened. The floor—the entire gym, in fact—was now slanted uphill, nearly at a 45-degree angle. Rain began to slide backward.

  “Begin,” Rolabi said.

  “You are not crazy, you are not crazy,” Peño whispered.

  “Professor,” Vin said, crouching to keep his position, “the floor—”

  “When we are tired, the court can feel like a mountain,” Rolabi said.

  “It is a mountain!” Peño protested.

  Rain got low as well, his fingers grasping at the hardwood. He barely held his footing, his mind reeling, feeling almost nauseous at the sight of his familiar Fairwood tilted up on its head.

  “Just run,” Reggie said. “We can get up there.”

  The line started, and Rain climbed after them, glancing at the cinder-­block wall behind him and waiting for someone to take an unfortunate spill. He gulped and kept moving, almost crawling with wide frog steps. When he finally scrambled to the baseline, the gym shifted again.

  Now they had to go downward.

  “Never mind,” Peño said. “I am definitely going crazy.”

  “Join the club,” Rain muttered.

  “So, about that magic that doesn’t exist—” Big John said.

  “Shut up,” Lab cut in.

  There was no break. At the next turn, the floor formed a steep staircase. Next it slid like a treadmill. Then divots. Then hurdles. The floor changed with every single turn, and soon Rain’s thighs were throbbing, his sides stitched with cramps. He suspected the only reason they made it was that Rolabi allowed them to set the pace. Big John was huffing like a steam engine.

  When the five laps were done, the floor straightened back to normal, and everyone slowed and turned to Rain, their best free-throw shooter and surest bet for escape. He nodded.

  “I don’t want to know what’s next,” Vin managed through gasping breaths.

  “Me passing out,” Big John said.

  Rain retrieved the ball from the corner and proceeded to the free-throw line, taking a slow, deep breath to calm himself. He dribbled exactly three times, same as ever, getting a feel for the ball and focusing. Shoulders to the hoop. Feet comfortably set with toes pointed. Wrists and fingers loose.

 
Then he narrowed his eyes, breathed out slowly, and lifted the ball, bringing his right elbow in line with the net and bending his fingers just slightly like primed pistons ready to erupt.

  “It’s all up to you, Rain.”

  The unmistakable voice whispered in his ear just as the ball was being released, and Rain flinched like he’d been struck. The shot careened off the side of the rim to a chorus of dejected sighs from the team, but Rain barely noticed. He spun around, looking for the source of the voice. But Rain was alone. The voice had no body. It couldn’t have a body. That man was long gone.

  Rain grabbed the ball and ran back to the free-throw line, lifting it for a desperate second shot. He felt his heart pounding madly in his chest, wishing and hoping, but for what, he wasn’t even sure. Still there was no voice.

  “Do it again!” Rain pleaded, turning to Rolabi. “Please!”

  “I did nothing,” Rolabi said.

  Rain hurried over to him, fists clenched at his sides. His whole body trembled.

  “Make it come back.”

  “I did nothing,” he repeated.

  “What is it, Rain?” Peño asked from the line, sounding worried.

  Rain stared at Rolabi for a moment. He’d imagined the voice. He must have.

  “Can I use the bathroom?” Rain murmured.

  Rolabi nodded. “Certainly. Everyone, grab a drink. Laps will continue shortly.”

  Rain hurried to the locker room. He threw open the door to the biggest bathroom stall, locked it behind him, and gripped the sink with trembling hands. He had gone completely mad. That was the only explanation. The voice was a painful memory and nothing more. Rain had the note to prove it.

  He looked into the mirror, cracked and splintered so that in some places his reflection broke into a hundred fragments. He realized his eyes were glistening, and seeing that made everything worse. Soon his nose was leaking too, and he roughly wiped his face with the back of his hand, furious that he was crying after so many dry months.

  Rain stared at himself, trying to calm down.

  Rain looked like his father. Everyone said it. He had the same hair—an understated one-inch cut—the same pointed nose, the blue-brown skin and copper eyes, the narrow face and sharp chin. He had his height and his lean, wiry build. His father was in him. He was staring at him even now. Even here.

  More tears spilled down Rain’s face. He gripped the sink so hard, he thought it might shatter.

  “Why did you leave?” he whispered.

  The reflection stared back. “You know.”

  Rain yelped and backed away, almost tripping over the toilet. He pressed his back to the wall, staring at the mirror. For a moment, the face in the mirror had looked exactly like his father’s. He waited, watching it. But it was just a crying boy.

  Slowly, reluctantly, Rain stepped to the sink and splashed some cold water on his face. He stopped shaking, took another deep breath, and wiped his face with his sleeve. Then he walked out, joining the team as they started running. He ignored their questioning looks.

  “You good, bro?” Peño asked, hurrying to fall in line beside him.

  “Yeah,” Rain said. “It was nothing.”

  But he barely registered the changing floor and missed shots for the rest of the drill, which stopped only when Reggie hit a free throw. The team managed a croaking, feeble cheer.

  “Water break,” Rolabi said. “Bring your bottles over here.”

  Rain glanced at Rolabi as he walked by. What was happening? Was Rolabi doing this to him? How? How could he know about his father? How could he summon his father’s voice?

  Or was Rain doing this to himself?

  “Sit in a circle,” Rolabi said, moving to center court.

  Everyone complied, plopping down like wet rags. Rolabi pulled out a daisy in a small clay pot—it was the first one Rain had ever seen outside of photos or TV shows. It was stark white with a yellow heart. Rolabi gently set it down and stepped back, staring in near rapture.

  “What are we supposed to do with the flower?” Peño asked.

  “We are going to watch it grow.”

  Rain waited for the professor to laugh or smile. To admit that this was an elaborate prank or a test of their patience. But Rolabi kept his eyes on the flower and stood still, apparently entranced.

  “Why?” Lab asked, already fidgeting.

  “Small, nearly imperceptible things make the difference between victory and defeat.”

  “In a flower?” A-Wall said.

  “In everything. Don’t overthink. Don’t assume. Just watch. When your focus wanders, return it to the flower.”

  Jerome scratched his forehead. “How long we doing this for?”

  Rolabi didn’t answer, and finally, everyone turned to the flower. Rain tried to get comfortable on the old floorboards, which gave a surly groan. The flower stared back at him.

  Rain glanced at the clock. The minutes ticked by as long as hours. Then the seconds felt like hours too.

  At half an hour, Rain felt like he was ready to smash the pot and head home.

  “What part of the body moves first?” Rolabi asked suddenly. “If you are defending someone, and they are approaching, what part of their body will move before the rest?”

  Rain considered the question, trying to think back to their last game. He had never really thought about where movement began. Defending someone was a natural reaction. When they moved, he moved. That was all.

  Rain pictured a player closing in on him. “I always try to watch their stomach.”

  “An admirable plan,” Rolabi agreed. “But a perfect one only for the fastest player alive.”

  Rolabi stepped over Peño and stood next to the daisy. “The first thing to move is the mind. The opposing player must decide what he is going to do.”

  Rain rubbed his head. Why was everything a riddle? The game was simple.

  Only for those who choose not to see.

  How do I see, then? he thought sourly.

  “You need more time,” Rolabi said aloud.

  “And how are we supposed to get more time?” Rain asked.

  “By watching the flower grow. Water bottles away. We have one more lesson today.”

  As Rain started for his bag, Rolabi began setting up an obstacle course. Reaching into his medicine bag, he withdrew cones, upright poles that stood on end like stalks of corn, and a vertical ring on a metal stand that was bigger than his entire bag. Finally, he placed three basketballs together on the sideline at half-court.

  Rain took a last drink of water and jogged over to the three balls to start the line. The rest of the team fell in behind him, while Rolabi positioned himself right in the center of the court.

  “You will complete the circuit,” he said. “A layup on the first hoop and a shot from the elbow on the other. When you return, pass the ball to the player who is first in line. You may begin.”

  Rain went to pick up his ball and screamed. His right hand was gone.

  He gripped his now-vacant wrist with his other hand, staring down at it in horror. His right arm appeared to have been sliced perfectly clean, just past his wrist bone. The skin covering the end of the limb was as smooth and flat as a kitchen counter. Rain whirled around and saw that the rest of the team was shouting in panic as well, grabbing their own wrists, but none of them had lost their hands. Everyone but Rain still had them. Why were they screaming?

  “Where is my hand?” Big John shouted. “What’s happening?”

  “An exercise in balance,” Rolabi replied. “Proceed.”

  Rain stared at his wrist. He saw the end of his dreams and grand plans. No riches. No escape from the Bottom. No house with the porch and the net and the new car. No family gathered together on the weekends. It all vanished with his hand. He felt his knees buckling.

  “This isn’t possible,” Lab
said.

  “Possibility is notoriously subjective,” Rolabi replied. “Shall we begin?”

  Everyone turned to Rain, including Rolabi. The team’s eyes bored into him, but he couldn’t start the drill. Not without his dominant hand.

  You have two, don’t you?

  But, he thought, my hand—

  Can be earned back.

  Rain stared at Rolabi, furious and confused and scared. Still, what else could he do?

  He awkwardly picked up the ball with his left hand and started the circuit. He made his initial layup, but proceeded to lose the ball through the dribbling segment and missed the pass through the ring by a mile. While he was collecting his ball, Big John pegged him in the back with his own misfired pass attempt, and the whole court descended into chaos. There were shouts and stumbles and the constant clank, clank, clank of missed shots and desperate warnings:

  “Sorry, man!” Vin shouted after hitting Jerome with an errant pass.

  “Watch your head!”

  “Well, if you had just ducked—”

  At one point, Devon attempted a pass to the front of the line and clocked an unprepared Vin so hard that he toppled to the ground. As he lay there, dazed, Rolabi called a halt to the drill.

  “That will be all for today,” he said. “Balls, please.”

  The balls were handed back to him, and he dropped them in his bag.

  “Can we have our hands back now?” Rain asked hopefully.

  “Tomorrow we will be working on our defense,” Rolabi said. “They will be helpful then.”

  With that, he picked up his bag and started walking directly toward the nearest wall.

  The lights flashed a blinding white, and a gust of wind whipped in violently from nowhere. Rain shielded his face with his arms as the lights blinked out, then flashed on again, dim and gray as ever. The wind died, and Rain knew before he even looked that the professor would be gone. Rolabi had just walked through a wall.

  “Okay,” Peño said, “I think maybe we should talk to Freddy. Rain?”

  Everyone turned to him. Rain knew exactly what Peño was suggesting: getting rid of Rolabi. Considering this, Rain remembered the moment he heard the familiar voice. He tried and failed to stamp out the fierce, ridiculous hope that he might hear it again. But the magic and the visions and the drills were too much. The distractions were preventing him from practicing real ball. Getting in the way of his plan. His future. He couldn’t afford that.