by Kobe Bryant
“Do we get to keep the balls?” Peño shouted.
He followed, wanting an answer. Any answer. He hurried into the parking lot.
“What . . . Professor?” Peño whirled around, eyes wide.
Rolabi was already gone.
PEÑO STOPPED IN front of Fairwood, looking up at the pink building with real nervousness for the first time since he had tried out for the Badgers two years ago. That had been simpler. It was fear he would be cut, that Lab would make it, that he would be forced to watch the season from the sideline. He’d barely slept for weeks leading up to it and nearly vomited walking through the front doors. Thankfully, they had both made it. Seeing the team roster had been one of the best moments of his life.
This was a different fear. He was afraid of things he couldn’t explain or understand. Voices. Memories. Peño looked down at his hands, saw they were trembling, and quickly stuffed them into his pockets before Lab could notice.
Peño didn’t show fear. He was the big brother—he had to be strong. He didn’t get to cry. He didn’t get to be afraid. He cooked and cleaned and did everything around the house so that Lab and his father could push on. Still, he felt the tremors from his pockets. He hadn’t trembled like this since three years ago, when he reached out for skeletal fingers, felt the warmth slip away, the grip go limp and cold . . . He shook the memory away. It wasn’t the time to dwell on that. It was never the time.
“What are you doing?” Lab asked, peeking around him.
“Nothing,” Peño replied quickly.
“Well, you’re not going inside,” Lab said. “Are you afraid?”
Peño sighed. They had both been dropping hints at each other that something had been amiss at training yesterday. But it seemed like neither wanted to be the first to admit it, and now they stared at each other appraisingly, both refusing to look away.
“Why would I be afraid?” Peño asked.
Lab shrugged, though he seemed uneasy. “Just calling it as I see it. Lead the way.”
“Why don’t you?”
“You always go in first,” Lab said. “You basically skip through the door.”
“Well, it’s time you got your shot, little brother,” Peño replied. He leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Unless there’s something wrong . . .”
“Nope,” Lab said. “You think I’m afraid of a weirdo in a suit? Like I said, Rolabi is clearly some two-bit magician who was trying to impress us on our first day so we behave.”
He had said that about a hundred times now, but Peño wasn’t convinced. There were street magicians in the Bottom—transients with tattered decks of cards or multicolored tissues stuffed up their sleeves—but they were sources of pity, if people paid them much notice at all. Magic was a scam, a last resort for a few Drennish pennies.
What Rolabi did was different. The images and visions, and the voice in Peño’s head—they didn’t feel fake. In fact, they felt strangely familiar, or personal, as if Peño was somehow complicit in the impossible things he was seeing and hearing, or maybe even responsible for them.
Are you ready for the road?
Peño looked at Lab, but he knew the question wasn’t his brother’s. It was the same voice as yesterday. His voice.
“Okay, then go ahead,” Peño said, standing aside and gesturing at the doors.
Lab scowled. “Fine . . . coward.”
Peño felt the heat rush into his face. He despised that word. They both did. Over the years he’d collected a broken collarbone and several ankle sprains because of it, while Lab had fractured three ribs jumping off the back of their roof on a dare.
Peño had been grounded for a long, long time after that one.
Peño grabbed the other door. “We’ll do it at the same time, then, if it makes you feel better.”
“Fine. But I’ll walk in by myself. I don’t need you.”
“On three?”
Lab paused. “On three.”
Peño turned to the doors. “One . . . two . . . three!”
They whipped their respective doors open, both taking small steps backward at the same time as if to ward off any blows. Reggie was alone in the gym, stretching by the bench, staring at them.
“Right,” Peño said. “See? Nothing weird.”
“I despise you,” Lab mumbled.
The two brothers hurried inside, now racing and elbowing each other to be first.
“Anything you want to talk about, baby brother?” Peño whispered.
“Nope,” Lab said. “You?”
“Feel great.”
They plopped themselves onto the home bench and glared at each other.
“Fighting again?” Reggie said bemusedly.
“The usual,” Peño replied.
He pulled out his shoes and eyed them for scuffs. There were none, of course. He had cleaned them yesterday when he got home, despite only having worn them for about an hour. He’d actually spent more time cleaning his shoes than wearing them, and he’d been bored by noon. Peño’s family had no cell phones or computers—both far beyond their means—so Peño and Lab usually entertained themselves with a mixture of old books, a TV with four channels, and jump shots off the back wall of their house. Peño had drawn a small square with chalk that they had to hit. It wasn’t exactly the same as a hoop, but they tried to work on their form, at least. Lab always said Peño would be an all-star if games could just be played on squares.
Trying hard not to flinch, Peño scooped the new basketball out of his duffel bag, took a hopefully inconspicuous look around for spectators, and, seeing none, hurried onto the floor. It was the one real bonus of yesterday’s bizarre introduction—the new balls. The Badgers had never had their own balls before. And they were brand-new. Rubbery. Beautiful. Peño had spent half the night smelling his until Lab threatened to throw it out the window.
As Peño began to dribble, the fear ebbed. He listened to the beat in the floorboards and moved in a dizzying pattern: behind-the-back, through-the-legs, reverse. Step, dribble, crossover, step. It became a dance, hands flying about him in a blur, and he started a verse under his breath:
Peño grimaced and decided not to share that one. He had been freestyling for years now . . . with mixed success. Lab despised it, but Peño thought he was getting better. Hopefully.
Lab soon joined him, and they fell into an easy routine—one shot the ball and grabbed the rebound, while the other cut for the layup. Even with a ball each, they still used only the one. Old habits, he supposed. Lab started draining threes, getting into a rhythm, and Peño hit him with one crisp pass after another.
“Oh, okay,” Peño said. “Bro with the flow—”
“No,” Lab cut in, glaring at him. “How about no freestyling today. Or, you know, ever.”
“You’re jealous, mad zealous, a BB gun with no pellets—”
Lab whipped a pass at him, and Peño caught it, laughing. He shimmied and moved around his brother, spinning off for a one-handed floater. He was planning to use that move a lot this year—he’d been working on it on their brick wall. He grabbed the rebound and ducked under a wild shot from A-Wall, who was not reliable shooting from anywhere but under the hoop.
“Getting closer,” Peño said. “It stayed in the gym.”
A-Wall scowled. “You just hit me with some open looks this year.”
“Sure,” Peño said. “If you are less than three inches from the net, I will pass it you.”
“Thank you,” A-Wall said solemnly.
Peño rubbed his forehead. It really was like talking to a wall.
He turned back to the hoop and froze. It was gone. Brick walls had risen up on all sides, soaring above to a distant sky, little more than a pinprick of blue. He was trapped inside them.
“Lab?” he whispered.
Peño stepped to the nearest wall and ten
tatively brushed his fingers against the bricks. The wall was real, and it was impassable.
He walked around, confused, seeing no doors. “Rolabi!” he shouted. “Rolabi!”
Peño started to sweat. Walls had closed in on him before—they’d been imagined, maybe, but the threat had felt the same. His chest heaved as he tried to think. He couldn’t panic. He ran his hands along the wall again, pushing, testing. To his surprise, one brick slid inward and fell to the floor. The next wouldn’t, but he gripped the side and pulled, and it too dropped toward him, revealing more light. He began to strip the wall, brick by brick, building an opening and letting sunlight pour into his walled cage. He could see Fairwood beyond the crumbling mortar—bleachers and faded walls.
“Do you know what it means to be a leader, Peño?”
Peño whirled around. Rolabi was standing behind him. “Where—”
“Do you?”
Peño paused, thinking. “I . . . To make people follow you, I guess.”
“No,” Rolabi said. “It’s to suffer first. Sleep last. Work hardest. Enjoy least. It’s to see walls as doorways. Every person has a way to unlock their potential. The builder leaves a key for others to use.”
“What do you mean, ‘key’?”
“It is usually hidden, yes. Most people don’t bother to look. But a leader takes the time to bring down walls. They push and pull. They give and take. They bring out potential by helping others escape their own self-created confines. It is a difficult process. Arduous. Exhausting. Not everyone has the skill.”
“That doesn’t sound fun,” Peño murmured.
“If we don’t have a leader, we don’t have a chance. We don’t have a team.”
Peño stiffened. “We need a team!”
“Why?”
“I love this team,” Peño said. “I need it, man.”
“But you’re afraid of it too. Why? What are you so afraid of?”
Peño felt a chill seep through him and gulped. “I . . . I don’t know.”
“Then you are not ready to lead.”
Peño was suddenly standing with the team at center court, gathered around Rolabi. He blinked, rubbing his eyes, but no one even seemed to notice that he had been gone. Lab stood in his usual slouch beside him.
He thought back to the walls. What did Rolabi mean? What was he supposed to do?
“My . . . uh . . . my dad was wondering when the parents can come meet you?” Twig asked.
Peño glanced at Lab. Their mom had always been the “involved one.” Their dad worked long hours—and longer now—and could never meet with teachers or coaches. Peño missed coming home to her. He missed her singing in the kitchen, cooking meals she had learned from her mother . . . ones she never had time to teach to Peño. She sung every day—to wake them up, while she cooked, when they went to sleep. These days the house was quiet. No one sang.
“Following the tryout, I will meet with parents,” Rolabi said.
Peño snapped back to the present. “Did you say tryout? This is the team.”
“This was the team.”
Peño’s stomach turned. He could still be cut? He felt that old fear flare up again. What if Lab made it and he didn’t? What if he was the only one cut? Would they all leave him behind?
“If there is pressing business,” Rolabi continued, “they can call 76522494936273.”
Peño started counting on his fingers. “That doesn’t sound like a phone number . . .”
Twig was patting his shorts for a pen. “So . . . seven . . . eight . . . ? Can you repeat that?”
“We are going to start with a scrimmage,” Rolabi said. “We are going to use a different ball today. Last year’s starters versus the bench players.”
Peño almost felt like he emphasized “last year’s.” Would Rolabi mix up the starters too? Even if Peño made the team, would he get relegated to the bench? That would be better than being cut, of course, but not by much. This was supposed to be his year. The chance to take a starring role and prove to everyone—including himself—that he had a shot at the next level. He eyed Vin nervously.
Was it his imagination, or did he look a little taller?
They quickly split into their respective teams. For the starters, it was Peño at point, Rain at shooting guard, Lab at small forward, A-Wall at power forward, and Twig at center. Each was matched by their respective backup, Vin, Reggie, Jerome, Devon, and Big John.
Twig and Big John stepped up for the jump ball.
“I’m coming for you,” Vin said, giving Peño a playful elbow. “Taking that starting job.”
Peño grinned, trying to hide his concern. “You got to catch me first, brotha.”
The bench team won the tip, and Peño quickly backpedaled.
“Back into position!” Peño shouted.
Vin was a good player—broad and strong with a decent jump shot, but he wasn’t as quick as Peño, and he didn’t have the same handles. Peño stayed low, keeping one hand out to jockey him. He moved side to side with lateral shuffles, tracking Vin’s stomach. His shot might be a work in progress, but Peño would put himself up against any point guard in the EYL on defense.
But within the first minute Jerome had already laid one in to take the lead.
“Pick it up!” Peño snarled.
He received the inbound pass and started dribbling up the court. Vin was playing a one-man press—a dangerous gamble, since Peño could shake anyone in the open floor. He faked left, dropping his shoulder to sell it, and then exploded right. Vin stumbled, waving at thin air, and Peño sprinted past him—straight into an invisible wall. He jolted back, his nose taking the impact. He tried again, and his head snapped back a second time, his eyes watering. He reached out and felt nothing.
“What is this?” he said, rubbing his nose.
“It’s called tight D,” Vin said with a grin.
“Not what I meant.”
Peño faked left and tried to go right for a third time. Once again, he got a painful smack in the nose for his trouble. Peño had no choice. He dribbled onto his weaker left hand . . . and drove directly into Vin’s chest. Within seconds, Vin stole the ball and went in for the layup. Peño just stood there. Was he losing his mind? He walked to the right, reaching tentatively with his hands, and felt nothing.
“What are you doing, Peño?” Lab asked, running past him to collect the ball.
I have no idea, he thought.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just lost the ball. Get back and set a pick, why don’t you?”
“I thought you had mad handles?” Lab said. “You look like Twig dribbling.”
“Thanks,” Twig muttered.
Peño caught the inbound pass and abruptly turned right, slamming yet again into a wall. He wanted to scream. But how could he explain this to the others? That an invisible wall was appearing and, oh yeah, only when he went right? The team would think he was crazy. So he kept quiet and grew more frustrated with every passing second. After an hour, the bench team was winning by four points, and Peño was deeply annoyed.
“This is ridiculous!” he said, shaking his head. “Come on! We’re losing to the bench!”
He turned to catch an inbound pass and froze. He was alone again.
“Why me?” he murmured.
A knight suddenly appeared beside him . . . then three more. They all wore gleaming silver armor, their angular helmets were drawn shut, and ten-foot lances jutted from their gloved fists. Peño stood directly in the center of the group, feeling dwarfed. They were all at least a foot taller than him.
“Umm . . .” he said. “Hello?”
One of the knights looked at him, nodded, and then turned ahead. Peño followed his gaze and blanched when he saw another line of knights facing them across the gym—dressed identically, except that their armor was copper instead of silver. Ten of them stood at atten
tion, their lances at the ready.
“Guys?” Peño said.
“March!” one of the silver knights shouted.
Peño tried to hang back, but the knights on either side of him pulled him along, marching headlong toward the opposing line. The beat of their steps quickened. The knights at the center of the line stepped forward, forming a V-shaped attack. The defenders mirrored their formation. Peño tried to get free.
“I think there’s some mistake—” he said.
The knights at the centers of the lines crashed into one another with a jarring clang of metal on metal. Peño ducked down in the middle of the chaos, trying to make himself small. Meanwhile, the copper knights on either side of their defensive line marched forward unopposed, encircling Peño and the struggling silver knights in mere moments. Peño gulped as they all lowered their lances, pointing now at exposed sides and backs. One was leveled directly between Peño’s wide eyes.
Everyone froze.
“And so the battle ends,” a familiar voice said. “There were none to guard the flanks.”
Peño wrestled out from behind the tangle of limbs, ducking under the frozen combatants, and saw Rolabi watching the scene.
“Why am I in a medieval war again?” he asked, waving his hand in front of a motionless copper knight.
“A team without a strong bench is half a team. That in turn means a swift and sudden defeat. The bench is all too often the tide that turns the battle. The team advances as one. The starters, the center of the formation, are no more critical than those who follow. You all must function as one unit, or you will never win.”
Peño looked back at the encircled knights. “Are you trying to tell me I’m benched?”
“I am telling you that it doesn’t matter,” Rolabi replied.
“So what do I do?”
“Make sure everyone knows they have a job. Everyone must be ready. A weakness or crack in the line ends the battle,” Rolabi said. He pointed a finger at Peño. “Seal the cracks.”
With that, he walked to the bleachers, bag in hand. Peño realized the knights were gone, and the team was gathered around him instead. He wondered if they had disappeared, or if he had, or if any of them were seeing the same strange things. Lab had a dazed look in his eyes.