Training Camp

by Kobe Bryant

  Peño couldn’t understand what he was talking about. Lab’s two hands were right there, firmly attached.

  “If anyone leaves the practice without cause, they are off the team permanently.” Rolabi said it calmly but with an unmistakable note of finality.

  Lab turned to Peño. He could see the fear on his little brother’s face. Peño wanted to console him, to be the big brother. But Lab clearly still had his right hand . . . In fact, Peño wasn’t sure why anyone was upset. He was the only one who had lost a hand.

  “I can see your hand,” Peño said, pointing at it with his left. “It’s right there.”

  Lab lifted his right arm in disbelief. “No, it isn’t. I’m the only one who lost it!”

  It’s just an illusion, Peño realized. We can’t see our own hands.

  He tried to calm down. It was magic again . . . or grana, or whatever Rolabi had called it. This was no different from the visions or the shifting floors. He tried to stop cradling his wrist.

  Lab shook his head. “This isn’t possible.”

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

  Lab turned to Peño again, clearly looking for support.

  “Just come play,” Peño said.

  Lab scowled and joined the team, trembling. Rain was at the front of the line, and he picked up a ball with his left hand and dribbled it experimentally. With a last unhappy look at Rolabi, Rain started the course with a layup. It took about thirty seconds for the chaos to begin.

  Peño knew his left hand wasn’t as strong as his right, but he now realized it was completely useless. He missed his layup, lost the ball several times through the cones, ran right into a pole, missed the pass into the standing hoop by ten feet—hitting an annoyed A-Wall in the back—and then airballed his one-handed shot from the elbow. When he went to pass the ball to the front of the line, he misfired on that as well and sent Twig chasing after it into the bleachers.

  He stared at his left hand, disgusted. How could he have ignored one of his hands?

  The gym suddenly fell silent. Sensation flooded into his wrist, and he realized his right hand had returned. Relieved, he looked for Lab. But Fairwood was empty.

  Peño sighed. “Not again.”

  A noise cut the silence: the low, ominous rumble of a distant thunderstorm. A second later, the front doors of the gym burst open, and water poured through the opening, frothing and thrashing like a river that had burst its dam. It spilled over Peño’s feet and rapidly filled the gym. Peño whirled around in panic.

  “Help!” he cried, but the water continued, rising past his ankles. “Rolabi?”

  He tried to push against the current and escape to the front doors, but the water was already rising past his stomach. He felt a change in the current, looked back, and saw that a second door had opened at the back of the gym. The water was now pouring out the back. He frowned. There was something in there—flashing images, appearing like snapped photos in the darkness and then gone again. His house. His bed. His neighborhood. Familiar things. Comfortable things.

  As he drifted toward the door, Peño looked over his shoulder at the front doors. He saw images there as well. Himself with a black granite trophy, a dark alleyway, shots going up, missing, scoring—they flicked by like a newsreel. The water rose. He saw the trophy again.

  “It’s easy to go with the current,” a familiar voice said.

  Peño felt the water churn, dragging him toward the back door. He fought to hold his ground and saw Rolabi standing nearby, the water flowing around his giant torso and rejoining behind his back.

  “It’s the easier choice,” Rolabi said. “Water always follows the path of least resistance. We often do the same.”

  “What is happening?” Peño shouted, the water creeping up his neck.

  “Can you see the uncertainty ahead?”

  “Yes!” he shouted, keeping his mouth out of the water.

  He had never swum before—he had no idea how. He just flapped and writhed and kicked.

  “Glory and pain. Both. Or one. Do you want to take this path? It won’t be easy.”

  Peño pushed his lips up, gasping for air. “I want it!”

  “Then take it. Swim.”

  The current swept Peño’s feet off the floor. The water was too high for him to stand. He thrashed forward, pumping his arms to fight the streaming river. He kicked and paddled madly. His arms were soon burning. His legs too. He couldn’t do it. He wasn’t strong enough. He let go.

  Raging water took control of Peño’s limbs. The back door swallowed him whole.

  And then he was alone again, standing at center court. The river had disappeared. The floor wasn’t even damp.

  “I thought you said you wanted it?” Rolabi said.

  Peño doubled over, hand on his knee. “It . . . it was too hard.”

  “And now you know why you neglect your left. It’s easy to follow the path of least resistance. Even in little everyday decisions. People use their stronger hands because it’s easier. They let the water take them—in all things. Show your teammates the harder road. Push them.”

  “How?” he managed.

  Rolabi smiled. “Start with yourself.”

  The team reappeared, all hunched over and gasping. Peño looked around and saw that the obstacle course was gone. Rolabi was calmly walking toward a solid cinder-block wall nearby.

  “He knows there isn’t a door there, right?” Peño murmured.

  Peño squinted as the lights flashed a brilliant, blazing white and then flicked off, leaving the team in darkness. A gust of wind roared into the gym, seemingly from nowhere. Before he could even move, the wind died, the ceiling lights blinked on again, and Rolabi was gone. Peño stared at the wall.

  Lab was right. It was too much. Peño had almost drowned and lost a hand, and who knew what else was coming. Who was Rolabi to tell him that he took the easier road? What did he know about Peño’s home life? Who was he to tell him he was a quitter? He didn’t see Peño staying up late every night and waking up early every morning. He didn’t see him packing snacks into his dad’s lunch box while the old man slept on the couch. He didn’t see him washing uniforms by hand. His temper flared. Peño didn’t need to be tested. He didn’t need to be doubted.

  Maybe it was time to get rid of Rolabi. Freddy could still fire him.

  And there was only one player who could make that call.

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

  Rain was staring at the wall as well. He nodded. “It’s time to fire Rolabi.”

  “Finally,” Vin said.

  “He just started—” Reggie said.

  Peño stalked to the bench, ignoring the ensuing arguments. He was exhausted. The swim had felt so real—the throbbing limbs and the freezing cold water. A small part of him knew why he was upset. He had quit so easily. He had let the current take him.

  He was supposed to be the strong one. The one who carried the family. The one who Lab could look up to. But was he really being strong? Or was he pretending that everything was fine because it was easier than admitting it wasn’t? He stared down at his hands—the left, weak and uncoordinated, and the right, missing.

  Start with yourself.

  He realized his left hand was shaking.

  There are different ways to lead.

  Leave me alone! Peño thought.

  Some begin by allowing ourselves to be vulnerable.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Peño slowly eased his shoelace through its loop, moving at an almost-glacial pace. He had never realized that tying his shoe with one hand might be a bit of an issue. In fact, it was proving to be nearly impossible. He had managed to slip one lace through and was preparing to tighten the loop when Lab—who had spent the entire night complaining about his hand—decided to start up agai
n.

  “I don’t like you right now,” Lab said.

  The loop slipped from Peño’s fingers, and he sighed. “We’ll get them back today.”

  He picked up the laces again. He was far from thrilled about his missing hand, but even after his initial dismay, he knew there was something to be learned here. Now that he was forced to use his left, he realized it wasn’t just basketball where it was an issue. Eating, bathing, brushing his teeth—it was all awkward and difficult. How could he play with his left if he couldn’t brush his teeth with it? This was a simple thing, yet he had never really considered it.

  But his brother just whined. He spilled things—almost on purpose—and complained to their confused and very tired dad. It was annoying.

  Peño was getting sick of Lab’s attitude in general. Mopey, cynical, sullen. It seemed like it was getting worse with every passing week. They had both lost a mother. Why couldn’t Lab toughen up?

  The loop slipped out of Peño’s left hand again. He sighed and leaned back, thinking about Rolabi. He had suggested having him fired. It had seemed right at the time. But now . . . he wasn’t so sure. He realized it wasn’t about the hand or the river or any of it. Those were pieces of the bigger lesson. Rolabi was showing them that they had spent a lifetime limiting themselves.

  Something about that thought nagged at him. Something deeper he couldn’t quite place.

  “How are you so okay with this?” Lab said sharply.

  Peño turned to him. “What do you want me to do, Lab? It’s magic.”

  “Magic isn’t supposed to exist. Remember?”

  “Well, it does. And I think that’s kind of cool, missing hands aside. Don’t you?”

  “You sound like a child.”

  Peño’s own temper finally boiled over. He didn’t get angry very often, despite his nickname—he considered himself the more levelheaded brother. Well . . . usually.

  “And you sound like a whiny old man,” he snapped. “All you do is complain. You complain about getting up. You mope around at home. You don’t eat my cooking. You don’t come play at Hyde anymore, and you barely seem to want to play ball. What is wrong with you?”

  Lab recoiled like he’d been slapped, and for an awful moment, Peño thought his brother might cry. He started to prepare an apology. But Lab’s temper rose to match Peño’s.

  “Nothing is wrong with me,” Lab snarled, “except that my older brother is an idiot. A stupid, washed-up, know-it-all . . . idiot! Stay away from me!”

  “No problem!” Peño said, sliding farther down the bench.

  Only Reggie, Twig, and Devon were in the gym so far, and if they had heard the exchange, they were pretending they hadn’t. Peño returned to his sneakers, his cheeks hot. He probably shouldn’t have said anything. But it was true: Peño was sick of watching Lab shuffle around the house. He was sick of barely being able to drag him out of bed in the morning. Peño missed Lab—his real brother, the one he had grown up with. He left his laces alone for a second, puzzling over the thought. That was it. He missed his brother. But how was that even possible?

  Now you are asking a leader’s questions.

  I’m not a leader, he thought angrily.

  Not until you start swimming against the tide.

  Stop bothering me! he thought.

  Peño finished his laces—mostly just knotting them together haphazardly—and went to shoot around. Normally that cleared his mind, but not today. He couldn’t hit a shot to save his life. Not a three or a free throw or even a simple layup. His left hand was like a cinder block.

  He soon sat down again, stewing over both Lab’s attitude and his own ineptitude with his left. He didn’t fail to see the irony, of course, so whenever Lab looked at him, he tried to force a grin. Lab just glared at him.

  Rain and Freddy arrived last of all. Peño could tell that Freddy was nervous: he had his hands stuffed into his pockets and was shuffling along like he was on the way to the principal’s office. Peño had asked for this—and here it was.

  But had he really thought it through?

  He looked down at his missing hand. Was he letting the current take him again?

  “Morning, team,” Freddy said. “How are we?”

  “Bad,” Jerome said, pointing at his right hand—which was sitting in his lap.

  Freddy followed Jerome’s gaze, clearly confused. “Right . . .” he said.

  Peño noticed that Lab’s eyes had glazed over. He had stopped tying his shoes and was just staring at the far wall. Peño frowned and snapped his fingers at him. Nothing. He followed Lab’s gaze to the far wall, and for a moment, he saw something: shifting light and shadow. The shapes moved fluidly, like reflections on water. He squinted, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The motion had an almost kaleidoscopic effect on the far wall, and Peño phased out of the conversation, awestruck.

  “Were you on any of these teams, Frederick?”

  Peño jumped and turned. Rolabi was staring up at the banners.

  “What . . . Where did . . . ?” Freddy said weakly.

  “I suppose you were too young,” Rolabi mused. “It’s been so long.”

  Rolabi faced the team, then glided over to Freddy in three enormous strides. “Can I help you?” Rolabi asked him.

  Then he clasped Freddy’s hand and turned right to Peño. The gym was gone.

  Peño was standing on the silt-covered shore of a lake, which was tucked into a valley and bordered on all sides by bluffs and snowcapped mountains. He reached down and dipped his fingers into the cool water—he had never seen anything so clean in his life. He thought of his mom’s garden box. If only she’d had this water, maybe her plants would have grown.

  Maybe she would still be here too.

  “Do you see it? The boat?”

  Peño looked up. There was a rowboat in the center of the lake. It was fashioned out of crude wood but had no oars. It looked like it was sinking.

  “Slow leak,” Rolabi said thoughtfully. “Almost imperceptible unless you are inside it.”

  Peño stood up, glancing at Rolabi. “Isn’t Freddy—”

  “Firing me? No. I’m afraid we have too much work to do.”

  “Oh. Sorry about that.”

  “Are you upset or relieved?” Rolabi asked.

  “Both, I guess,” Peño murmured.

  An unexpected wave of embarrassment rolled over him. Not because he had wanted Rolabi gone, but because of why he had wanted him gone. Because he was afraid. He stared out at the sinking boat, ashamed.

  “Honesty is the first step to conquering our fears,” Rolabi said approvingly.

  Peño caught a flicker of movement. “There’s someone in that boat.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “That you must find for yourself,” Rolabi said. “But hurry.”

  Fairwood took shape around Peño again, and he saw the front doors slam shut. Freddy was gone, and the team had gathered around Rolabi, looking uneasy. Lab seemed to have snapped out of his daze.

  Peño frowned. What had he missed? Did Rolabi dismiss Freddy? Who was on the boat?

  “Today we will be working on defense,” Rolabi said. “Before I can teach you proper zones and strategies, I must teach each of you how to be a defender. They are not the same lessons.”

  Peño was still puzzling over what Rolabi meant when he heard something scratching. He’d heard scratching before: Fairwood was infested with mice. He had them at home too—they were one of the few animals that survived in the Bottom. Peño had a soft spot for them and slipped them crumbs almost every night. But this was no mouse. The scratching was grating and powerful, like a saw working on steel.

  “What must a defender always be?” Rolabi asked, ignoring the scratching.

  “Umm . . .” Peño said, still looking around. “They have . . . wait . . .
what was the question?”

  “What must a defender always be?”

  “Well . . .” Peño said, speaking without thinking. “Umm . . . in position?”

  The scratching grew louder still.

  “Ideally,” Rolabi said. “But before that.”

  Peño’s every muscle was on alert. The scratching was so loud that it was difficult to focus on anything else.

  “Ready,” Rolabi said. “They must always be ready. A defender must be a step ahead of their opponents. They must outthink and outwork and out-strategize. They must always be ready to move.”

  The scratching reached an awful crescendo.

  “What is that?” Rain asked.

  “Can someone open the locker room door?” Rolabi said calmly.

  Peño spun around. The scratching was coming from inside the locker room.

  “What’s in there?” he murmured.

  “A friend,” Rolabi said.

  Twig suddenly started for the locker room door.

  “What are you doing?” Peño hissed.

  “I want to see what it is,” Twig said. He hesitated, took a deep breath, and pulled the door open.

  “Cool,” Peño whispered.

  An enormous tiger walked into the gym. Impressive as the tiger was, Peño knew enough about them to step behind A-Wall, using him as a human shield. Big John had Peño beat: he sprinted to the other side of the court, whimpering all the way. But the tiger didn’t seem to care. It strolled right past the team and sat down next to Rolabi. Its big purple-and-gold eyes flicked between the players and the coach. Peño could have sworn the creature smiled at him.

  “Meet Kallo,” Rolabi said. He ran a hand through her thick fur, and she purred like an enormous house cat. “She has graciously volunteered to help us today.”

  “Is that . . . is that . . .” A-Wall was saying.

  “A tiger,” Peño interjected. “Long extinct. Well, supposedly. One of nature’s most perfect predators. Ambush predators—they can sneak up and jump ten yards onto their prey.”