Training Camp

by Kobe Bryant

  “Where am I?” Lab whispered.

  You tell me. You are the one making this place. Yours is strong.

  “My what?”

  There was no response.

  “What!” he shouted.

  Lab blinked. The gym had returned. He gasped, realizing that the team had split up on either side of a jump ball. The starters were all behind Twig, waiting for the tip.

  “Where . . . How—” he said.

  “You playing?” Jerome asked, giving him a strange look.

  Lab hesitated, then nodded, trying to regain his bearings. “Yeah.”

  He lined up next to Jerome, who played small forward behind him during the season. Jerome was quick and about the same height as Lab—maybe an inch taller with his ’fro. He also had an overlarge forehead that was dangerous for head butts. Lab had accidentally collided with him once and seen stars for days.

  “You look a little pale,” Jerome said.

  “Didn’t sleep much,” Lab muttered.

  Jerome nodded. “I hear you. Everything’s crazy, man.”

  “Have you seen something?” Lab asked.

  “I seen lots of things.”

  Big John won the tip, and Lab jogged back on defense, trailing Jerome.

  “What did you see?” Lab asked.

  Jerome glanced back at him. “Things I hoped I wouldn’t have to see again.”

  Lab sensed a finality to the conversation. Jerome didn’t want to talk about the details, and why should he? Lab didn’t want to talk about what he had seen either. He loosely tracked Jerome with a free hand, keeping an eye on the ball. Jerome did a little fake to the corner and back, but Lab wasn’t playing tight, so the quick move accomplished nothing, and they settled in to wait for the ball.

  Vin went the other way instead, passing to Reggie. Predictably, Rain got the steal and sprinted down the court alone. The rest of the team chased, but Lab didn’t bother. He let Jerome go and waited on defense, still eyeing Rolabi. Lab had seen the hospital bed. The awful, unforgettable chairs. How could those be tricks? How could Rolabi even know about those things?

  Now you are asking the right questions, the deep voice said.

  Lab thought about that. The only one who remembered those chairs vividly enough to re-create them in such brutal detail was him. Not even Peño could do that. Had Lab somehow summoned that image for himself?

  Lab got into position as the bench team attacked again, and soon he surrendered a layup to Jerome. He scowled. He had guessed wrong on the drive, overstretching, and been beaten cleanly to the middle. Lab ran up the court, then realized that Peño was struggling against a one-man press. It was like he had forgotten how to dribble. Lab watched as he barely made it past half and then drove directly into Vin’s chest. Vin proceeded to strip the ball and score an easy layup.

  “What are you doing, Peño?” Lab asked.

  “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 said.

  Lab sighed. Just what Twig needed: another shot to his confidence.

  Peño made it up the court, though just barely, and Lab decided to make his move. He faked the cut to the net, causing Jerome to lose his balance, and then called for the pass. Rain was still looking lost on the far side, so Peño whipped the ball to Lab, who turned for the three.

  “I thought you were supposed to be good,” someone said.

  Lab hesitated. An older man with closely cropped white hair and hard eyes was standing next to him, holding a clipboard. He was wearing a green bomber jacket embroidered with the logo of a college team that Lab liked. He scribbled a note on his clipboard.

  “Who are you?” Lab said, frowning.

  “Javi ‘Lab’ Juarez,” the man said, continuing to write. “A lesser Rain Adams. Going nowhere.”

  Lab flushed. “But I haven’t—”

  “A waste of potential.” The man flipped a page as though he had made a decision. “Disappointing.”

  Lab felt his cheeks burning. Did no one else see this man? Was this another illusion?

  Jerome closed in on Lab, putting his hand up to block the shot, and the man turned to Jerome, apparently far more interested in Lab’s backup. Flustered, Lab passed the ball back to his brother, and the man promptly vanished. Lab rubbed his eyes. He was seeing things. He had to be.

  But more scouts appeared every time he touched the ball. They sighed or wrote notes or shook their heads. One scout called Lab “another Bottom Beggar.” Lab took a few more shots, but he always missed badly and soon avoided the ball altogether. Still the scouts kept coming.

  “Worse than his brother.”

  “His dad must be ashamed.”

  “Should get a job.”

  “Nothing good comes from the Bottom.”

  Finally, the professor strode onto the court. “That will be all for today.”

  “We aren’t going to do any drills?” Peño asked.

  Lab snorted. Only Peño would ask about drills after a scrimmage like that.

  Rolabi put the ball away and proceeded to the bleachers, taking a seat on the lowest bench and checking his watch. Just then, the locker room door was torn open by a fearsome gust of wind. Lab stared at it, trying to think of something, anything, that could explain wind erupting from that windowless room. But he was running out of excuses, and he knew it. When he turned back, Rolabi was gone, the locker room door slammed shut, and silence descended.

  “So . . . we’re pretty set on our coach being a witch, right?” Big John said.

  Lab rubbed his forehead. It was too much. It couldn’t be real. It couldn’t.

  How long can you lie to yourself? a voice asked him.

  This time the voice sounded suspiciously like his own.

  “What are you, six?” Lab said, glaring at Big John. “There’s no such thing as witches.”

  “Says who?” Big John said.

  “Says everyone. Says physics and logic. I know they aren’t your strong suit.”

  “Didn’t you fail—” Vin started.

  Lab scowled. “Does Peño tell everyone my business?”

  He followed his brother to the bench, plunking himself down and chugging his last few drops of water—sour, brown, and smelling of sulfur. The white corridor flashed across his mind again. The stiff metal chairs. Why was he seeing them after so long? He had been trying to forget about them, about all of it, for three years now. Why wouldn’t the memories fade?

  He threw his shoes into his bag and zipped it up, barely listening to the others.

  “This Rolabi dude is messed up, huh?” Jerome said to Lab, climbing to his feet.

  “Yeah,” Lab muttered. “He ain’t the only one.”

  LAB WISHED HE were still in bed. Peño had dragged him out that morning, even using the dreaded ear-pull at one point. It had been yet another long, restless night of questions Lab didn’t want to answer. Why didn’t he go into the room? Why did she have to leave them? Why did nothing feel the same since? The unanswered questions made the night feel heavy, the morning worse.

  In his heart, Lab knew the visions weren’t some magician’s trickery. Perhaps they weren’t even Rolabi’s doing. Whatever they were, they were real, and tangible. And that made him even angrier. If magic was real, then it was useless. Why couldn’t magic get his dad a better job? Help them eat better? Why couldn’t it have saved her? Lab looked around at the dull cityscape packed with hovels, the factories spewing dead air beyond them. Why couldn’t magic fix this place? If it existed, it was a cruel thing. And if it was in him, then wasn’t he cruel too?

  The morning was hot already, like most July days in the Bottom, and a sticky breeze swept across the parking lot. Lab was sick of it. The choking smog.
The people wandering the streets fighting for scraps from dumpsters. He was sick of the fact that his own future was written all around him.

  Why don’t you fix that, Rolabi? Lab thought angrily. He kicked through a stray paper cup and grimaced as coffee spilled on his shoes.

  Peño’s mood this morning was just as sour. He and Lab had argued about magic and Rolabi and everything else for half the night. Peño believed the visions and the magic were real, same as Lab. But Lab refused to say so aloud—was perhaps unable to—and that seemed to drive Peño mad. He was still pestering him now.

  “What is your problem?” Peño asked. “Why can’t you admit that something is off?”

  Lab gritted his teeth. Why couldn’t Peño just drop it?

  “Because that’s not how the world works,” Lab snapped. “It ain’t magical, Peño. Sorry.”

  Lab grabbed the door. He needed to stop thinking about it—the visions and the memories and what they all meant. He just needed to get in there and play ball. That was why he was here—to get away from all that.

  Peño grabbed his arm. “Is this about Mom?”

  Lab flinched at the word. She had been Mom to Peño. Mama to Lab. He had said it as a baby and never lost the habit. The question made him even angrier. Of course it was about Mama. Everything was. Didn’t Peño get that? Didn’t he feel the same loss? He yanked his arm away.

  “It’s not about anything,” he snarled.

  “I miss her too—”

  He couldn’t, though. Not like Lab. Not every minute. Every second.

  “And you saw her dying just like I did,” Lab said hoarsely. “Wasn’t it magical?”

  He stormed inside, heading for the bench. Tears were threatening, and he preemptively wiped his face with his arm. The pain was still so fresh. It turned his stomach and sent bile creeping up his throat. Why did Peño have to bring it up? Why couldn’t everyone just leave it?

  Without pain, we cannot grow.

  Go away! he thought.

  Lab dropped onto the bench, ignoring everyone and pulling out his shoes. Distantly, he heard them talking about the phone number Rolabi had given, and their parents calling in. The conversation only made him feel worse. His dad couldn’t have called—he had gotten home after midnight again, staggering with fatigue, his teeth stained black from the swirling dust in the gravel pits. Lab quickly tied his shoes and zipped up his bag.

  Then he looked up and froze. “Not again,” he murmured.

  The gym was empty. A white screen stretched in front of him—the old kind, perched on a three-legged metal stand. On the bench beside Lab sat an ancient film projector, like the one his school used for presentations. He stared at it, confused. There was no film reel in it. No power cord. Lab looked around and yelped when he saw Rolabi sitting nearby, hands folded in his lap.

  “Why do you have to do that?” Lab snapped.

  “Do what?”

  Lab scowled. “What is this? Another vision? Another annoying lesson?”

  “Which teammate of yours do you think has the best life? Who is the happiest?”

  “What?”

  “Think about it. You don’t seem to like yourself, so whose life would you prefer to take?”

  Lab glared at him. Maybe if he played along, Rolabi would take him back to practice. He thought about his teammates. There were different options. Better talent. Better size. But then Lab considered what it’d be like to have money. Money for a cell phone and those self-tying shoes and a nice house with a real hoop outside.

  Money for a doctor. Money to give his dad a break.

  “Twig, I guess,” Lab said. “His family does pretty well.”

  Rolabi nodded and fished a film reel out of his pocket. Twig was written on the side.

  “Put it on,” Rolabi instructed, pointing. “Just slide it there and press that white button.”

  Lab frowned and did as he was told. After he had attached the reel, he pressed the button, and the projector turned on, humming and vibrating and spinning. A grainy image appeared.

  “What is this—”

  “What you wanted,” Rolabi said calmly. “Your pick for best life on the team.”

  Twig appeared in front of a mirror. The room was unfamiliar—it must have been his bathroom at home. Unstained counters, new sink. It was just what Lab had figured. But Twig was crying. Tears streamed down his face. His fingers went to his cheeks, first rubbing, then pinching, pulling.

  “What . . .” Lab whispered. “What’s he doing?”

  “Watch.”

  Lab watched for a few minutes. He saw skin picked until it bled and more tears. The scene changed, and he saw Twig’s father screaming at him, lecturing him, making the kid walk past shelf after shelf of polished trophies. He saw Twig crying alone in his darkened bedroom, slender hands over his cheeks, tears and blood and snot intermingled. He saw pain. Lab turned away, stomach roiling.

  “How did you get that footage?” he whispered. “How can you know all that?”

  “We all have a story, if you take the time to look.”

  “I . . . I didn’t know.”

  “You didn’t look.”

  Lab scowled. “But that’s just one guy. Give me Vin, then. His dad runs a pawnshop.”

  Rolabi handed Lab another film reel, and Lab reluctantly popped it in. A second film started, just as grainy as the first. Rapid-fire images flashed by: Vin being pushed around in an empty classroom at school. Vin at a park at dusk, getting beaten up by an older boy, then hiding the bruises. Vin throwing up his dinner. Vin pacing, waiting up for his brothers. Vin stealing a cell phone from his father’s store—

  “Turn it off!” Lab demanded. “Why are you showing me this?”

  “Because you felt alone.”

  Lab snorted. “So we’re all miserable. Great. I feel much better now.”

  “Don’t wish for other people’s lives,” Rolabi said. “Everyone has their struggles.”

  “What are you . . . a walking de-motivational poster?”

  To Lab’s surprise, Rolabi laughed. “I have heard something to that effect before.”

  “How are you doing this?” Lab asked, gesturing to the screen and the empty gym. “How does this work?”

  “You brought us here. Your grana.”

  “Grana?”

  “An energy. It arises from emotions, from the private experiences that make us human. It needs only an opportunity to be released, and then it can show us precisely what we need to see.”

  “I’m pretty sure you just made that word up.”

  “And yet you knew you created that white corridor. You created your own fears.”

  Lab looked away. He had suspected that, yes. Had he really been using something called grana?

  “It still sounds made-up.”

  Rolabi smiled. “I suppose you would prefer if I called it magic?”

  “There’s no such thing as magic,” Lab snapped.

  He was suddenly back in the gym, and the whole team was staring at him.

  “Is that so?” a deep voice asked.

  Lab spun around to the source of the voice so quickly that he toppled off the bench. The rest of the team went along with him, collapsing into a pile of limbs and groans and complaints.

  “If you don’t believe in magic,” Rolabi said, walking around the bench, “you need to get out more.” His eyes fell on Lab, and there was a noticeable twinkle. “We will start with laps.”

  Lab scowled and shuffled into line.

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

  They ran the five laps, and Peño stepped out of line, huffing like he was trying to blow up a balloon.

  “I got this,” Peño said.

  Lab didn’
t argue. He could already feel the sweat beading on his forehead. Clearly, they all needed some cardio work. He looked up just as Peño was taking his free throw—and watched in disbelief as Peño heaved the ball right over the backboard. He had missed by ten feet at least.

  “What kind of a shot was that?” Lab said.

  Peño slowly turned back to the group. “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “Five more laps,” Rolabi said.

  Lab frowned. Peño wasn’t exactly the best free-throw shooter on the team, but he was far from the worst. And nobody was that bad. Peño must have seen something. Did that mean he could use grana too? He wondered if everyone was having visions and what they were about.

  His eyes wandered to Twig and Vin. He could guess at theirs, at least.

  “Umm . . .” A-Wall said.

  Lab turned and froze. The team wasn’t running, and it didn’t take long to see why—the whole gym had leapt up on one side, bending and warping until the floor rose at a nearly 45-degree angle. Lab felt himself slipping back and grabbed on to A-Wall for support.

  “It’s . . . impossible,” he breathed.

  He wasn’t alone this time. The whole team was scrambling and scraping as they tried not to fall backward.

  Rolabi stood with his feet firmly planted right at center court, sharing the slope. “Begin,” he said.

  They started running. Lab felt his entire world, his understanding of it, changing with every twist of the gym. Valleys, staircases, and hurdles materialized from nothing. Every time Lab turned a corner, he was greeted with the impossible. He ran and climbed and jumped, and his legs burned, but he felt like it was his mind that was working.

  Walls could change. Floors could warp. Everything around him was not stagnant.

  This was proof of what Lab had suspected earlier, and it made him angrier still. If grana could change things so easily, even buildings, then why did the Bottom look the way it did? Why did people live in squalor? Why did people die?

  Lab took another step and felt the floor dissolve beneath his feet. He tumbled into darkness and cried out, spinning, screaming all the while, and then he abruptly stopped, just barely keeping his footing.