“Lia, I know it sucks, but…”
She places her hands palm-down on the table. Leans toward me and smiles. “I’m not mad, Derrick. I get it. This is your life, you know? I don’t even want you to go to a stupid movie instead of doing this. It’s not that at all.”
We get up to leave. That hipster looks up from his crossword to inspect us. He gives a little laugh to himself, like he just knows all about everything. I can’t help it—I bump his chair with my hip. He practically jumps in alarm. “Sorry, man,” I say, but I grumble it like I’d just as soon crack his skull as look at him. It puts him on the defensive, and he mutters something. I can’t quite make it out because he’s staring down at his table. But the tone is pretty apologetic—like he’s sorry for looking at us, for coming to this diner, for even having the nerve to breathe.
When we get to Lia’s car, she sighs before she starts the engine. It’s a cool but bright morning, and the sun has baked some heat into her car. It’s uncomfortable without the air on.
“You’re not even going to say anything, are you?” she says.
“I thought you said you weren’t mad.” Now I’m the one sounding pissed. And I kind of am. I mean, if something’s bothering her, she might as well come out and say it instead of making me guess. That’s something I never had to worry about with Jasmine—that girl didn’t hold back.
“I said I’m not mad about you bailing on a movie,” she says. Then she fires up the car, angrily, like she’s ready to rip out into traffic and play chicken with the next truck she sees. “But have you ever thought about where I’ll be next year? Does it even cross your mind? Have you ever thought about staying closer to me or letting me visit a campus with you?”
“Lia,” I say again, but I don’t have an answer. Or, really, it’s not the answer she’d want to hear.
Problem is, my not saying a word is the same as giving that answer. At least Lia takes it that way. She squeals from the parking spot and accelerates as fast as she can. She runs up on the bumper of some old bucket and whips out into the next lane. That earns a long honk from a car she cuts off. She just flips him off in the rearview mirror. “Fucking asshole,” she says. But she’s not looking at that other driver.
It’s supposed to be fun. For other guys, it’s a wave of cash and girls. Like the universe is rising up to meet every desire you’ve ever had just because you can ball a little. Even last year, Coach Murphy got offered a load of cash to steer me to a particular school.
But that road is for other players. What basketball recruiting means for me is my family sitting at the kitchen table with Coach Murphy—going over brochures, talking academics, even discussing campus life. It’s almost like I’m any other prospective college student. Last time I talked to Wes he told me I was straight up crazy for not taking what was out there. “Grab what you can get when you can get it,” he said. “Guys from our neighborhood don’t get ahead by just playing it straight, D. You’re the one guy who’s got a chance to tilt the game in his direction and you pass? Crazy, man.”
I don’t dare bring that up now. Truth is, Jayson and Uncle Kid lean a little more toward Wes’ way of thinking, but they know better than to breathe a word of it in front of Mom and Dad.
Mom has a list of school rankings in front of her with my five options—Indiana, Clemson, Michigan, Marquette, and Alabama—all highlighted. She just goes right down the rows. “Michigan’s the top-ranked school by quite a bit,” she says. “Then Indiana and Marquette are really close.” For her, it’s all about education. And she’s got a point—the scar on my knee is a pretty good reminder that you better have some schooling to fall back on.
Dad leans over and points to a school she missed. She glares at him, but then acknowledges that Clemson isn’t ranked too far behind Michigan. I know why she conveniently skipped that—she’s been pretty up front about not wanting me to play in the South. “Okay, Kaylene, but they’re all top 100 schools,” Dad says. “Can we at least admit that where Derrick fits as a basketball player matters too?”
“And location,” Jayson says. “I mean, we’re gonna be heading to D’s games so we might as well go someplace good. I say Alabama in the winter’s where it’s at.” Jayson’s as transparent as Mom—all he cares about is the girls he sees on T.V. during football games, and he’s been pretty outspoken that Alabama wins in that category. So this earns another glare from Mom. It’s a withering look, seeming to say that if she weren’t so heavy with baby she’s lean over and smack some sense into him.
Dad starts in about some research he’s done on quality of life in the various places. I try not to roll my eyes. They mean well, all of them. But I’m not going to make the biggest decision of my life based on a cost of living index, or a magazine’s rankings, or how hot co-eds are.
Finally, Uncle Kid clears his throat. Everyone stops and looks at him. He treads lightly—after all, he’s crashing here because he lost his old place due to sheer stupidity, so he’s still a little suspect in Mom and Dad’s eyes. He glances over at Murphy, who just nods at him. It’s this little gesture that suggests they’ve talked some things over beforehand. “All this stuff”—he motions toward the print-outs Mom and Dad have made—“it matters, but you’re trying to make this decision on paper. What we have to do is get Derrick on these campuses and let him feel his way around.”
Now it’s Murphy’s turn. “All of his schools have offered official visits, and we need to get rolling on them,” he says. “We need to think schedules instead of rankings right now.”
All the schools want me to come when they have big games. And that’s what I want too. I want to see what Indiana’s like when they’re gearing up for a top ten throwdown. What the vibe at Alabama’s like when Kentucky’s rolling into town. Of course, I’ve got my schedule too, so we start picking out weekends where we’ve just got one game, and then coming up with some times I could make mid-week trips.
Mom and Dad dutifully fold up all their papers and we get down to business. We nail down the Indiana trip right away, since that’s just an hour down the road. We decide on the Syracuse game, which should be pretty hype. Then, over Mom’s sighs of disappointment, we start figuring out when to hit up Alabama and Clemson. We have a game the same night Alabama plays Kentucky, but we can make it for their game against Florida. And then there’s the Clemson trip—their game against Duke, the team I hate most. It lands right when we have an open Saturday. I’m all kinds of on it.
That leaves Marquette and Michigan, but I hold off for now. I’m not feeling those schools quite as much as the others. So we’ll wait and see about them.
When we’ve got it all settled, all that’s left to do is for me to contact the schools with the dates. Then they’ll take care of the rest. It’s only one step to making the ultimate decision, but I lean back from the table feeling better about things.
“You good with this, D?” Murphy asks.
“Sure,” I say. I can’t give Murphy much more than that. He’s cool with it all, not pushing me one way or another. But the truth is I still miss Coach Bolden in these conversations. We argued plenty, but I trusted the old man. I’m not quite there yet with Murphy. Especially not after him talking up Gibson the other night. “We’ll see how it goes,” I add.
Murphy nods, but I can tell something doesn’t quite sit right with him. “That’s all?” he asks.
“For now I guess,” I say. Then I turn to Jayson and tell him we should go chill in our room. I don’t really have anything in mind, but I don’t want to keep on with Murphy.
But when Jayson and I get ready to jet, I see Murphy turn to Uncle Kid instead. “You got a second?” he asks. Uncle Kid, as surprised as anyone, snaps his head up from a Michigan mailer he’d been eyeing. Murphy just motions for Kid to follow him outside.
This I’ve got to see. So instead of heading down the hall with Jayson, I double back and peek out the front window. Kid and Murphy stand by Murphy’s car and chat, standing there as easy as if they were discussing the
weather or something. Then it hits me—maybe they’re playing an angle. After all, Murphy did get a big offer last year. And when I was a freshman, Uncle Kid made a play for a job to get me to transfer to another school. Maybe now, with Coach Bolden out of the way, they think they can chase a payday. If they think that, though, they’re in for a serious wake-up call from my parents—and me too, for that matter.
“What you think that’s about?” It’s Jayson, who’s sidled up next to me.
“Who knows,” I say. “But I know Uncle Kid, so it’s probably nothing good.”
We check over our shoulders. Mom and Dad are still at the table, having their own conversation about schools. I’m kind of shocked they’re not all up in Kid and Murphy’s business. Maybe they’re too obsessed over school rankings to notice.
“Let’s hit it,” Jayson says.
“Sure,” I agree. There’s nothing I can do about what’s happening out there now. When we head down the hall, I peep at my phone. I’d had it on silent, but it’s filled up with texts. Some from schools. One from Wes telling me to throw some green his way if I get offered some cash on my visits—a joke, I know, but a bad one. Two from Lia asking me to come over when I’m done talking schools. And one from Jasmine, still wondering when we’re going to catch up.
8.
Against Richmond it’s the same deal. My J is smooth as silk, but I can’t get to the rim like I used to. All pull-ups in the lane. Then Gibson comes in and just rips past Richmond’s guards like they’re standing in sand.
If it weren’t for the fact that Richmond’s in a down year, we’d be in real trouble. Jones has foul problems again. Xavier can’t remember his defensive assignment to save his life. And Reynolds and Fuller are forcing—taking bad shots, turning the ball over, gambling on the defensive end. It all means this—with two minutes to go, we’re nursing a two-point lead. Richmond ball.
They’ve got a solid two guard, Randall Harrison. He’s basically kept them in it, dropping 20 so far. Now, their coach barks out some orders to them from the sidelines. As a group, the players all look at him and nod. There’s no secret though—everyone in this gym knows the rock’s going Harrison’s way. I’ve got their point out top, but while he motions to his teammates, I sneak a peek behind me. They’ve got Harrison flattened out on the right baseline. Their bigs are on opposite blocks. Again, no secret—Harrison’s gonna come flying off those bigs looking for the ball. Easy enough to see, but a lot harder to check. But that’s the job for Reynolds.
What I can do is pressure the ball enough to make a pass to Harrison harder. So I get up in their point’s grill. He takes a step back toward mid-court and I jump with him. Flick for the ball once. Nothing there—just a move to keep the pressure on. For a moment, their guard looks uncomfortable. He switches the rock to his left and backs up again. I stay into him. His eyes flash a little, and I know that behind me the play is unfolding. He takes a step left, then goes behind his back to the right. It’s a slow move and I jump to cut him off. I beat him to the spot, but I don’t have the quicks to check his response—a little cross-over back to his left. He gets past me, giving him a free look at the play. He finds Harrison right in rhythm on the opposite baseline. There’s no hesitation from Harrison. He grips and rips, burying a trey to put Richmond up one.
Their crowd gets loud. I see some shoulders slump on my teammates—doubt creeping in. I clap for the ball and Reynolds inbounds it to me. As I bring it up, the Richmond crowd starts stomping and clapping in rhythm. They can taste it. I take a glance to Murphy to see if he wants a special play, but he’s got nothing. He looks a little frozen by the situation, really.
Well, if the coach doesn’t know what to do, I do. Get to the rack.
I don’t even bother setting my man up, I just power into the lane with my right. When their bigs see that I’m not waiting around to run offense, they jump to me. I take one last power dribble, plant, and rise up on their center. He doesn’t have time to gather his legs, so he’s got to reach a little.
Turns out that reach is enough to check me. He meets me a foot from the rim and flat-out caps me. The rock ricochets off my elbow, then glances off his knee before rolling out of bounds. Their crowd howls. It’s still our ball, but that was an emphatic rejection. Their big just hovers beside me, scowling. He doesn’t even need to talk trash. That stare says it all. He owns me.
A year ago I would have flushed that thing, no problem. But now I’m going to have to get used to my limitations.
I’m about to signal the out-of-bounds play when the buzzer sounds. Gibson saunters between the lines. Reynolds takes a couple steps toward the sideline, thinking that we’re going with me and Gibson again for the stretch run. But Gibson waves him back. Then he points at me.
“I got it from here,” he says.
It makes me want to scream—louder than all these Richmond fans combined. Lord, I’m a senior! I’ve taken us to the state finals! And Murphy’s taking me out in crunch time? I know I’ve hit a rough patch, but this is a betrayal. You just don’t do a player this way. I don’t even look at Murphy as I walk past.
“Keep your head in it,” he says. “Just catch your breath and I’ll get you right back in.”
Keep your head in it. It doesn’t matter what’s going on in my head—I can’t help the team win with my ass on the bench. And the truth is my head is going to some bad places anyway. The worst thought a player can think flashes through—if Murphy’s going to play me like that then I don’t care if we win or lose.
We won. Not because of Gibson’s heroics. Certainly not mine either. Mostly because of Richmond being a mediocre team. They lost track of Fuller on the in-bounds—bucket, with a foul to boot. Then they did the unthinkable—when Reynolds offered a little false pressure on the in-bounds, their big man stepped across the line. Turnover. Then they just kept on fouling us.
I got back in there, sunk some freebies, but it didn’t seem as sweet as wins normally do. Even on the bus ride home, there was some chatter but not the hype atmosphere you’d think. Hell, we’re 2-0 with both wins coming on the road, and we’re not sure if we’re actually any good.
Whatever. It’s Monday after school and time to get things straightened out. I jet to the gym as soon as the bell rings. Gotta have a sit-down with Murphy. I’ve cooled since Saturday night. I know better than to go in guns blazing. Like it or not, he is the coach. I’ve got to give the man some respect. But I’ve also got to let him know he has to respect me. After all I’ve given this school I deserve better. He said again after the game that he was just giving me a last breather before winning time—but any fool knows that should come with five minutes left on the clock, not two.
Just thinking about it gets me boiling again. I make my way down the hall and put my hand on that thick wooden door to the locker room. I take a few deep breaths first—get my emotions under control.
Then I push that door open and walk on in. Only to find I’m not the first one in to see Murphy. Instead, there’s Uncle Kid, a whistle around his neck and a rock tucked in his right elbow.
They both turn to see me, surprise on their faces like I’ve just caught them sneaking from a store with their arms full of stolen goods.
“Hey, D,” Kid says. He saunters over and extends his hand, trying to act nonchalant. I accept his handshake but don’t say a word. Instead, I just turn my gaze to Murphy. I raise my eyebrows, waiting for an explanation.
Murphy tries to smile like it’s all good. It comes off as weak, like a kid trying to act cool when he’s busted in the hallway without a pass. “Tell me, Derrick,” he says. “Can you name a single person in this whole city who knows more about ball than your uncle?”
Well, yeah, I want to say. There’s like every damn body in the Pacers organization. And the whip-smart coaches over at Butler. And last I checked Joe Bolden still resides in Indianapolis even if he isn’t a coach anymore. Instead I just say, “Nah, I guess not.” Besides, I can see where this is headed—the secretive conversation
s, the whistle on Kid’s neck? It clicks now.
“Then what better man to ride shotgun on our bench?” Murphy asks. “I’ve got my hands full as head coach. I need some help. So Kid’s my man.” Then, as if to defend his decision, he starts rattling off Kid’s cred—a Marion East grad, a serious baller in his day, a man who knows his way around Indy hoops.
I nod, but to me it means two things. First, it means Coach Bolden is never walking through that door again. I knew he wasn’t coming back, but this kind of seals it—hiring Kid, a guy who went round and round with Bolden back on the day, is like defacing Bolden’s house. But I also know this: now I’ve got an ally on the bench. I might be lacking some trust with Murphy, but at least my uncle will have my back.
I’ve still got my doubts. For as long as I’ve known him Kid’s taken any good situation and screwed it up. Just last year he was set up with a job, hooked up with the finest woman he’s ever been with. And he sabotaged it. Got himself twisted up in an unemployment fraud scam. That’s why he’s still a full-grown man slumming rent-free at our place.
But whatever. Kid and hoops. Nothing wrong with that. I step forward and give Kid a quick forearm thump on his chest. “Like old times,” I say. “You and me running things on the court. Like when we balled out on the Fall Creek court when I was a pup.”
That makes it good all around. As the two of them laugh at my comment, I suddenly realize both Murphy and Kid were a little iffy about how I’d take to the news.
The door swings open again. Fuller and Reynolds file in. Murphy and Kid stiffen up, preparing to officially share the news with the team. I head to my locker and start getting ready for practice. So much for my talk with Murphy. Can’t sweat that now though. After all, there’s one thing I learned from Kid all those years ago on the blacktop—when things are breaking wrong between the lines, the only thing to do is to get back after it harder than ever.
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