I have to admit, practice hums a little better. With Kid on the scene, there’s less room for Xavier and some others to fool around. And Murphy can put more of his attention on the back-court. Right away he spotted a flaw in Reynolds’ game. He pointed out that his step into his shot is real long—it takes him more time to get the shot off, but it also flattens him out and leaves him firing line drives. Like always, Reynolds bristled at the advice, but after two minutes of work he started finding bottom a little easier and everything was gravy.
Murphy even cracked on Gibson a little. Three straight times Gibson drove hard middle when the play called for a reversal baseline. Three straight times Murphy corrected him. “Man, you’re so amped to show everyone that you’re the great D-Train that you only do one thing,” he said. “Drive, drive, drive. Instead of D-Train I’m going to start calling you One-trick Pony if you can’t mix it up a little.”
Gibson pouted some, but give him this—you can’t keep the kid down long. He bounced back after a minute and made some slick plays.
It all meant that I didn’t get to interact with Kid much. Oh, I’d hear him now and then, barking at the bigs about how to box out. I even heard him tell Xavier that if he had a little more heart and a lot less lip he might get his name in the record books for rebounds some day.
But now we’re all on one end, the ones against the twos, doing some early prep for White Station, a tough outfit from Memphis. We head there this weekend for a day tourney. Evansville Harrison will be there too, but we won’t play them. Instead they get top billing against Tennessee’s reigning state champ. Still, it’s a chance to show out in a spotlight.
Kid’s in charge of the twos, and he does his Kid thing—he huddles them up and gets them amped like they’re about to rock Game 7 of the NBA Finals. And, hey, maybe that’s been what’s missing. Murphy’s had to adjust to his head coach role, but nobody’s stepped in to do his old job of getting guys pumped. Kid’s a natural. “Remember,” he shouts at them as they step back onto the court, “only way to flip your jersey and run with the ones is to beat the ones. Ain’t nobody gonna give it to you.”
Hearing that kind of talk gets me hyped too. And when I glance at Fuller and Jones, I see that fire in their eyes. The twos gonna come at us? Bring. It.
Gibson strolls out toward me. He starts clapping his hands, rallying his boys. Then Murphy bounces the rock my way. “Ball’s in,” he says. I grin at Gibson. He glares back. Oh, it’s on.
I pop the rock to Reynolds on the wing and we run O. The twos know every move we want to make. Still, I carry out my fakes. I take a couple hard steps like I’m going to down-screen, then cut away from the ball to set a cross-screen for Fuller. Gibson jumps the play. He squeezes his body between me and Fuller, throwing off our timing. Fair enough. But if he’s going to do that, then I’ll improvise. I spin and seal him on my back, then cut straight down the lane, hands extended. But by the time Reynolds sees it, the lane’s crowded. Besides, Gibson’s got a hand on my hip, holding me back on my cut. It’s a cheap move. He knows Murphy and Kid are too busy watching everything else to catch a quick grab. But when I take the bait—swatting his hand away—of course they see that.
“Clean it up, Derrick,” Murphy snaps.
I just grunt in response and keep on. But before I can get my hands on the rock again, Jones gets free on the block for an easy deuce.
Next possession, Gibson gets right back to it. He grabs. Holds. Jumps plays because he knows what’s coming. It’s nothing new. Second-teamers have been doing this since basketball was invented. Still, that doesn’t make it any less irritating. And this time it’s made worse because we don’t get a bucket. Xavier gets his first touch and chucks a bad one—a fadeaway from deep right baseline—that barely catches iron. While the second team grabs the rebound, Gibson gives me a quick shove. Nothing dirty—just enough to get me on my heels so he can create separation for the outlet. He catches at the hash and the only thing that stops him from a run-out is Murphy’s whistle. “Bring it back,” he calls. “Let the ones keep working offense.”
But Gibson just grins from ear to ear. Everyone in the gym knew that was a run-out. And only I know he had it because of that push.
On and on it goes. It’s not like I’m getting stopped cold. I’ve got four inches on Gibson. A few times I just rise up over him to show him who’s boss. But I can’t get the offense humming the way I’d like. And every time we get slowed down—a cut gets bumped off course, a reversal gets denied—Gibson seems to swell up a bit more.
Finally, I’ve had enough. Forget about rising up for mid-range Js. There’s only one way to put a pest like Gibson in his place. When I flare baseline for a look, I don’t even think about a jumper when the leather hits my hands. I rip it to the rim. Only I can’t get the whole way past Gibson. That missing burst again. I push on into the paint anyway. I’ve got the size to muscle one up on the glass. But as I go up, Gibson gets another cheap one on me—he pins my right arm to his chest, then flops. He pulls me down, but it looks like I’ve charged into him.
Or at least it looks that way to Murphy. “That’s a charge, D,” he says. “Turnover. Let’s start it again—and this time try to stay within the offense.”
This time, I can’t help it. It’s that last dig about staying in the offense that sets me over the top. Hell, no team puts up points if they can’t just break down the D once in a while. But that’s not what I respond to. “Charge?” I yell. “Gibson pulled me down. A blind man could see that.”
Murphy rocks back on his heels. “Now, Derrick,” he says. “I didn’t see it that way. But even if you’re right, you’ve got to play through a bad call now and then.”
A bad move by Murphy. To even acknowledge my complaint is a sign of weakness. Bolden—or any coach worth his whistle—would have had my ass running stairs before the last word was out of my mouth. I glance around. Xavier and Jones are having a private little laugh off toward the baseline. Reynolds has his shorts sagging so far he’s about to trip over them. Rider, relegated to third-string point, is just staring into the rafters like there’s some movie playing up there. And then there’s Gibson with his snarky little smirk. This is not a tightly focused team. And that’s on the man in charge.
I scoop the ball up from the baseline and head back out top. I give a little sneer toward Murphy, testing him. No reaction. So I press the issue. I turn toward Kid. “You could see it, right?” I shout. I point at Gibson. “Foul’s on him, right?”
Kid clears his throat. “I didn’t really have an angle,” he says.
“Oh, come on, Kid!” I shout. “You were right on top of the play!”
Kid’s face darkens. It’s the expression he gets when my mom hints a little too forcefully that he needs to move out of our house. “Let’s just play ball, Derrick,” he says.
“Whatever,” I say.
“That’s enough. Let’s play.” It’s Murphy now, but he’s got no real throat behind it. Instead, it sounds like a gentle suggestion.
We go another twenty minutes without incident, then Murphy calls it for the day. All I want to do is get the hell out of here, maybe get some time with Lia. I’m thinking about the quickest shower in the history of basketball when I feel a presence beside me as I walk to the locker room—Kid. Scowl on his face.
Used to be, I’d back right down from Kid. He was always the big man on the court when I was playing, the guy who was better, the guy who knew more. Not anymore. Not after seeing him fail in a million different ways. And besides, with my extra height he can’t even lord his size over me these days. “What?” I snap.
“You want to apologize?” he asks.
A few of the guys give us some looks as they file past. Truth is, as much as I want to open it up on Kid, I don’t want a scene. That’s not a good look for a senior leader. So I lower my voice. “Man, I don’t see where I’m the one who should apologize.”
Kid rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he says. “Be a stubborn son of a bitch.” He points
way down to the opposite baseline, where we were playing. “You don’t think I saw what Gibson did on that play? Hell, I been seeing guys pull out that garbage since before you were born.”
“Well then, why didn’t you say so?” I say. That comes out a bit sharp, and guys stare again. But they keep moving toward the locker room. They’re probably thinking this is just a family thing. Which it kind of is.
Kid sighs. He shakes his head at his shoes. “D, this is my shot. You see that, right? I could actually be a coach. Something more than a guy who sloshes beer in dirty mugs at a dive bar. But it ain’t gonna happen if everyone thinks I’m just doing this because you’re my nephew. So I can’t take it easy on you. I can’t just jump to your defense. Who’d respect me if I did that?”
I want to shout right back at him that nobody respects a guy who rolls over for some scrub who just transferred here. So much for having a man in my corner. But he has a point. I relax my shoulders and nod. Give Kid a little backhand to his arm to let him know we’re cool. “Okay, man. It’s just…” But I don’t know how to finish that sentence. I don’t know what it just is.
“Can I say something, D?” Kid asks.
“Sure.”
He takes a deep breath. Then he launches in. “That play down there”—he points to the baseline again—“it shouldn’t matter what Gibson does. A year ago you’d have been swinging from the rim while he was still trying to catch up to you. It’s the knee.”
My back stiffens. My mouth goes dry. I do not want to hear him start saying my knee’s not good. Hell, that may be the truth, but I don’t want to hear it.
Kid holds his hands up in defense. “There’s nothing wrong with it,” he says. “The only thing wrong is you don’t trust it.” Now he leans in toward me like we’re in on some shady secret. I can smell a day’s worth of coffee on his breath. “It’s there. The burst. You can’t see it, but I do. When you’re just in the flow, not thinking about it, you snap off a cut like nobody’s business. Or you top out going for a board. It’s only when you want to rise up for a dunk that you hold back. I can see it on your face. You just don’t trust it yet. But it’ll come.”
Maybe. That’s what I think. Maybe it’ll come. I know more than ever there are no guarantees. “Thanks, Kid,” I say.
Then we head to the locker room. Static squashed. Except I’m in for one more surprise. “You gonna miss that cash from tending bar on weekend nights?” I ask. “’Cause I know Marion East isn’t laying heavy green on an assistant coach.”
“Man, some things are more important than money,” Kid says.
“How’s Wes working out down there anyway?” I ask, checking on my old friend.
That stops Kid in his tracks. “Wes? That boy hasn’t shown up to work in almost a month.”
Wes being a fool again. That one hurts. Talk about not being able to trust something.
9.
Here’s the thing you learn about hoops—you have to keep plugging. As a freshman and sophomore, you think the whole season hinges on every game, on every play at every practice. Now I know there’s always another game coming. Always one more play to make. The next shot’s always the most important one.
So we scrape along. Gibson eats some of my minutes. Murphy tries playing us together at times, which just means Gibson freezes me out and Reynolds sulks at losing his spot. Xavier alternates between being a young beast and looking like he’s never played organized ball before. But we win. We knock off White Station by getting some late stops. We come home for a win over a tough Cathedral squad. Then we follow it up with a smooth win over a struggling Michigan City team.
At 5-0, we should be feeling good. And some guys are. Xavier struts around the halls at school like he’s the second coming of DeMarcus Cousins. And Gibson acts like he’s the sole reason we’re undefeated. But when we were in Memphis, I saw what true excellence looks like—Evansville Harrison. Man, those guys had it humming. They won by sixteen over the best team in Tennessee. Cruised to it. They’re sitting at 7-0, and nobody’s come within single digits. And their point, Dexter Kernantz, has taken it to another level. If Gibson thinks he’s got quicks, he should take a look at Kernantz. The kid is dropping nine dimes a game. And he’s become a true stopper on the defensive end.
Every day at practice I try to tell guys this. “We’ve got to get better if we want to compete for the whole thing,” I say. But Xavier just smiles and shakes his head. Gibson smirks at me like I’m the one holding us back. Even Murphy’s riding too high. He keeps calling us his “undefeateds,” pumping up egos even more.
Maybe Coach Bolden rubbed off on me too much. Maybe I’ve come to think if a team’s having too good of a time then they’re doomed for disappointment.
And then, with a few minutes left in a Wednesday night practice, my man walks through the doors. Not Bolden. But my old teammate Moose Green, Xavier’s older brother. He pushes open double doors at the end of the gym and just stands there, waiting for everyone to notice him. It doesn’t take long. Kid breaks into a big smile and shouts, “There he is! The legend!”
Moose tried walking on at Ball State a couple years ago. Then, when that didn’t work, he transferred to Southern Indiana. But last I heard he got suspended for an “undisclosed reason.” And one look at him says he’s not exactly stayed in playing shape. He’s stretching the seams of his winter coat, and his belly’s pushing over his belt pretty good. But when he hears Kid call out to him as “the legend,” Moose’s chest puffs out and he squares up his shoulders. Forget playing weight. The guy still looks like he could hop between the lines and dominate the paint in his street clothes.
“I hear you boys were getting a little big-headed over a few wins,” he shouts. “Even though you all saddled with my sorry-ass little brother down low.”
Everyone laughs except Xavier, who coughs into his hand but lets loose an audible asshole. It’s just one brother giving another one some grief. Xavier smiles then and trots off the court to bump fists with his big brother. “Get out here and I’ll show you who’s boss now,” Xavier says.
“Shiiiiiiiit,” Moose says. Laughs all around again. And it’s this that’s truly been missing. There’s no real spirit on this team, no brotherhood. Everyone’s feeling good enough about things, but mostly they’re feeling good about themselves.
Moose saunters toward the court. He sees a stray rock and stoops gingerly down to pick it up. Then he takes one rhythm dribble and flies from about 22 feet. Money. That sends him strutting around the court nodding his head. “I still own this place, you hear?” Then he turns to Murphy. “Man, I wish you were running this show when I was playing. You woulda let me fire from range like that.”
Murphy laughs. He picks up another ball and bounces it cross-court to Uncle Kid. “Let ‘er rip,” he says. And Kid does, burying his shot as cleanly as Moose did his. That lets Murphy turn back to Moose. “Anyone can knock down a J with nobody guarding him. Even an old man.”
Now it’s Kid’s turn to get mock offended. He starts yammering about how he could still run anybody in this gym—and that gets him shouted down by every other warm body in the place.
After a few minutes of that kind of mess, Murphy tries to get us back on track. It’s no use, of course. I mean, guys fall back into drills, but there’s no focus. It’s the kind of thing that would have had Coach Bolden stomping holes in the hardwood. But Murphy just gently pleads with us for a while before calling it a night. Not twenty minutes ago I was feeling good—Moose’s energy infecting me the way it always did when we were teammates. But now I can’t help but feel like we’re gonna get our asses run on Friday night.
The phone’s filled up again. As I leave the locker room I check it. Texts from Lia all but begging me to come over late when her dad leaves. A message from Dad reminding me that he’s working late so I need to help Mom at home. And another message from Jasmine saying she’s going to be back home this weekend, so we should “hang.” That word, hang, sticks out like it’s a text from a frien
d. Then again, I remember what it meant to “hang” with her back when we were in the middle of things.
“Checkin’ all the love from schools, huh?”
It’s Moose, who’s lounging in a folding chair by the side of the court. Waiting on his little brother, I guess. I tuck my phone away and walk over to him. He stands and gives me a big hug and a few thumps on the back. “Long time, Moose,” I say.
He just points back to where I stashed my phone. “For real,” he says. “You got the wolves still howling for you.”
I laugh. “You could say that.” I explain that I’ve narrowed to my five, but that other schools still chase me. I guess until I ink that letter of intent, there’s no real reason for them to stop. And something tells me that some schools won’t stop even then. “The way I’m struggling to get my burst back, you’d think they’d ease off.”
Moose shrugs. “Aww, they know you’re the real deal. You’re dropping what? Nineteen a game? And you’re not all the way there yet?” I smile. The big man’s spitting some truth. Maybe I get too hung up on what I can’t do that I miss all the things I am doing. Moose strokes his chin, which now sports a goatee Coach Bolden never would have let him have, like he’s deep in thought. “I wanted to talk to you about that anyway,” he says.
“If you’re here to recruit me to Southern Indiana, save it,” I say. That coaxes a laugh from Moose. He knows that even if he owned the paint here for years—and even if my knee never gets back to full strength—my trajectory’s lifting me way over Division II hoops.
“Naw, D,” he says. “But, you know, you get to college and you learn some things.” I figure he’s about to drop some school knowledge on me, try to shake up my world view. But it’s not nearly as deep as that. “You got to get that paper while you can,” he says. He looks away for a while. Takes a deep breath. “You know why I got booted? A DUI. That’s it.” I want to tell him that a DUI isn’t exactly jaywalking, but I let the man make his point. “Meanwhile, our star got caught boosting laptops from dorm rooms and they just made him sit the first half of a single game. But me? I’m gone. Scholarship and everything. Now, if I were getting ten rips a game, it’d be different. But it’s not about being fair, man. You just watch. That knee of yours? I know it’s gonna get better. But something else happens to you and they’ll just throw you out. They’re all the same, man.”
Quicks Page 6