Finally I roll into town. I don’t have to meet with the coaches for an hour yet, so I swing through campus. I try to imagine myself here. Walking these blocks. Hanging with teammates. The retail places all advertise Christmas sales, and tinsel snakes around the downtown streetlights. The place is hoops crazy too. Everywhere I look—pizza places, laundromats, bookstores—I see Indiana banners and posters. And students. They’re huddled against the cold as they walk, some of them with books clutched tight to their chests. Others look bleary and hungover, trudging past the bars where they must have tied on one last night. Somewhere in the distance—maybe a couple blocks over in student apartments—someone’s blaring the IU fight song.
It’s certainly a different make-up of people than what I see at Marion East. They’re white, mostly, but there are plenty of other races mixed in. So it’s something else that makes them seem so different. Then I get it—I see a couple walking down Kirkwood, a tall, angular white guy in a thick sweater and leather jacket, next to an Asian girl who’s decked in jet black. They’re sharing a laugh about something. They stop in front of a bar called Nick’s, sitting squat and dusty and looking like it’s been there for five-hundred years. They gesture toward the window, then laugh again—to me it’s like they might be laughing about something that happened there last night, or just as easily about some philosophical concept I’ll never understand. The difference is they—and all the other students around them, even the guys who look like they woke up in their own puke—look more mature. It’s like they come from another planet where everyone graduates with honors and wears designer clothes and has money falling out of their pockets. I get an icy stab of panic that wherever I go, I’ll be the outsider.
A turn takes me past some student housing. The places look old, ready to fall apart. But even here, it’s not the kind of decay that I recognize from my blocks back home. Instead, it just looks like a never-ending parade of parties have taken a toll. There are couches sagging on front porches. Empty kegs floating in garbage cans. Once in a while there are some places that look like someone is taking care. A potted plant or two on the porch. A fresh coat of paint. And, in every drive, cars that I can only dream of—SUVs and Lexuses and even a Benz. And here I am puttering in my dad’s old beater. It’s not lost on me that all it would take is one phone call to a less principled school and I could be behind the wheel of something a lot nicer too.
Then I turn a couple more times, and I see it. Assembly Hall. For anyone who’s grown up playing hoops in Indiana, it’s sacred ground. Gray, massive, dropped down in the middle of expansive parking lots. Scattered around it are more places I recognize from T.V.—the football stadium, the practice fieldhouse. But those places are just like satellites in orbit. Near Assembly Hall, there’s already action. The ESPN trucks are set up, workers milling around. I know that inside, the Game Day crew is about to fire up their show—Jay Williams and Jay Bilas and Rece Davis hyping the game tonight. In the lots and along the streets there are already students filing toward the arena, hoping to get their faces on screen. There are also guys selling tickets, hoping to turn a buck on the big game. They stand patiently or sit in fold-out chairs, waving a fistful of tickets. Once in a while someone stops to negotiate with them.
I’ve got time, so I circle the arena a couple times, soaking it in. All of a sudden, when I swing back past those student houses, I’m not so intimidated. Sure, they may come from different backgrounds. Sure, they’ve read some books I haven’t. Fine. Ain’t nobody going to come cheer for them when they ace a history exam. Nobody’s gonna shell out tickets to watch them shop for clothes. But come next November, if I’m in a cream and crimson uniform? Oh, you bet they’re gonna be flocking to Assembly Hall to see me suit up. It’s a nice way to remember that hyped recruits don’t need to worry about “fitting in” like some other scared college freshman.
Finally it’s time. I wheel the car into the spot they told me to look for. There, in a bright red Indiana coat, is some grad assistant waiting on me. He rushes up to the car to shake my hand, and then he’s chatting a mile a minute as he walks me to Assembly Hall. He’s just talking about how juiced the town is for the Syracuse game tonight, but it’s on. The hard sell’s started already.
We walk down a ramp that’s tucked away from all the action. The wind whistles overhead as we descend. Then he unlocks a big metal door and waves me in. There, smiling like he just can’t wait to see me, is the Hoosier head coach. One look and I can tell the guy’s as pumped as anyone else in Bloomington. He extends a hand and tells me it’s great to finally have me on campus.
We start walking toward the coach’s office. We pass pictures of all the All-Americans—Cheaney, Isaiah, Alford, and more. Framed team portraits of the championship teams. Old SI covers with Hoosiers in action. The place just oozes tradition. But then he stops mid-stride. “You gotta see this, Derrick,” he says.
He reverses course and we wind around a dark hallway. On both sides I see doors, some labelled as training rooms, others blank and mysterious. As we continue walking, an anxious buzz fills the air. We round the corner to see the scene—we’re still tucked away from sight, with the stands towering above us. They’re already filled with fans. On the floor, the Game Day show is counting down to air time. That iconic hardwood is polished to a high shine. The white image of the state, with a red IU in the middle, gleams at center court. Directly above that, the scoreboard pops with clips of great Indiana players doing their thing. I recognize vintage Isaiah, and more recent clips of Oladipo and Yogi Ferrell. At either end, the banners sway. Huge, crimson reminders of the hoops tradition here—five national championships, twenty-one Big Ten championships.
As I’m soaking it all in, I peek over at the head coach. He just nods at me. He knows how impressive it all is. Truth is, all those banners are like huge weights on his shoulders too. He’s got this legacy to live up to. No matter what he does, it won’t be enough to satisfy some fans. Those national championships all belong to other coaches, most to Bob Knight. But to me, Knight’s just a story, some legend that’s mostly made up. And as far as I can tell from the stories, I’d like playing for the guy standing next to me a lot more than Knight.
Then again, there are those banners.
Before I can think too much more about it, the telecast goes live. On cue, all the fans gathered burst into cheers, as if instead of the ESPN crew between the lines, they just saw the Hoosiers bury a buzzer-beater. The T.V. audio’s pumped in through the sound system. I hear Rece Davis’ voice cutting crisp and clear through the crowd noise. “Welcome to Bloomington, Indiana and Game Day! College basketball is built on tradition, and the two programs we’ll see today—Indiana and Syracuse—have plenty of it. Everyone here remembers the matchup in 1987 for the national championship. And in just a few short hours they’ll get it revved up again here in Assembly Hall.” Then he looks out at the crowd, laughs, and turns to his cohorts on the set. “Looks like some of the Indiana faithful have it revved up pretty good already on a Saturday morning.”
The coach squeezes my shoulder. “Enough to get you a little amped?” he asks.
I just smile.
“Wait until game time,” he says. “This place. Derrick, I’m telling you, this place will be over the top.”
Then he leads me down the hall again, so we can hit the stairs up to his office. I know it’s my first official visit, and I’ve got a number of other schools to see. But right now? Advantage Indiana.
I don’t want to get swayed on my first official visit. That’s like proposing to the first girl that kisses you. But, man, Indiana has it cranked up today.
I sit right behind the bench and soak it all in. The coaches whipping the guys into a frenzy. The chatter of the refs trying to cool tempers. The smack the players are laying on each other. And all the sounds of hoops—the crisp cut of kicks on hardwood, the rhythmic pulse of a dribble, the sweet rip of a shot finding bottom.
Indiana’s a slight favorite, but the game starts out t
ight. And when Syracuse pushes out to a six-point lead midway through the first, you can kind of feel the energy seep out of Assembly Hall. Suddenly, all those students who were liquored up and crazed for the game settle back into their seats. The upper deck is silent and semi-dark. It almost feels like nobody’s up there. The biggest noise comes from down the sideline, where the Syracuse bench and small crowd howl and bellow.
At the next timeout, the head coach gets right up into his guys. He doesn’t berate them. No—he’s all positive energy. But he is big-time intense. “This is still ours for the taking,” he shouts. “We need some shots to fall, that’s all. And, hey. We have way too good of shooters not to have that happen!”
They break huddle and I can tell the players respond. They keep the chatter up as they stroll onto the court. I can’t hear them, but even I can read lips enough to know they’re sprinkling in some spicier language than their coach used. As soon as the ball’s live, there’s an extra zip to Indiana. The crowd must sense it too, because they rise and start to urge the players on.
It doesn’t take long. They run a dribble exchange out top, then a simple overload of the zone—but Syracuse is slow to react. It gives a wide open look from range, and Indiana buries it. Bang. Right back to a three-point game. And the crowd responds. Immediately, they remember why they’re here—national television, top twenty showdown.
From there, it keeps rolling. Another three. A turn-and-face from the foul line. A hoop-and-harm in transition. Yet another three. In between Syracuse calls a timeout, but they just flat can’t hang. Their coaches work themselves into a lather, encouraging, screaming, bullying the refs. But it’s no good. One by one the heads of the Syracuse players start to hang down in doubt.
The Indiana run gets broken up now and then by a Syracuse bucket. But the onslaught is pretty relentless. Again a three. A drive right to the rim. A leaner off a ball-screen. And one more three at the buzzer.
At halftime, Indiana’s taken that six-point deficit and swapped it out for a 51-33 lead. The arena is flat pandemonium, the sound rolling in waves down from the rafters. Beneath it, Syracuse sulks to the locker room. Indiana sprints.
That’s when I remember. I’m supposed to follow on in to the locker room. Part of my official visit. I jog across the court, and I feel it—the noise has died down a little, but as I step across that iconic center court, I feel the cheers sweep down over me. It’s almost like it’s for me. Me.
And that’s when I realize. This whole thing. This decision. Where to go next year. It’s not about what my folks want or what Jayson thinks I should do. It’s not about some advice from Moose or some guilt trip from Lia. And it’s absolutely not about anyone else in the Marion East locker room. This is all about me. Nobody else.
I had no idea a visit would be so exhausting. I wind my way back north, the sun quickly sinking on a cold Sunday night. The rest of the visit was a blur.
I went out to a party with the players. Pretty dope. They were playing it cool with me around—no drinking, had me back by curfew. But I saw enough to know how out of hand things could get. It was a house party, wall-to-wall with absolutely killer girls. I didn’t push my luck—they were interested in players on the roster, not one who might suit up in the future. And besides, with me having to head back to my host’s place by curfew, there’s only so far I could get. And I wasn’t about to hook up and prove Lia right. I couldn’t live with myself if I did that.
The players steered me away from any booze, but I know what’s up. The later the night got, the more worked up some of them got. I know that more than a couple weren’t just riding some post-game high.
The message was clear. I might not be able to indulge now, but come to Bloomington and it’s all there for the taking. Then again, in the back of my head I could hear my mom griping about such behavior. So the Saturday night scene I’ll have to keep to myself—maybe let Jayson in on a few details.
But today it was non-stop. They had me back-to-back-to-back in meetings. Coaches. Academic advisors. Tutors. Campus tours.
The place was pretty chill on a Sunday, but it still gave me a taste of what life might be like off the court. I’d never seen any of the campus outside of filler shots during game telecasts, but it was pretty tight. The day was cold but sunny, so students were still out. They filed into the big limestone library and powered past on bikes. They lingered in the open spaces between buildings and by these limestone archways that served as an entrance to campus. Laughing, talking earnestly, just hanging.
The hall where I met with the advisor, though, was as silent as a cemetery. The building looked ancient, intimidating. When I got inside, there were long shadows cast across the marble floors. I looked up to see these dark oil paintings of very serious looking men in their academic robes. The advisor sat behind a small wooden desk. Behind her, tacked to the wall, was every kind of information imaginable—graduation rates, a list of majors, employment statistics. She didn’t even need to look at them. She could—and did—rattle off every good academic feature of Indiana without so much as blinking. I should have been impressed, but I walked out of there feeling a little off.
It was better when I checked in with some players for lunch. But even then, I was still a little out of place. They didn’t mean to, but they couldn’t help cracking inside jokes—things about coaches or girls or even classes. They took me to Nick’s, the place I’d passed just the day before. It was clear they were royalty in there. The place was covered in IU pictures, some of them from so long ago they were browning with age. The waitresses kept checking on us every two minutes. When I spotted a few of them talking excitedly with each other, I could tell they weren’t just providing good service—they were trying to clock some time with the players.
After that it was more chats with coaches. My chance to ask questions about the program. About how they see me fitting in. About anything at all. But by that time I was so worn down I could barely think of a thing to ask. That didn’t seem to bother the coaches. They were more than ready to go on and on about how Indiana’s the best place in the world.
Then it was time to go. Which puts me here, in the car, motoring back to Indy. The sky’s growing dark, the weather turned from sunny to bitter. Flurries kick up. They whip across the flat, open spaces on either side of State Road 37. They’re too light to stick anywhere, but you can just feel the cold settling in.
I wait until I get past Martinsville to stop for gas. By then, the only place is a run-down station that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since 1945. Before I fill up, I go in just to stretch my legs. There are newspapers still on the stand, a picture of the game yesterday front and center. The guy behind the counter looks up once at me, then just returns to the magazine in front of him. He grunts to acknowledge my existence. I scout out something for a snack, but everything looks way past its expiration date. So instead I grab a Coke from the back. I hand my money to the guy, but he still doesn’t even make eye contact with me.
As I walk back to the car and start the pump, I think about how much different that guy would have acted if I’d have been among the players on the front page of those papers. But I’m not. I’m still just a recruit. And the more I think about it, the more I realize I’m a little unsettled after my visit. Everyone was cool and hype. Everyone was excited. But of course they were. They just whipped up on a top twenty program. They got the front page, the attention, the love. They did that. Not me. And while the Indiana offer is still on the table, the more I think about it, the more I realize they were pumped for all of that, not for me. Nice? Sure. But in retrospect if feels like they were going through the motions a little. Like, Here’s this guy we’ve offered, so we gotta be nice and everything. But it’s not like they need me. And maybe now, post-injury, I’m a safety recruit for them. A guy to add depth. An instate talent who might still become something.
The wind whips through the gas station lot. Stings my face. There’s not another building in sight. The cars fly by on 37, racing nor
th and south. There’s a lot of places I could go too, all kinds of possibilities in front of me. But right now I feel every inch of the distance between me and that uncertain future.
15.
Gracie howled all night long. And, man, for such a tiny thing she can make some big noise. That cry reverberated through the house. Sometimes she’d settle just long enough so I could drift back close to sleep. Then a cry would pierce the night again. Jayson, a few feet away, kept muttering curse words every time it happened. Then he’d sigh and flop around on his bed, sometimes covering his head with his pillow to try to drown out the noise. I kept sneaking peeks at my alarm clock, tracking how many hours of sleep I was losing.
Finally, at about 3:00, I got out of bed. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I sure couldn’t keep lying there wide awake. As soon as I opened the door to the hallway, a big cry from Gracie met me. Then I heard a sound in the kitchen—someone opening the refrigerator. When I went out, I saw it was Kid, fixing himself a late night feast.
He turned around, silhouetted by the refrigerator light. He squinted for a second, then saw it was me. “Hey, D,” he whispered. “Little trouble sleeping?”
I nodded.
“Can’t imagine why,” Kid joked.
Then he pointed to the kitchen table and told me to sit. For a minute, the house was quiet except for the low rustle of Kid fixing some plates. I thought, maybe, that I’d just fall asleep right there. I lowered my head on the table. Maybe I did drift off, because when I looked back up, Jayson was joining us.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “I’ve got school in a few hours. Play rehearsal after that. I need some damn sleep.”
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