There’s just one problem. It only slices the lead to 43-34. For all our success, we’ve only chipped five points off the deficit. But as I trot to the locker room, Fuller hustles to get beside me. “That’s all we gotta do,” he says. “Gain five points a quarter. Down to four at the next break. Then a one-point lead at the buzzer.”
It’s a grind. Not because I’m worn down or unable to shoulder the load. But because Evansville Harrison opens the third by switching Kernantz onto me. No more easy rips at the rim. I have to back him down some. Muscle him into the lane for tougher looks.
They’re more patient on the offensive end too. They remember they’ve got the lead. And no shot clock. And a killer point guard. But mostly they make a concerted effort to get Sims going. He finally gets one to fall on a tough spin move around Jones. Then he loses him on a cross-screen for a thunderous dunk. And then the whistles come. Jones picks up his third on a silly reach. His fourth on a brutal call that probably should have been a charge on Sims. So in the opening minutes of the fourth quarter, our best big man heads to the bench. Coach sends Reynolds in to replace him—meaning we’re going small again. Xavier’s our only big and he’ll have to check Sims.
When Kernantz sees that, he knows what to do—feed the big boy and watch him eat. They pound that rock right to Sims and Xavier’s got no chance. My boy Xavier will be a load someday, but right now he’s a freshman in over his head. And there’s no other big men to help him out. A turnaround. A shot fake and power to the rim. An alley-oop. A bad beat on the offensive glass.
We had done just what Fuller had hoped for—trim that big lead down to four by the end of the third. But just like that it’s stretched back to 62-52 with five minutes left. That’s a tough mountain to climb against anyone, let alone Evansville Harrison. Coach Murphy calls time.
Mostly it’s to let us catch our breath, but then he crouches down in front of us. Sweat is beaded up on his face, his eyes full of fire. There’s no more strategy. Just passion. He holds up his right hand, fingers spread. “Five! Five minutes, boys. You’ve got to play the best basketball of your life for five minutes.” He levels a finger at Xavier. “Jones is coming back in with three minutes to go. That means I need just a couple stops out of you. I know you can do it.”
Xavier nods. Then one of our bench-warmers chimes in from the back of the huddle. He’s trying to be encouraging, but he says that other guys have to step up. “Derrick can’t make all the buckets himself,” he says. It’s just chatter, the kind of things guys say just to get nervous energy out.
But Kid wants none of it. “The fuck he can’t!” Kid yells. He reaches over and squeezes the freshman’s shoulder, letting him know it’s nothing personal. Then he hammers home his point. “The best guard in the state is on our bench. Let’s keep getting him the rock.” There are nods all around. Nobody’s got time for bruised egos now.
Our ball. Gibson inbounds it to me. I take a deep breath. Then it’s attack time. Kernantz comes almost to mid-court to check me. But instead of sizing him up, I just kick it into full speed. I drive right, Kernantz riding my left hip. I power into the lane, draw the bigs to me. I rise over them all for a look.
Back iron. Off. Fuller comes crashing in like a madman to snare the board. His mask is knocked lopsided by a stray elbow and he dribbles clear out to the hashmark before he pauses to adjust it. Then he kicks it to Gibson on the wing. A dribble exchange with me. I attack again, but this time Kernantz anticipates my move. Back to Gibson. Reset one more time. This time he knifes into the lane and tries his floater. Front rim. Again Fuller comes barreling in. He can’t snare it this time, but he keeps it alive and Xavier tracks it down.
They trap him in the corner. He pivots and lobs it way out top to me. A dangerous pass. Kernantz sprints to pluck it away, but I get there at the same time. I outleap him for it, and his momentum carries him out of bounds. I attack immediately. Now Evansville Harrison’s in disarray, scrambling to defend. Everyone swarms to defend my drive. When I look opposite baseline, I see an open man. Reynolds. The forgotten man. He can sulk. He can mope. But he can also shoot the hell out of the rock.
I put the leather on him and he buries the trey. Our crowd and bench explode, hearts full of one last hope. 62-55.
Kernantz brings it up. As soon as he crosses mid-court he makes a circle motion with his index finger. Work clock. I’ve been able to keep him in check because of my size, but there’s nobody in the world that can catch him when he’s playing keep-away. Every time I get into him to start a five-count, he slips past. He darts. Zigs. Zags. The clock expiring with every dribble. After what seems like an eternity, I force him to the left sideline. Gibson knows what to do. He sprints over from his spot and we trap Kernantz. Solo, he could take either of us. But not both of us. He picks up his dribble. Gives it up. As soon as he does, he sprints back out top and calls for the ball, but now it’s a different story. He can flash open, but his teammates are scared of my length. They don’t want to float a weak one into a passing lane and have me pick it.
But they do know they’ve got the monster down low. So they bounce it to Sims on the block. Kernantz is still screaming, practically begging for the ball. But a special ops team couldn’t pry that rock from Sims now. He wants to seal this game right here. He backs down Xavier. Muscles him near the rim. Then he rises up for a jam—an exclamation point.
Xavier has a surprise for him. He gives every last bit of energy he’s got and meets Sims right at the rim, capping him clean. The orange drops down, clips off Sims’ shoe and trickles out of bounds. Our ball.
There are no gimmes against this D, especially with Kernantz up into me. So we still have to take more time than I want. But at last Gibson whips past his man. Kernantz flashes a hand, not even really helping—but that’s all the space I need. Gibson puts a dime right on me. A seventeen-footer from the wing.
Ring it up. 62-57.
Timeout Evansville Harrison.
Jones checks in for us. Reynolds heads to the bench. But instead of sulking, his chest is puffed out. He knows he did his part. Now he can’t even bear to sit. He stands and urges us to get another stop. “Dig, boys,” he screams. “We got this.”
But the message to Evansville Harrison in the huddle is evident right away. No shots. They just give the rock to Kernantz and spread out. Our crowd boos, hating that they’re just trying to run the clock out on us. But everyone watching knows this is the smart move. We’ll either have to steal it from Kernantz—not likely—or make him give it up and put someone on the line.
We chase Kernantz. And chase him. And chase him. Then, when we do get him to give it up, we’re not sure who to foul. In the time it takes us to look down at the bench—and see Murphy and Kid shouting desperately to foul anyone but Kernantz—they get the ball back to him. And the chase is on again. Finally, Gibson and I corral him. Force him to give it up. And Fuller fouls the first guy to get a touch. The clock has bled all the way down to 1:30.
The guy we send to the stripe is a shooter. He’s been spotting up all game. But he’s also a sophomore. As he strides to the line he smiles to his teammates. Nods. But then that leather hits his hands and he tightens up. He rolls his shoulders, trying to stay loose. Our crowd makes as much noise as they can, trying to rattle him. Nobody ever knows if that kind of thing works, but it can’t hurt. And when he lets it fly, he pulls the string. Short.
Jones rebounds and we’re off. Outlet to Gibson. Push ahead. He tries taking it all the way to the rim but gets cut off. Back to me on the wing. I know there’s no time to work for an easy one now. I just have to make it happen. Kernantz is glued to me. A shot fake from range doesn’t shake him. So I throw everything I’ve got at the kid. Power dribble left toward the middle. Snap back between the legs. Cross back left again. Then spin hard toward the right baseline. He’s still right on my hip as I rise—a real tough fade from seventeen. But it’s a clean look at the rim. And I am not going to be denied now.
Shot’s wet. 62-59. Just over a
minute to go.
Then the chase is on again. It feels frantic, like the horn’s going to go off with Kernantz still dancing away from me and Gibson. But the clock in my head tells me that we still have time. We just don’t want to resort to fouling Kernantz. I don’t think the kid’s missed a free throw since Christmas break.
Again, we make him give it up. And, again, he gets it to the same kid. This time Xavier gives up the foul, putting him right back at the line. Our crowd’s even louder now. And the pressure is even higher. Kernantz grabs his teammate by the elbow and shouts some encouragement in his ear, but I can see it on the kid’s face. He’s tight now. Sure enough, he overcompensates for his last miss. He goes back rim this time. Rebound Jones.
Push again. I catch on the opposite wing behind the stripe. A three to tie it? I offer a fake, and this time Kernantz has to jump at it. I don’t hesitate. I power it left and attack the rim. Sims starts to crash at me, but he doesn’t want to foul. Good thing for him, because I elevate. Thunder home a dunk. The rim rattles and the arena shakes.
62-61. Thirty seconds left.
Kid jumps up and down, waving for everyone to pick up full court. Murphy’s on his hands and knees, pounding the floor with his fists. “One more stop!” he screams.
I try to deny the inbounds to Kernantz, but he’s too quick. He catches and the chase is on one more time. Gibson has basically given up any defensive responsibilities other than helping me track down Kernantz. Still, he pushes past us into the front-court. I glance toward our bench, waiting for the signal to foul Kernantz. At this point, even if he drained both, we’d have a chance to tie it with a three. Murphy glances at the clock, then shakes his head. Not yet.
Kernantz drives middle, then back to the opposite wing. Darts a step toward the baseline, then reverses back out top. Opposite wing. Back out top. Tick tick tick. I give one last look to the bench. Finally, Murphy signals for us to give up the foul on Kernantz. Gibson and I both race after him, and I get ready to hack him. But we actually have Kernantz pushed into the corner. Gibson recognizes it first and instead of fouling, he just defends. Kernantz doesn’t dare pick up his dribble, but Gibson gets a peek at the orange and stabs at it—just a touch, but it ricochets up off of Kernantz’s chest and right back to Gibson. He grabs it and calls for time.
We head back to the bench and I glance at the clock. Six seconds to go. There’s no real strategy left from Murphy. Just an entry to me and then clear out. He reminds me to find an open shooter if I don’t have a look, but everyone knows it’s on me now.
We break the huddle, and I stride onto the deck for the last time in my high school career. I take one last look into the stands. I see my family, their faces flush with passion and hope. Mom’s got her hands clasped in front of her mouth like she’s praying. Jayson’s jumping up and down nervously. Dad’s holding one hand to each temple like he’s in pain. Back home, a babysitter is trying to hush Gracie and watch this on the T.V. at the same time.
I know there are a lot more people in the crowd with their hopes hanging on this too. Coach Bolden’s out there, dying with each shot. Moose is up there, maybe next to Nick, both of them urging us to the glory they just missed in their playing days. On the sidelines, Murphy and Kid are clinging to belief in me—wanting me to deliver them a trophy, and more importantly a story they can tell for the rest of their lives. Jasmine’s up there somewhere. And Lia. Both of them on pins and needles no matter how much they deny caring about hoops. Wes is up there, cheering and carrying a scar from a gunshot. The guy who gave him that scar is probably up there too.
People can yap all they want about no I in team, or put up slogans about how the strength is in the hive. But most of the time sports is about getting yourself what you want. The next bucket. A scholarship. A ring. It’s about you. But right now I feel all those dashed dreams from the people of Marion East. I feel all those near misses—the wouldas and couldas and shouldas—in our crowd. I feel all the people who never quite made it. Who have to get up tomorrow win or lose and hustle some dead-end job or, worse, a dead-end life. They need this. It won’t change anything really. Won’t get Wes’ life back in order or give Moose or Nick or any other player a second chance at hoops glory. It won’t make the leap to college any easier for Jasmine. And it won’t undo all the bad things that keep happening to people in those stands. But it’ll make it all feel worth it, if just for one night.
What comes next is up to me. But it for sure is about everyone who’s ever set foot on my blocks too.
The ref trills his whistle. Time to go. One last possession. Evansville Harrison’s coaches aren’t dumb. They know the pill’s headed my way. So I get a jerseyful of Kernantz plus one of his teammates. They bracket me on the inbounds. I know the back-up plan would be to get it to Gibson instead, but I sprint hard toward mid-court, then plant and cut back for the ball. Fuller puts it on me, but I’m double-teamed immediately.
I attack the side away from Kernantz. Push it with my left into the frontcourt. As I cross half-court, I give a hesitation like I might spin back right. Just enough to freeze them for a second—and enough for me to power left again and get my shoulder past. Past the hashmark, near the three-point stripe. I know I’ve got a couple ticks left, so I look to get into the lane—but Kernantz takes an angle and catches me, hedging me back toward the left wing. It’s into traffic too. Fuller’s spotted on that baseline, so there’s less room to work. And the other defender from the double-team has caught up to me too. The clock in my head knows it’s time to get a shot off. I can hear the anxiety in the crowd, their noise rising in volume and pitch. Everyone—teammates, fans, coaches—screaming Shoot!
I’m twenty-six feet from the bucket. Double-teamed. Zeros coming. But I’ve played this kind of drama out in my head a million times since I was a kid on the blacktop. I was born for this.
I just give a hitch in my dribble and square my feet like I’m going to rise. Both defenders jump, ready to challenge. And—zip—I split right between them. There’s your quicks. I only have time to pick up the dribble at about eighteen. A little off-balance. But it’s a look.
And it’s so true.
Euphoria. Bedlam. Pandemonium. These are the words I bet the announcers kick around. But the celebration is too crazy to put into words. What I remember afterwards, when I’m glowing in the locker room, all of us basking in the biggest win of our lives, are a few images. Fuller doing the world’s most awkward dance at mid-court. Xavier hoisting Reynolds onto his shoulders. Jones leaping up on the scorer’s table and ripping his jersey off to wave it above his head. Murphy snipping an extra piece of net and presenting it to Coach Bolden in the stands. And a series of the unlikeliest hugs—Kid and my mom. Kid and Bolden. And me and Gibson.
The whole time, all anyone keeps saying is We did it. We did it. We did it.
OVERTIME
In Evansville they’re holding a press conference. Sims is announcing that he’ll go to Louisville with Kernantz next year.
ESPN broadcasts live to show an LA big man choose from a series of college hats spread out in front of him. He fakes like he’s grabbing the UCLA hat and then puts on the Arizona lid instead.
It’s the circus that is Signing Day.
We could do that here too. But that’s not how we roll at Marion East. The only time camera crews come here is for bad news. And, well, for when we won the state title. But instead of a press conference, I just take a letter to the main office and ask to use the fax machine. Kid and Coach Murphy are there, presiding. So are my parents. But nobody except me knows where that fax is headed.
The machine beeps and churns as the letter reaches its destination.
“Well?” Dad asks. Everyone wants to know. Did that go to Bloomington? Clemson? Ann Arbor? Did some school make a late charge to snag me away?
I savor the moment, the last seconds before I share my secret. “Awww,” I say at last, “I been balling in Indiana since the day I was born. I’m not going to stop now.”
A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to thank Bobby, Lee, and John Byrd, and all the people at Cinco Puntos Press for giving me a chance to write this series. Writing is too often a pursuit that occurs in solitude, broken up only by rejections, so when Bobby Byrd told me they wanted this work—all of it—I was immediately grateful, and remain deeply so. Thank you.
Along the way, I received a lot of help, professional and otherwise. The people who have offered this are too many to mention, but Brant Rumble, Jim Giesen, John Kitch, Ben Osborne, and Rick Ray all warrant special mention. Thank you all.
Thank you, too, to Carole Waltman, Sue Kidd and Jack Kidd, otherwise known as Gram and Mah and Dack. You’ve offered me endless support, both in terms of time and energy, and more importantly you are incredible grandparents that make life richer and happier for Calla and Holling.
My father, Royce Waltman, was a basketball coach, and a damn good one. He introduced me to the game when I was tiny and cultivated a love for it in me. So, obviously, his voice has whispered to me constantly as I’ve written this series. Sometimes I feel these are as much his words as mine. Of course, as I’ve written these books I’ve come to understand that they are not so much about basketball as about fathers and sons and growing to become a man. When I think back, I realize that some of those basketball lessons I could have learned elsewhere. Becoming a man, though, couldn’t have been learned better from anyone other than Royce Waltman. Thank you, Dad. I miss you every day.
Writing can be a selfish pursuit. There are countless times I’ve clung to private hours so I could work, when I could have been helping elsewhere instead. I’ve been afforded those hours by my wonderful wife, Jessica Kidd. But you have given me so much more than time, Jessica. You give me support daily, and when I’m feeling overwhelmed or distraught you always help bring me back around. More importantly still, you’ve shown me that the world is as beautiful and rich as one is willing to make it. Our life is rich and beautiful and joyful because you’ve made it so, Jessica. Thank you.
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