The Wizenard Series

by Kobe Bryant

  “Yeah, definitely,” Reggie said, trying to shake the image. His blood was boiling now.

  The Badgers attacked again. But Pipes was clearly sensing weakness. He jabbed Reggie in the ribs whenever he ran by. He charley-horsed him when the referees weren’t looking. Stepped on his toes. The lead changed again and again, the pace quickened, and Pipes methodically wore Reggie down.

  “They gonna bench you soon or what?” Pipes said into his ear. “You’re weak, bro.”

  “Can you even shoot the ball?” Pipes mocked. “What you here for? You afraid? Good. You should be.”

  And after another power layup: “Go home, boy. Save yourself this embarrassment.”

  Reggie bit his lip, needing to channel his anger and humiliation into something, somewhere, and finding nothing more suitable. He wasn’t sure if it was fatigue or grana or what, but he kept seeing Talin’s gaunt, skeletal face instead, saying the exact same words.

  You’re weak. You afraid? You should be.

  With four minutes left, Pipes got close on defense again, pushing Reggie out toward the perimeter, dominating him as he had done every minute since Reggie had come into the game. He tried to channel his strength, but his mind was scattered, and his body felt powerless.

  “I hope Mommy and Daddy aren’t watching today,” Pipes said. “They must be ashamed.”

  Reggie’s eyes went to the crowd. To where they might have been sitting. And now he heard his voice whispering in his ear. The man who knew exactly why they weren’t, and why they never would be.

  Something deep and dark stirred, and Reggie turned around, clenched his fists, and punched Pipes hard across the chin. Pipes fell back, stunned, and Reggie followed, shoving him down, getting ready to swing again, but grasping hands pulled him off. Fans were screaming, and through the fog of his anger, Reggie vaguely registered some of his teammates fighting with the Devils.

  Rolabi broke it apart, of course. He strode into the fray and separated the teams like they were kittens. Twig was the last to stop fighting. He had someone in a headlock until Rolabi grabbed him by the collar and lifted him off the floor. The referees were in an uproar. The other coach was on the court now too, screaming, pointing at Reggie, demanding that he be ejected.

  In the end, three Badgers were ejected: Reggie, Twig, and Big John. Rolabi sent them to wait in the locker room while the game ended, and Reggie sat there in silence, listening to Big John mutter about cornering the Devils in the parking lot. Reggie was too ashamed to look up.

  He knew when the others shuffled in that they’d lost. They plunked onto the benches and waited for Rolabi. The professor said little—only that they had let themselves down. Reggie knew who he meant.

  Reggie waited for the team to leave, feeling a few sympathetic taps on his shoulders. Maybe they knew why he had snapped. Or maybe they knew he was in a whole lot of trouble.

  “Talk tomorrow, man,” Twig said, leaving last of all.

  Reggie knew the professor was still in the room. His presence felt like a storm cloud about to burst. But he didn’t speak, so Reggie picked up his bag and started for the door.

  “I know what he said.”

  Reggie paused by the door.

  “And I know who you saw,” Rolabi continued quietly.

  Reggie didn’t turn back. He just stood there, fighting for control.

  “I am sorry your parents are gone. I am sorry that boy said those things to you.”

  Reggie wiped his nose, nodding, not sure what he was supposed to say.

  “But if we cannot channel our emotions productively, they will break us. And as you saw tonight, if even one player loses control of his behavior, he can bring the whole team down with him. I cannot have that, Reggie.”

  Reggie nodded again, feeling his eyes well up once again. This time, he let them.

  “You are suspended for the next game. Take the next two weeks to practice hard. But also take the time to think. And think hard. If there is another incident, you will be off this team.”

  “Yes, sir,” Reggie managed.

  He opened the door and went to leave.

  “And, Reggie?” the professor said.

  Reggie paused in the doorway. “Yes?”

  “On my team, each player chooses their role. They are limited only by what they can earn.”

  Reggie nodded, feeling the first tears spill, and hurried out of the gym, eager for the walk home and time to think. But when he stepped into the parking lot, he slumped. Gran was waiting.

  And she did not look pleased.

  7

  GROUNDING

  Your mind is a filter; when it is clouded, you cannot see the light.

  WIZENARD PROVERB

  REGGIE WAS GROUNDED for two weeks. It was a theme, apparently. He was allowed only to go to school and practice. On the plus side, those were the only two places he ever went anyway.

  Perhaps realizing this, Gran added two weeks of bathroom cleaning to go along with the sentence. Since Rolabi had not called a Saturday practice, Reggie had the weekend to sit and mope . . . and scrub the toilet twice a day. Well, that, and ice his very swollen, very sore knuckles.

  P took pity on him, at least, and insisted they read together and play a juggling game with her soccer ball when Gran was out. But mostly, Reggie just wanted to be left alone. He felt no pride in starting the fight. He may well have lost the Badgers another game.

  Reggie wanted to avoid ball in general—swore to himself he would—but as always, he found himself draining one rolled-up sock after another, whispering his own narrative, feeling the call of the court every second of the day.

  To pass the time, he made some notes from the book . . . details he thought might be important at some point, even if he wasn’t exactly sure why:

  — Emotional amplitude is the key to broader change

  — Fear is the most contagious; the easiest; the most transformative

  — A Wizenard is the spark; a Muse is the burning flame

  — Grana is in all; but dormant in most; corrupted in some; alight in the few

  His notes made little sense, even to him, but he ran his fingers over the symbols and shapes in the illustrations, especially the one that matched his box. He felt drawn to those elegant lines more than ever.

  At night, he lay awake and wondered what practice would be like on Monday.

  * * *

  Within ten minutes of Rolabi’s entrance, the answer was clear: practice on Monday was hard. Backbreaking, sweaty, grind-it-out hard.

  Reggie barely had a chance to speak with the others. Rolabi had skipped any sort of opening remarks, his eyes dark gray like the sky at dusk, and simply ordered the team to start running. There was no mention of how long or how far they would go.

  Reggie did exchange a few words with Twig, at least.

  “Thanks, man,” Reggie said, giving him props as soon as he came in.

  “Of course. If my best friend gets in a fight with loudmouth idiots, then so do I.”

  Reggie stared at him, fighting back a smile.

  “Did I just say best friends?” Twig said. “I sound like a six-year-old, don’t I?”

  “Maybe,” Reggie replied. “But best friends sounds good. I got your back too.”

  “Well, try not to punch any more people. I got grounded.”

  “Me too,” Reggie said. “I got to clean toilets every day now. Twice a day.”

  They broke out laughing then . . . but no one was laughing anymore.

  Reggie was actually grateful for the run, though he didn’t mention it to the others. He wanted to move on from the humiliation of his fight. No one seemed to blame him—Peño just commented that he had a nice right hook—but he knew he had thrown their rhythm, not to mention getting their second-best player ejected along with him.

  Rolabi finally called a halt to the runnin
g twenty minutes later, though only for a water break and a quick transition to leapfrogs, wind sprints, and push-ups. They kept at the push-ups until they all face-planted, and Reggie’s chest felt like someone was standing on it. He slowly stood.

  “We are now O and three,” Rolabi said. “We have a twelve-game season. The clock is ticking.”

  “So is my heart,” Big John muttered.

  “Today we work on strength. I have brought along something familiar.”

  Rolabi dug into his bag, pulled out a folded piece of rubber, and cast it out onto the floor. Instantly, it began to inflate, growing taller and taller until the infamous castle formed. This time, it was rounded at the base and two levels higher, with fewer openings in the walls and a raised platform at the top that looked like it had to be climbed to reach. It would be very tough to attack.

  “I can already feel the bruises coming on,” Peño said.

  Rolabi dumped the red-and-blue pads and helmets onto the floor. “Begin.”

  * * *

  The rest of the week was much the same. They drilled hard, ran harder, and moved through a wide range of familiar magical drills: the castle twice more, each time with a new design; facing off against the tiger, Kallo; and shooting from the mountaintop. Rolabi also introduced some new challenges: tug-of-war with their shadows over a looming precipice; making passes in an archery range where the circular targets ran around on wooden legs; a rebounding drill with teammates’ hands fused together; and even a game of dodgeball where they were only allowed to slide like they were on the defense—and with the ball on fire, of course. Reggie did his part through them all. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  As game day approached, he longed to play, but he knew Rolabi wouldn’t waive his suspension. And as before, the professor was the hardest on him. Reggie knew he deserved it.

  When the team broke off at the end of Thursday’s practice, Rolabi told Reggie to stay behind for a moment. Reggie perked up and hurried over once the others had left, wondering if he might get a chance to play after all. Even a few minutes might give him a chance to somewhat redeem himself.

  “The suspension stands,” Rolabi said immediately, quashing that hope. “I do not hand them out lightly, and I do not retract them when I do. Show up in your street clothes tomorrow.”

  Reggie nodded, trying to hide his disappointment.

  “Have you done any thinking?” Rolabi asked.

  “Well, yes. I mean . . . what about?”

  “What you want from this game. What you want from your life.”

  Reggie looked at his feet. “Oh. No. I haven’t thought about that.”

  “I see. What do you think your role on this team is?”

  Reggie paused. “Practice hard. Fill in minutes. Try and make them count—”

  “I don’t want a player who is complacent. I only need players who want more.”

  Reggie shifted uncomfortably. “I do want more—”

  “Do you? I need to see it. And if I don’t see it soon, you will be asked to leave the team.”

  “What?” Reggie breathed.

  “I do not punish lack of talent. But I always punish wasted talent. See you tomorrow.”

  He strode from the gym, and the doors slammed behind him like a thunderclap. Reggie felt his knees buckling. Leave the team? This was all he had. Reggie would be lost without ball.

  He stared out at the empty court, anger stirring in his belly once again.

  “Go ahead and take this too,” he shouted at no one and everyone, grabbing his duffel. “Take everything. I’m done.”

  He stormed out of the gym and walked home, alone as always.

  * * *

  Game day felt strange from the moment Reggie woke up. Usually, game days began with a flutter in his stomach—a sense of anticipation. Today it was a dull, empty ache. He lay in bed and decided that even the faint, usually disappointing chance of a great game was better than this.

  “Morning,” P said, poking her head in. “Ready to watch with me in the bleachers today?”

  Reggie groaned and rolled over. “I still get to sit on the bench, P.”

  “Well,” she said huffily, “I didn’t want you to sit beside me anyway.”

  She stormed away, and Reggie sighed into his pillow. He slouched through school. He slouched through dinner—and during both toilet scrubs. He slouched on the bus as he rode to Fairwood in some jeans and a hoodie, forehead pressed against the glass and feeling every bump.

  He supposed he didn’t need to arrive an hour early, but it was habit now, and he just sat there and watched the others warm up. The Pickering Panthers strutted in, and he felt miserable.

  The game didn’t improve his mood. It was hard fought, and close, and in the end the West Bottom Badgers lost by seven, and they all shuffled into the locker room and dropped onto the benches. Reggie had been powerless. Detached. His hands had itched for the ball. His feet had burned for the run.

  Now Reggie knew exactly what it would be like to not play ball anymore.

  It would be awful.

  “We can’t buy one,” Peño muttered, playing with his thumbs.

  “O and four,” Vin said. “This is as bad as last year.”

  “It’s worse,” Big John said. “Because I thought it was going to be better.”

  Reggie watched Rain sitting quietly on the far side of the locker room, holding a ball.

  “We’re not good enough,” Rain agreed. “But we need to be. Everyone needs to be.”

  “How?” Jerome said. “We worked hard all week. We even played pretty good—”

  Rain stood, dropping the ball. “And pretty good isn’t enough. We need more.”

  “I don’t have any more,” Lab said quietly. “That was it.”

  Reggie noticed for the first time that Rolabi had come in. He was standing by the door, listening to the conversation. Everyone turned to him expectantly, but he just glanced at Reggie and walked out. Silence fell over the room. The team eventually changed and filed out, until only Twig and Reggie were left.

  Twig leaned against the wall, sighing. “I really thought we were going to grana them.”

  “That’s still not a thing,” Reggie murmured.

  “Well, maybe it should be.” He patted Reggie on the shoulder on his way to the door. “You know you’re not wearing a uniform, right? You don’t actually need to change today.”

  Reggie stood up and followed him out of the locker room.

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Reggie murmured to himself.

  --

  THE REPORTER

  The defeated look at the night sky and see their own insignificance. The dreamer sees their potential.

  WIZENARD PROVERB

  REGGIE WAS ALONE in his bedroom when Gran came in. It was around midnight, and she had a mug between her hands, a tendril of steam rising off it like that Fairwood fog. There was just enough moonlight seeping in for Reggie to see the worry on her face. There seemed to be a lot of that there lately.

  Gran clicked on the bedside lamp and sat down, handing Reggie the mug. A sweet yet sharp aroma wafted up, and a memory stirred: his mother sitting by a window, staring out at the sunrise. She used to sit there and drink from a steaming mug every single day before she left for work, even while his father ran around getting ready. That was her—calm, collected, in control.

  “Peppermint tea,” Gran said. “Drink.”

  He felt a pang in his stomach. It had always been his mother’s favorite.

  “Did I wake you?” he asked, taking a sip.

  “You were as quiet as a mouse. But I can hear self-pity. One of my many talents.” She laid a hand on his arm, staring at him. “And I had a funny feeling you might be awake tonight.”

  Reggie took another sip, closed his eyes, and breathed in the steam. His eyes nearly watered. If only his mother
were here. If only, if only, if only . . .

  He shook the thought away. Were there any words that caused him more pain than those two?

  “You looked miserable the whole game.”

  “Yeah,” he admitted.

  “Why?”

  He frowned. “Because I couldn’t play.”

  “You looked miserable the week before. And the week before that too. Why?”

  “Well . . . I mean . . . I wasn’t playing well for those games—”

  “So which is it?”

  “I don’t know. I want to play. I want to play well. I want to be good—”

  Gran shrugged. “So do it.”

  “What, did you and P have a seminar on this?” he grumbled.

  “Your father was a good soccer player when he was a boy. Good . . . not great.”

  Reggie frowned. “What does that have to do with—”

  “But it wasn’t his passion. He liked to write. Always did. And he liked the news. He used to sit in front of the TV and watch the news every single evening. How many kids do that?”

  “I’m still not really getting it—”

  “He wanted to be a reporter. Of course, we’re from Swain Street. I didn’t have money for college, and we both knew it, and I suppose at some point he might have just stopped trying to get there.” She smiled. “But not your father. He studied harder than anyone I’ve ever seen. In high school, he took every class he could, and asked for more homework, more research, more anything. He was insatiable. And, by the end, he had the best grades in the school. He got to go to college on a scholarship—a boy from Swain Street—and he got his journalism degree. Ah, Reggie, you should have seen him the day he graduated. The smile on that boy’s face. He was proud, more than anyone else there that day, I think. Because it had been really hard, and he’d earned it.”

  Reggie pictured his father in his black cap and robe, and he smiled with him.