The Wizenard Series

by Kobe Bryant

  “What are you talking about?” Reggie asked.

  “Oh, right. Well, my dad wants me to have the team over on Saturday. Pool party and barbecue and stuff. Can you come? I know it’s a decent drive but—”

  Reggie frowned. “Your dad wants us over? To the north end?”

  There was an unwritten rule that people from the West Bottom weren’t welcome in the north end.

  “Of course,” Twig said. “My dad loves ball. And he’s . . . happy I’m fitting in.”

  Reggie caught a bit of hesitation in Twig’s voice, but he decided to leave it for now.

  “Of course,” Reggie said. “I think I can get a few bus transfers. What time?”

  Twig looked relieved. “Thanks, man. I’m a little nervous about the others. Big John will probably try and drown me, and my dad can be a bit . . . annoying. Come by any time after twelve.”

  Reggie gave him props. “After we win on Friday night, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Twig hurried out to catch his ride. Some of the guys were making plans for Twig’s pool party. Reggie listened to them as he took a breather, smiling. It would be a first for everyone.

  “Can you imagine me on the north side?” Big John was saying. “The Twig family don’t know what’s coming. I never even seen a pool. You think they got some water wings for me?”

  “I really hope so,” Peño said, laughing. “And they ain’t the Twig family, bro.”

  “Sure they are.” Big John made a formal bow, sweeping his arm in front of him like in the old movies. “Mr. Twig, I’m Big John. Oh, is that Mrs. Twig back there? Charmed, madam.”

  Reggie just laughed and waited until everyone had left. Then he went back to work.

  As he had hoped, his shadow appeared, and they worked on low-post and one-on-ones. Reggie practiced the fakes and fadeaways he’d picked up from Rain, and then fought to defend his shadow on the same plays. When he got beat on a lateral fake, the parrot appeared on his head. When he was slow to shift, the hardwood-tar gripped his sneakers even harder. Cramps squeezed his ribs. His thumbnail cracked and fissured under a hard rebound. His feet went numb.

  He worked until even his shadow tired, and then he went to leave. But when he tried to push the front doors open, he bounced right off them. Reggie pushed again, a little harder this time. They didn’t budge. He put his shoulder into it. He even tried a kick. Nothing.

  The doors were locked.

  “Hello?” he called. “Rolabi?”

  There was no answer. Reggie charged the doors like a human battering ram. He bounced off and landed flat on his back, forcing the air out of his lungs.

  Reggie lay there for a minute or two, staring up at the rafters and reflecting on just how many times he had been lying on the hardwood lately.

  “Fine,” he said. “You want more work? No problem. I can do this all night.”

  Scowling, he got up and put his sneakers back on, launching into an easy shootaround—still solely from the corners and mid-range twos. He already had his five hundred makes, so he decided to aim for a thousand instead. He had made another two hundred when he noticed the gym clock hadn’t even budged. He wondered if it was broken again. He had no idea how late it was, but he supposed it didn’t really matter. He was stuck, so he might as well keep shooting.

  After what had to have been another hour or two, Reggie tried the door, found it locked, and went back to shoot more. After making a thousand shots for the day, he sat down on the court for a while, throwing the ball up and down. After what must have been four hours—it actually could have been ten, for all he knew—he started measuring exact distances to the hoop from various spots on the floor. How many steps it took to the hoop from the elbow, or how much room he needed to spin left in the post or fade away into a jump shot inside of the paint.

  He recited the numbers like a mad scientist as he walked around:

  “Thirteen feet to the hoop, one and a half steps right, one left . . .”

  He tried the door once again, growing more agitated.

  “Hello!” he shouted. “Anyone? Rolabi? Do we have a janitor? Fairwood ghosts? Hello?”

  But his calls went unanswered, his blood boiled, and he went back to work.

  When the hours had become seemingly endless, he announced plays for himself and fired the ball off every inch of the backboard from different angles, watching where it went at first and then eventually predicting before he even released it. In time, he guessed right almost every single shot. He did the same exercise off the rim, until he predicted those bounces too. As he grabbed one rebound, the lights flicked off, plunging him into darkness.

  “Really?” he said.

  He blindly found his way to the door and tried it again. Still locked.

  “How is this helping?” he shouted. “I said help me! Not trap me!”

  He stood there for a moment, fuming, and then decided to go try to shoot again, jumping up to find the backboard and working outward from there. He remembered a similar drill from training camp, but it was much different alone. The only sounds were his own breathing and the thud of the ball. Reggie couldn’t let it stop bouncing on a rebound—he would never find it in the pitch-blackness—so he had to quickly track every rebound immediately. He was like a subterranean hunter launching an ambush. It seemed like days went by in the darkness. The air felt heavy somehow, like molasses, and his muscles grew sore from the constant wary state of readiness. It all wore away at him, and every so often, he lost his patience.

  “I got this!” he screamed at the darkness. “I won’t quit. I told you I’d earn it!”

  He had no idea how long it had been, but eventually, the doors eased open, letting fiery evening sunlight pour inside. The clock sprang back to life, but it ticked only a minute ahead. No time had passed at all. Reggie stared at the open doorway. He could leave now. It was done.

  “I want another chance,” Reggie said quietly. “I want to earn it.”

  He turned back to the hoop and kept shooting until the last light faded. He practiced just as hard all week. And when Reggie woke up on Friday morning, he knew he had done everything he possibly could to prepare himself. It was game day, and this time, he was ready.

  --

  PINE

  The world is not always ready when you are. It rewards only those who stay ready.

  WIZENARD PROVERB

  REGGIE WALKED INTO the gym two hours before tip-off. He had already been there before school that morning. He had been there all day, even when he was sitting at his desk, daydreaming in class. Reggie had worked harder than ever this week. He had outworked the rest of the team. He had outworked his own expectations of himself. He felt he had earned his chance to redeem himself.

  Reggie spent the two extra hours shooting, along with warm-ups, stretching, and visualization—something they had worked on with Rolabi throughout the summer. He knocked down the rest of his five hundred makes from the corner and mid-range, and then hit some more. When the rest of the team arrived, he joined the team warm-up and worked so hard that he was dripping sweat in the layup line. His uniform clung to his skin like a banana peel.

  And when the Trenton Titans strutted inside, he copied Rain and just kept shooting.

  “This is my day,” Reggie whispered to himself. “This is my time.”

  He barely heard the crowd filing in. It was background noise. The only sounds that mattered were the heartbeat of the ball on the floor and the breeze of a perfect swish. He walked to the locker room when it was time and took his seat on a bench and felt his knees bouncing beneath him.

  “We need this one,” Rain said.

  “Bad,” Twig agreed.

  Lab was tossing a ball between his hands. “They’re good, man.”

  “So be better,” Rain countered, looking around the room. “We aren’t losing again.”

 
Rolabi ducked into the locker room, then straightened until his short salt-and-pepper hair was brushing the ceiling.

  “You all know the situation today. We are O and four this season, and we are about to face improved competition. The type of team that we must defeat if we are to reach our own aspirations. This is a test of your commitment.”

  “I’m ready—” Peño started.

  “Words don’t matter,” Rolabi cut in. “Show me on the court. If you face your fears and play despite them, if you fight for every possession, and if you want it, if you really want this, then we have a chance to change an old narrative.” He turned to the door. “Let’s see if you do.”

  They threw their hands up with a cry of “Badgers!” and followed him out to the cheers of their home crowd. Reggie sat on the bench, situating himself right next to Rolabi. He fought the urge to chew his nails as the starters took their spots around Twig at center court and the Titans came out to meet them.

  Their chalk-white uniforms and matching shoes gave them the impression of being carved from ice and snow, and they were notoriously coolheaded to match. They were less boastful and brash than the Eagles, and relied on strength, organization, and an obvious self-belief. To Reggie, it was more intimidating than the high-flying Eagles or loudmouthed Devils—these boys had come to do their job and go home. Now it was up to the Badgers to disappoint them.

  The game roared into action, and it didn’t take long to see why the Titans had gone to nationals last year. They won the tip and moved into a well-rehearsed offensive scheme, swinging the ball around with methodical purpose until Cash switched a touch slow to the corner. The opposing guard slashed right past him to the hoop for an easy, wide-open layup.

  Luckily, it also didn’t take long to see that the Badgers weren’t going to roll over.

  They charged back up the court, and Rain drove into the lane, faked the shot, and dished it to Twig for a wide-open bucket. It went back and forth for a few possessions in rapid transition, and then the game finally tightened, and the defense began to grind on both sides. The Titans didn’t panic, and neither did the Badgers. Today was going to be a battle of discipline.

  Reggie watched as the first quarter went by, barely able to restrain himself from leaping into the play. The Badgers had taken the week’s hard practice and brought the same energy: they were fighting on both ends, staying low and channeling their strength into the point of contact. Everyone boxed out on defense. They fought through screens. Stood their ground when they set them. But despite the rigor, only two subs went in during the first quarter: Vin and Jerome. Reggie chewed his nails all the way through. Big John got a run six minutes into the second, fighting hard down low and almost certainly earning himself more minutes for next half.

  The game raged on.

  At halftime, Reggie tried to catch Rolabi’s eyes in the locker room. To shout that he was ready. But Reggie knew that wasn’t his place. The professor would call his name, or he wouldn’t.

  Rolabi said only one word at the half: “More.”

  The teams went at it again. Hard play grew harder, and the discipline began to slip. Rain took a stray elbow in the chin. Cash ran into a Titan and sent him flying out-of-bounds. Even Twig got into a shoving match down low, and both players got a technical. The Titans coach was a grim man, and he and Rolabi watched stonily from the sidelines, subbing out transgressors.

  After every whistle, Reggie turned to the professor, eager for a chance. But Rolabi ignored him. A-Wall got solid minutes in the third along with the others. Every player on the bench had gotten onto the court now and earned their rotation spot. Everyone except Reggie.

  “Next change,” Reggie muttered to himself as the third came to a close.

  “Soon,” he said halfway through the fourth.

  “Please,” he whispered with three minutes on the clock.

  Peño drove up the court with two minutes left. The Badgers were down four now, and he was pushing the pace again, fighting around a full-court press. The opposing point guard was tracking him, but he was too close, and Peño was almost impossible to mark in the open floor. As expected, Peño crossed him, creating space and driving to the right. And then he stepped on the defender’s foot. Peño’s right ankle rolled sharply, and he let out a horrible, gargled shriek.

  Peño hit the ground and curled up, grabbing at his ankle.

  Rolabi swept out onto the court. Peño’s dad leapt up in the stands. Lab rushed to his side. Reggie knew this wasn’t a pull or a sprain. He could hear the pain in Peño’s voice as he gasped and clutched at his ankle.

  Reggie’s suspicions were soon confirmed. Rolabi scooped him up and gingerly laid him on the floor next to the bench, gesturing for Peño’s father and withdrawing a pack of ice from his medicine bag. After a quick word, Peño’s father crouched down next to his older son, patting his shoulder.

  “Broken ankle,” Rolabi said, turning back to the team. “Vin . . . finish strong.”

  Reggie felt a pang of sympathy. Broken ankle. Peño would be out for weeks. Months.

  “I can stay with him—” Lab started, crouching next to his brother.

  “Take it home,” Peño managed, waving his brother away. “I’m fine. We’ll go to the hospital after the game . . . there’s two minutes left. Go! I told you . . . I’m way tougher than you.”

  “Not with all that screaming,” Lab said.

  “They were battle cries,” Peño replied, wincing through the pain. “Go!”

  The team re-formed and went back out, with Rain leading a cheer to win for Peño. They tried hard. It was a great ending. A big Twig hook shot with two minutes left. A fadeaway three from Rain. And when it was over, they had lost by seven points, and the Titans were celebrating, and Reggie sat on the bench, stunned. He hadn’t stepped foot on the court. Not for a single play.

  All of that work, and he had been benched completely.

  Reggie was silent through the postgame talk. He was silent as Peño and Lab shuffled out with their father, and as the others left, heads down. Everyone must have known that the season was all but lost. Reggie was silent on the ride home, knowing that his season, and his dreams, almost certainly were.

  He had worked so hard. Mornings and late nights and every practice. And for all that, he had watched his team lose again from the bench. When Reggie got home, he went right to bed.

  Gran and P let him go.

  * * *

  P slipped into Reggie’s room a few hours later in her pj’s. Reggie could hear Gran snoring from the other room.

  He had been awake, of course, staring at the stucco and making shapes in the dim light. She climbed up onto the foot of his bed and followed his gaze, playing with a strand of her hair.

  “Gran told me to leave you alone.”

  “Good job,” Reggie said.

  “Did you get in trouble with your coach or something?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Rain’s mom gave me her extra popcorn tonight.”

  He snorted. “At least the game wasn’t a total loss.”

  “Did Mom and Dad use to get grumpy a lot?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Just making sure it’s not a genetic thing I need to watch out for.”

  “Always with the honesty,” Reggie muttered. “I don’t think so. I remember them happy, but maybe that’s just what I want to remember. I wish I remembered more, even if there was bad stuff.”

  He left unsaid that he had tried desperately to remember some clue that his parents had known about grana. A stray book like the one Twig had found, or a quiet conversation . . . anything. But it was like searching through a fog, and when a random memory surfaced, it was a hug, or a laugh, or a silly game. Reggie had never spoken to P about the box or the note inside; he didn’t see how it would help, and it seemed like a lot to share with an eight-year-old. One day, maybe.

/>   “I wish they were here,” P said.

  “Me too,” he replied softly.

  She was quiet for a little while. Then she sat up straight and faced him.

  “Want to play our game?” she asked.

  “P, it’s like midnight—”

  “Please.”

  He sighed and sat up, though he couldn’t help but smile. Their mom had taught him the “word game.” You faced the other person and said a word. Then they had to instantly add one to the sentence, and back and forth it went until someone invariably said something silly or nonsensical. He and P used to play it all the time, and they always tried to make each other the subject of some ridiculous sentence. It was a race to get the other one’s name in first, so it was forbidden to start with a name. They had to begin with something else and work up to the name.

  She cleared her throat. “There—”

  “Was—” he replied.

  “A—”

  “Girl—”

  “Named—”

  He smiled at the win. “P—”

  She giggled. “Who—”

  “Was—”

  “A—”

  “Very—”

  “Brilliant—” she said, smiling.

  “But—”

  P opened her mouth, paused, then frowned at him. “How does that work?”

  “I was thinking: a very brilliant but annoying little sister.”

  P laughed and smacked his arm. “Again?”

  “Last one. If Gran finds us both awake, we’ll be cleaning all weekend.”

  “We’ll probably be cleaning all weekend anyway, but fine. You first.”

  He thought for a second. “The—”

  “Boy—” she said pointedly.

  “From—”

  “The—”

  “Bottom—” he said, snorting.

  “Lost—”

  He frowned. “His—”