by Kobe Bryant
The rest of the practice wasn’t any easier. If Reggie made any errors, Rolabi let him know. He was isolated on defense and swarmed on O. He collided with picks. He was forced to fight down low on the block. Called out for every miss.
When it ended, Reggie plopped onto the bench, so tired that he could barely change his shoes. Twig dropped down beside him.
“Well, that was intense,” Twig said.
Reggie frowned. “Rolabi does not like the idea of me playing.”
“I agree.”
“You do? Why didn’t you say something—”
“Rolabi doesn’t want you to play,” Twig said. “He wants you to win.”
Reggie looked up. “By kicking my butt all day?”
“Exactly.”
“You should be a Wizenard in training.”
Twig grinned. “I am definitely wise enough. The suit is the problem. Couldn’t wear it all day.”
“The more I get to know you, the weirder you become.”
“Thank you,” Twig said gravely. He gave Reggie props. “Nice work. More tomorrow.”
“I can barely walk.”
Twig started for the door, then turned back and put on his deepest voice. “One must walk before one can run. Or something like that.”
The rest of the team filed out, leaving Reggie alone in his soggy shoes.
“Well, grana,” he said, “looks like I’m a starter. But we still have a long way to go.”
His own words echoed around the gym for a moment, and he sighed.
“Right.”
He scooped up his ball and started shooting.
--
BELOW THE BOTTOM
The deeper the hole, the longer the climb, and the stronger you arrive.
WIZENARD PROVERB
EARLY THE NEXT morning, Reggie listened as Gran got ready for work, coughing while she made her coffee. She had coughed before bed as well, and looked a little tired, but he should have known she would be up and out the door by seven as always. He lay there for a while longer, trying to fall back asleep. But his mind was restless, eager for more, so he climbed out of bed to go make breakfast.
When he was finished, he left for Fairwood, slinging his duffel bag over his shoulders and hurrying down the concrete steps. The sun was low as he walked, casting a red glow over the Bottom. It almost looked as if the city were on fire. Reggie found himself practicing his jab steps as he walked, and then he took his ball out and started to dribble down the sidewalk, sending deep drumbeats down the alleyways. He had three days left until the showdown with Oren Laithe and the Milton Marauders. Three days to change the season. Three days to change everything.
When he arrived, he changed quickly and started shooting. He went to the corner first, then the mid-range, hitting both far more consistently. As he worked his way back out to the top of the key, he realized he could still see the hoop. Grana was finally letting him shoot from somewhere else. As he moved into the low post, he started working on turnaround jumpers—a quick pivot and straight into a shot. But as he spun, a jagged wooden stalagmite suddenly leapt from the ground, spearing the ball as it left his fingers. Reggie gasped and stumbled back.
“What the . . . ?” he said. “My ball!”
Before he could pluck the deflated ball from the stalagmite, the jagged shape retracted into the floor. Reggie’s ball bounced off the flat hardwood, undamaged. He ran his hands over the pebbling protectively. Frowning, he tried another turnaround, and once again, a jutting hardwood fragment shot out and punctured the ball with a sickening pop.
This time, Reggie studied the stalagmite. He realized that it rose up just a few inches above his release—six at most. He needed to figure this out.
Once again, he reached for the ball, the stalagmite disappeared, and the ball became whole again. Reggie bit his lip, thinking. He had been blocked a few times in the post last practice. Actually, a lot of times. Reggie had a very regimented release—he liked to go straight up and keep his body upright. It was good form, but maybe that wasn’t always the best strategy when he was being guarded down low. Maybe he needed more space. How could he find some?
Reggie turned his back to the net, spun right, and faked a jumper. As he expected, another stalagmite leapt out, but he whirled back the other way, hoping to find his space. Instead, a second spike burst out of the floor, and he faded back out of reflex. The ball just made it over the top of the wooden spike, but it fell short of the rim. His backward momentum had thrown it off.
“Fadeaways,” Reggie said, nodding. “Not my specialty. Well, I guess that’s the point.”
He spent the next few hours working on his low-post game, spinning into fadeaways to get the ball over the jutting wooden shards. Sometimes three or four leapt out in response to his fakes and extra steps, but always, he bought an extra few inches by fading back on the release.
At first, he missed the majority. He realized he needed more strength from his wrists and fingers to make up for the change in angle—he couldn’t power the shot from legs that were busy moving away from the net. So he slowly adjusted the mechanics and found his range until he hit more than he missed. Reggie knew it would take hundreds of hours to get where he needed to be.
But it was a start.
When he got home that night, they had a quiet dinner—apart from Gran’s sniffles and coughing—and he went to bed early, hoping for a quick practice before school the next day.
But Reggie woke the next morning to violent coughing. He immediately rolled out of bed and hurried to the living room, where Gran was lying on the couch, swaddled in two blankets and still trembling. Her usual morning coffee lay cold and mostly untouched beside her on the carpet.
“Didn’t want to keep waking P,” she said.
“Gran,” he breathed, crouching down beside her to feel her head. “You’re burning up.”
“Head cold. I already took some cough syrup. Need to get up soon for work . . .”
“Head colds don’t usually come with a fever,” he cut in. “You need a doctor.”
She sputtered. “A what? We can’t even afford to look at a doctor, boy. I’m fine—” She was interrupted by another violent coughing fit. Her body writhed through it. “It’s just a little bug.”
“I’m calling the diner,” he said, heading for the phone.
“I can work—”
“No,” Reggie said firmly. “You have to rest.”
She glared at him, then nodded. “Tell them I’ll make it up Sunday.”
Her manager, Ron, made a bit of a stink—he really was awful—but Reggie insisted and said he would call tomorrow morning if she wasn’t any better. He said that part very quietly.
When he hung up, he went to get her some more water.
“I’ll stay home today—”
“You most certainly will not,” she said. “I need sleep. And we do not skip school.”
“Gran—”
“Nonnegotiable,” she said, and then proceeded to cough again.
Reggie just shook his head and got everything set up for her—a glass of water, a few crackers and a slice of buttered bread, and another blanket. She waved him away.
“Thank you. Now get ready. And wake that sister of yours. Poor thing.”
Thirty minutes later, Reggie took a last look at Gran as he shut the door. Color continued to leach from her cheeks like a pen draining ink.
“I’ve never seen Gran so sick,” P said.
“I know,” Reggie said, leading her down the stairs. “It’s just a cold.”
“What do we do if she gets really sick?” P asked.
They stepped out into the morning, and Reggie didn’t answer her.
He had no idea.
* * *
After school ended, Reggie hurried home with P and found Gran sleeping fitfully. Her forehead felt a little co
oler, and her cough had abated, but she was still very weak and sweating profusely.
Reggie got dinner ready, then cleaned up the kitchen, worrying the whole time. But he was also keenly aware of the time. He had never missed a practice before . . . and this really wasn’t a good day to start, right after the team had shown so much faith in him. He had to show Rolabi he deserved a shot. Reggie started chewing on his fingernail, thinking.
“One more nibble and I’ll put a muzzle on you,” Gran whispered.
Reggie crouched down, hand to her forehead. “I have practice, but I can stay—”
“No.”
“It’s not a good time,” he said. “I’ll go tomorrow.”
Reggie realized he was nervous about today’s practice. He had a lot to live up to, and he wasn’t sure he could. It was easier when no one expected anything from you. He could never disappoint anyone that way. Well . . . except for himself. He had been doing that for a long time.
“The only thing you’re doing here is chewing fingernails. And I feel a little better.”
Reggie hesitated. “I should stay.”
“P is here,” she managed. “Go. Show him you are ready.”
“I already tried that last week—”
“Then show him again.”
Reggie knelt there for a moment. “Okay. I’ll be back soon,” he said, forcing a smile.
“I’ll watch her, Reg,” P added.
Reggie tucked Gran’s blankets in, shaking his head. “You need a doctor.”
“I also need a million dollars,” she replied. “One is as likely as the other.”
He sighed, planted a kiss on her cheek, and gestured for P to follow him to the door. He slung his duffel over his shoulder and put on his boots, guilt wrestling with the reality that he could do nothing here. Reggie didn’t want to admit it, but he was scared. Gran was their mom and dad and grandparents wrapped into one, and they would be lost without her. He hadn’t felt such raw fear in a long time, and he needed ball right now. He needed to sweat and ache and burn it all away.
Seeing the worry on her face, he wrapped P in a hug.
“Gran’s tougher than dirt,” he said firmly. “See you in a bit . . . and do your homework.”
“Are you serious—” P started.
“Bye!”
He hurried down the hall, smiling as P’s rant was cut off by the closing door. But that smile soon faded. Gran was sick, and there was nothing he could do. That was the grim truth of the Bottom. For all its flaws, people could survive here. But there was a fine balance. When something happened—a lost job, a sickness, an injury—then the floor fell out. He had seen it a hundred times before. People got swallowed up, and there was nothing below the Bottom.
But that had been his whole life. Things just happened to him. It had always felt like he had no control over anything. Except on the court. Out there, he could take control.
He broke out under open sky and started running for Fairwood, ready to chase it.
He arrived an hour early, facing some of his usual obstacles: disappearing rims, an antagonistic shadow, the parrot, sandbags, tilting floor . . . and he pushed through them all, fighting back cramps and aches and the little voice that said he could just stop.
Needing a drink, he started for the bench. Without warning, the floor tilted, and then kept going, and before long the cone had opened up again and swallowed him whole.
Reggie tumbled and slid down the hardwood embankment, plunging into darkness. As before, he slowed just before impact and found himself lying at the base of a huge cone.
He rolled onto his back. “Not this again.”
Reggie climbed to his feet and realized the ball hadn’t rolled in with him. Somehow, that was even more lonely. He paced around the bottom of the cone, trying to think. But there was no trick he could see. No puzzle. There was simply a hole, and him in it, and a long, impossible climb.
He gazed up at the rims, remembering his last trip down here. He had eventually given up, closed his eyes . . . quit. And it had gone away. He had been back on the same old flat ground.
But that didn’t seem right now. Grana was challenging him. He couldn’t just surrender.
Reggie turned and tried to sprint up the steep incline. He made it about six feet and slipped, landing hard on his chest and sliding back. He tried again. Then again. He tried to run on an angle, almost circling the slope, but with the same luck. He doubled over, panting, exhausted.
“Can’t run out of here,” he said. “Climbing, then.”
It was more like vertical crawling. He slid upward, spreading his arms and legs wide and using bare skin to stick to the wood planks. He moved inches at a time. Minutes slipped by. Then hours. At halfway up, he glanced over his shoulder and saw a long fall below him. Then he kept climbing.
His muscles screamed with the effort. His skin burned as it slid. Every inch hurt.
“I won’t quit,” he whispered. “I deserve this. I deserve this.”
As he crawled toward the distant hoops and the lights above them, he thought of all the time he had spent chasing ball. The endless practices. The nights alone in his room with rolled-up socks and a wastebasket. He loved this sport deeply. Why had it never loved him back?
He hoisted himself up another few inches, grimacing at the ache in his arms.
It made no sense. Basketball didn’t choose not to love somebody. Reggie had chosen that fate for himself. He had decided he didn’t deserve to be loved. Not by the parents who had died. Not by the family he couldn’t seem to help. Not by the friends and teammates he kept pushing away. Not even by his beloved basketball. He looked up at the hoops hanging over the edge.
Reggie thought of the hours and days of being knocked down by his own shadow. He thought of the disappointments of his previous games, followed always by a return to the court, to get better, to try harder, to work. He thought of his love for his family and his desire to show them his greatest potential. He thought of the love and sweat and pain he had poured into this game.
And he realized now how hard he had to work to deserve that love.
“I earned this,” he said. “And I’m going to keep earning it every single day.”
Reggie kept climbing. And with a last gasp, he pulled himself over the edge.
He lay there for a moment, then pushed himself up just as the doors flew open.
“What up, Reggie?” Rain called. “You ready?”
He picked his ball up, nodding. “Yeah,” Reggie said softly. “I am.”
16
WHO WE PLAY
The one who works without boasting has twice the time to improve. Beware the quiet contenders.
WIZENARD PROVERB
REGGIE DROPPED ONTO the bench, gasping for air. It was the night before the big game, but Rolabi wasn’t taking it easy on them. Reggie was getting it the worst, as before, but the whole team was being ground down today. He wiped his face with his sleeve and glanced at Jerome beside him.
“You alive?” he asked.
Jerome was staring into space, his jaw slack. “So tired,” he murmured.
“Ready for tomorrow?”
“Born ready,” Jerome said, managing a smile. “If I live through this practice, that is.”
Reggie snorted and stood up. Rolabi was waiting for them at half-court.
“We’re rooting for you tomorrow, bench brother,” Jerome said, standing and stretching an arm. “Well, former bench brother. You go now to the land of the starters. It’s the bench dream.”
Reggie laughed as they walked onto the court. “Starting doesn’t matter to me, man. I just want to ball. Win. Play my best out there for once in my life. If it’s from the bench, that’s fine.”
“Well, I want to be a starter,” Jerome said. “Get a shot, you know? Get to a college maybe. Who knows. The guys on the bench ain’t gettin
g that. My dad tells me that every day.”
“What do you mean?”
Jerome shrugged. “Just tells me I’m not going anywhere. That I’m supposed to be helping my family out of the neighborhood we’re in. I don’t know. He’s just disappointed.”
Reggie thought about that as they rejoined the group. He thought about how lucky he was to have Gran, who supported him for him . . . not for her. She gave everything and asked nothing. For some of the guys, this was their family’s long-term plan: Get rich and get us all out of here.
“Just play for you,” Reggie said. “And you’ll get there.”
“Winning the conference would help,” Jerome said slyly.
Reggie turned back to the coach, taking a deep breath. “Yes it would.”
“Tomorrow is it,” Rolabi said, turning to them. “The season lives or dies tomorrow. If we lose, we will not make the nationals. No team has ever made it going six and six. We need seven straight or nothing. Every single game is now life-and-death to both our season and wider aspirations.”
His eyes flashed toward Reggie.
“The world expects us to lose. It tells us to bend. We must choose our response.”
Reggie thought back to Rolabi’s story. The storm said “bend” to the mountain, and the mountain replied “break.” Reggie smiled, finally understanding the message.
The storm was every challenge Reggie had ever encountered, every doubt that clouded his mind. The storm was the world telling him to stand aside—to admit defeat. But the mountain replied “break,” implying that either the storm would break or the mountain would. The confrontation was now a life-and-death situation. All in. And in response, the storm fled before the mountain’s commitment. The world was telling Reggie to bend to fate. This was his chance to reply: Break.
But did he have the strength?