The Wizenard Series

by Kobe Bryant

  “Force him to the corner!” Reggie called. “Stay on your toes, big man!”

  Oren took a step, and Cash lunged, trying to strip the ball. It was a poor choice. Oren immediately went the other way, dribbling with his stronger right hand, and then threw down yet another thunderous dunk. The crowd erupted. His teammates chest-bumped back down the court.

  It felt like a blowout. He could sense the fans’ hunger in the air, like a pot about to boil.

  We can’t lose, he reminded himself. Not one more.

  The Badgers attacked again, and Rain took it hard to the rim. But the Marauders were starting to figure their game plan out. They collapsed both their forwards at once, squeezing Rain between them, and Oren swatted the ball away with a vicious volleyball spike, eliciting more cheers.

  When the first quarter ended, the Badgers were down six. They were down by ten two minutes into the second. Then twelve. Things were starting to slip fast. The pot was boiling now.

  Reggie kept playing hard, confident, and controlled. He was five for seven, and Jay Day only had three points. It wasn’t enough.

  Once in a while, Reggie saw a flicker of red around his teammates: Rain would suddenly look around for players, as if lost. The hoop would shrink for Cash. At one point, it seemed the entire court tilted toward the Badgers, letting the Marauders sprint easily downhill. As usual, no one else seemed to notice anything, but Reggie was sure they were moving faster.

  It was clear that the Badgers were afraid . . . and in their fear, they were projecting negative grana. He knew what that meant. They were slipping into a hole, and they would have a hard time crawling back out. Reggie hit a corner three the next play—a once-unthinkable shot—but the Marauders came right back down the court, attacking Cash one-on-one again.

  The score slipped further and further. So did the season. So did everything.

  When the first half ended, the Badgers shuffled into the locker room. They were down by fifteen points, and on the other side of the gym, the Marauders were already celebrating. Reggie suspected they would pull their starters early in the third quarter if this continued. Oren would probably put his feet up and shout at the Badgers to go back to the Bottom where they belonged.

  Reggie knew he was playing well. It was his best game as a Badger, to be sure: thirteen points, three assists, and five rebounds. And they were still getting beaten. He needed more.

  He needed to find another level.

  “You got to roll faster,” Peño was telling Cash, using his hands to illustrate. “I can see it every time from the bench. You need to fight down there. Get physical. Wear Oren down.”

  The team was gathered in the locker room now, and they were clearly frustrated.

  “I’m getting pinned,” Cash said. “The center is picking me every time.”

  Lab hunched over, hands on his knees. “You all need to find me in the corner.”

  “You’re covered,” Vin snapped. “You need to get free—”

  “All of you have to get back on defense,” Big John said. “We’re getting killed on—”

  “Enough.”

  Rolabi’s voice cracked through the chatter like a whip as he stalked inside.

  “We all know how to play,” Rolabi said. “We prepared. We created a game plan.”

  “It isn’t working—” Lab started.

  “Because you have decided to lose,” Rolabi replied. “You have accepted defeat.”

  Reggie looked around the room. Slouched shoulders and downcast eyes. It was true.

  They were all ready to lose again. To bid goodbye to another season. To bend.

  “Do not focus on the score,” Rolabi continued. “Just win every moment from here on out.”

  “They are too good—” Jerome started.

  Rolabi rounded on him. His eyes were blue green, flashing, and Jerome shrank back.

  “Then we beat them by working harder. Reggie, I want you on Oren on defense. Man defense . . . no matter what everyone else is playing. I want this lead in single digits by the fourth.”

  Reggie nodded. He was giving up two inches and maybe forty pounds in that matchup. He was outmatched in size, strength, and probably even skill. But Reggie said nothing. He had said time and time again that he wanted to earn this, and now it was time to back it up. His goal right now was to shut Oren down. As the team started out again, Rain grabbed him and held him back.

  “Remember when you knocked me on my butt? And then Jerome?”

  “Yeah . . .” Reggie said.

  “We need that Reggie. The one who refused to let one more person score on him.”

  “Right.”

  “Not one more loss,” Rain said. “Keep Oren contained. Let’s take this home.”

  They exchanged props and walked out onto the floor together.

  The whistle went, and the Marauders attacked again. As soon as they crossed the halfway line, Reggie went to meet Oren, sticking to him every step of the way, his every muscle primed.

  “Bit scrawny for a power forward,” Oren said, smirking. “You sure about this?”

  Reggie ignored him, racking his brain for ideas. Reggie was outsized and outgunned, so he had to play smarter. He needed to block the driving lanes and either force Oren to his weaker left hand or, better yet, challenge him to shoot from distance. Oren was a killer in the paint, but he was not a confident long-range shooter. If they were going to win, he had to make Oren shoot.

  “Call for help if you need it!” Lab shouted.

  Reggie could translate that easily enough: You are going to need help.

  “Will do,” he said wryly.

  The Marauders attacked, fanning out and sending their center deep like the tip of an arrow. Oren got to the top of the key, putting his hand up and sending a dismissive elbow right into Reggie’s solar plexus. Reggie gasped and stumbled back, but he was used to taking cheap shots. He didn’t look at the ref. He didn’t complain. He just got into his stance, focusing on his footwork and keeping a hand on Oren’s back, tilting to block his opponent’s stronger right side.

  Oren got the ball high, and Reggie instantly fell back a foot or two, giving him plenty of space to turn. Oren faced him, keeping the ball high and wearing that same cocky, lopsided grin.

  He faked the three, but Reggie didn’t even flinch.

  Go ahead, he thought. Shoot it.

  Oren tried to go right, but Reggie slid in his way, still keeping his space—primed on his toes, back straight, arms out to block the lanes. No overreactions. No reaching. And after two more futile fakes, Oren finally rose up and took the deep three. It clanked off the rim.

  Twig grabbed the rebound, and Reggie sprinted up the floor. One defensive stand down.

  Probably fifty to go, he reminded himself.

  “See the court, Reggie,” Rolabi called, his voice cutting over the noise. “Adapt to it.”

  Reggie glanced at him. He was right: they needed to be smarter on offense. Rain was playing well, but he was getting frustrated, and the Marauders had figured out their approach.

  As Reggie got to his spot, his eyes swept over the defense. It was a 2-3 zone: two guards up top, the center in the middle, and the forwards stretching out on either side of him, ready to step out on the corner threes. Reggie had already noted that their center was aggressive—he always wanted to attack the ball and block it if it went anywhere near the paint. Getting him out of the way could create a hole.

  “Run an eight,” Reggie shouted to Rain.

  Rain nodded. “Eight!”

  Reggie cut to the top of the key. It was open, of course—the two guards had to spread themselves to block the passes to either wing, and there was a nice little bubble of space where Reggie caught the ball. He turned, pretending to shoot, and the center came flying out at him, clearly trying to swat the ball into the stratosphere. For a second, it see
med so slow. So obvious.

  Reggie faked the shot, saw Twig left open on the block, and hit him with an easy bounce pass for the layup. Things sped up again as Reggie ran back, but when he settled into a man defense, he began to analyze the attack in the same way, watching as Oren took his spot. The Marauders liked to run high screens and set up lobs to their post players. It was a good strategy—the Badgers’ guards got stranded on the perimeter, and Twig and Cash were isolated.

  But as Oren ran to set a screen, Reggie lagged for just a moment, watching the point guard’s eyes. Twig was down low against their center, jockeying for position, and the point guard threw the pass. Their center caught the ball, brought it down to prepare for a turnaround jumper . . . and was instantly stripped.

  Reggie had followed the ball like a bloodhound and ripped it free.

  He put it on the floor, dribbling out of pressure, and then hit Rain on the outlet pass. Rain laid it in uncontested. Reggie didn’t even smile. There was no time to celebrate. Back to work.

  There was shoving and talking and fouling. Reggie took elbows to the ribs and chin. He spaced the floor on offense, shooting from all over the court. He didn’t hit them all, but he hit enough, and Oren was forced to track him everywhere. Whenever Oren slacked to help in the paint, Reggie hit jumpers. When Oren attacked too quickly, Reggie faked and blew past him.

  On defense, Reggie just let him shoot, always just far enough away from the hoop that he was likely to miss. The Badgers edged closer. Down six. Four. Two.

  Reggie could barely think. He was working so hard, it was all just muscle memory now—a sort of rhythmic, unconscious movement that took over his limbs. His eyes burned. His sides ached. And with thirty seconds to go, the Milton Marauders had the ball.

  As the Marauders dribbled down the floor, Reggie mapped out how the play would go. If they were focused on killing time, then they weren’t thinking about playing for the best shot. That was a plus. The Badgers were down only one, and if the Marauders missed, there would be six seconds left with the chance for a last-shot comeback win. They needed to trust their defense.

  “Nothing easy!” Reggie shouted. “Play to the last second!”

  The Badgers defended stubbornly, blocking the lanes. The Marauders moved the ball around the top of the circle, trying to waste time. When the shot clock dropped to 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . their point guard put up a desperate, fading three-pointer.

  It clanked off the rim, and Reggie secured the rebound, wrapping it up protectively.

  “Time!” Rolabi called on cue.

  Reggie checked the clock as he ran in to join the huddle. Five seconds to go, and they could advance the ball to the other half. That was more than enough time to get an open look.

  Reggie glanced at Rain, expecting to see the star guard pumping himself up.

  But Rain was looking at him. Everyone was.

  “We’re going to set a simple screen,” Rolabi said. “Rain and Lab will be decoys at the top of the key. Reggie, run the baseline off a screen from Twig. Go to the corner. Take the shot.”

  “Your shot, bro,” Rain said to Reggie.

  “You got this,” Twig added. “Go wizenard these jerks.”

  Rolabi glanced at Twig, raising an eyebrow, but said nothing.

  Reggie was surprised, but he managed a nod. He supposed he hadn’t really been thinking about it, but he had been shooting a lot. He didn’t even know how many points he had anymore, but it was well over thirty, and many of them had come in the fourth quarter. He had the hot hand, and Rolabi always played to the moment. He felt his guts clench with nervous energy.

  “Just like you’ve been practicing,” Rolabi said knowingly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Reggie walked onto the court, trying to drown out all the cheers and shouting.

  “Coming for the screen,” Twig said quietly, nodding at him. “You got this, Reggie.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  Cash had the inbound, so Rain, Reggie, and Lab clumped together. Time seemed to slow down again. Reggie could barely hear anything other than the rhythmic thudding of his own heart. Lab was talking, but it was interrupted by the beat: “Get to”—boom—“and we’ll”—boom.

  The whistle blew, and Twig stepped up from the block, setting a pick. Reggie rubbed off his shoulder just as Rain and Lab broke in either direction like loosed arrows. Reggie stepped through into space, catching the hard inbound from Cash and turning to the hoop, taking a glance up at the shot clock above the hoop. From somewhere far away, he heard the crowd counting:

  “Five . . . four . . .”

  Oren was rushing at him, so he dribbled right past him before Oren could slow his momentum. Reggie rounded the top of the arc and took a step inside. The best shot available.

  “Three . . . two . . .”

  Reggie rose up. Everything slowed. He kept his elbow pointed at the rim. Feet together. Fingers rolling along the pebbling until the ball flew, wrist following, everything aimed at destiny.

  “One . . .”

  Reggie felt something collide with his shoulder. He twisted in midair, throwing a wild shot, and then hit the floor. A whistle pierced the air, cutting over the drone of the final buzzer. Reggie lay there, dazed. It was a shooting foul. He had two free throws to win the game.

  Rain and Twig hauled him up, both clapping his shoulders as he headed to the line. He barely heard what they were saying. It seemed like the whole gym had gone quiet. Reggie stood on the free-throw line and breathed deeply, trying to catch his breath. There was no time left on the clock. If he hit these shots, the game was over. The Badgers would win their first away game ever. They would beat the conference champions. Maybe, just maybe, they would start a run.

  The ref passed him the ball, and he dribbled twice, still breathing deeply. He hit the first.

  The noise rushed back in. The crowd was cheering. His teammates were pumping their fists. One more, and they were there. Reggie caught the ball, smiling. His story had been written.

  He took three dribbles, one more deep breath, and took the shot. It spiraled toward history . . . and then it hit the back iron, bounced once more off the rim, and dropped to the floor.

  The Marauders cheered. His teammates slumped.

  Reggie watched the ball roll away, incredulous. He had missed.

  He’d had his big, triumphant moment that he had worked so hard for, and he’d missed.

  Disappointment and anger and guilt flooded through him. His knees buckled.

  “Two-minute break,” the referee said over the noise. “Then we have overtime.”

  --

  THE TURN

  When we feel entitled to victory, we no longer deserve it.

  WIZENARD PROVERB

  REGGIE SAT ON the bench among his teammates as the clock counted down the two-minute break, barely listening to the chatter around him, replaying the free throw in his mind again and again. He could see the slow spiral of the ball. It had looked so perfect . . . but it wasn’t. It never was for him. He had clawed and fought so hard for that chance at glory, and he’d missed it.

  Vaguely, he still knew overtime was coming. He knew he had to focus, but it seemed like all the air had gone out of him. It felt like his dreams and destiny and perfect story had all clanked off the iron and fallen away. He could imagine P’s disappointment.

  Twig slid closer to him, patting his knee. “You ready to go again, man?”

  “Yeah,” he murmured. “Sure.”

  “Nobody blames you for missing that shot. You know that, right?” Twig said.

  “I do.”

  Twig frowned. “You tied the game, dude. We’re in OT. This is it.”

  “I had the win on my fingertips—”

  “Yeah. And the shot missed. So what?”

  “So what?” Reggie asked. “That was it. A chance to turn it around
—”

  Twig shook his head. “It wasn’t enough anyway. We need more.”

  Reggie flushed, feeling his temper rise. “I was working hard—”

  “You were. It was an amazing game. We hung in there, and we fought, and we had a chance to win. That’s all great. But even if we win this one, it’s gonna get harder. We need more.”

  Twig grabbed Reggie’s shoulder and gave him a shake.

  “Man, we watched you in practice for years. You probably didn’t even see it. You can dominate. It came and went, but lately, it’s just crazy. You’re unstoppable, dude. Don’t worry about the playoffs right now. Talin, grana, anything. Focus. Don’t let them get another point.”

  “It’s just that you work, and you get there, and you miss—”

  “You got to keep earning it,” Twig said. “It doesn’t matter what you did yesterday or this morning or five minutes ago. Go earn it right now. Pick this team up and let it all out, man. I know you have more. We all do. Forget the playoffs and the Bottom and all of that. Just go ball.”

  Reggie looked down at his hands. He thought he’d won ball over. That he had worked hard enough to earn the love of the game. That the tide had turned, and they were winning, and he would never have to struggle again. But maybe it wasn’t a onetime deal. Maybe he had to keep working to deserve it.

  He’d forgotten something—it wasn’t the destination he loved. It was the little moments. The feel of the game.

  He loved to ball, and that was what he worked for.

  He sat back, feeling the doubt seep out of him. All the concerns about what he had to prove, and what this meant . . . he let it all go.

  “Not one more point,” he whispered.

  “It’s time,” Rolabi said.

  Reggie stood up, hands balled into fists, eyes narrowed. Fresh energy coursed through him. He saw green lines tracing through the room, pulsing with his heartbeat. His mind was locked on winning. Not the season. Not even the game. The next possession. The next second.

  His entire body trembled. It felt like he was on fire.