Foul Trouble

by John Feinstein

  “You listen to me, Wilcox,” Tommasino said, his face red. “You tell your players that when they’re asked about what they’ve learned at this damn camp, they say nice things—not this crap about not trusting people! And no more talk about Omar Whytlaw! You got me?”

  Andy Wilcox smiled. “I don’t tell my players what to say or not say, Billy,” he said. “And if they weren’t bothered by what happened to Omar, I’d be worried about them. You’re more than welcome to not talk to them the rest of the game.”

  “That’s just what we’ll do,” the UBS guy said. “We’ll give all the national exposure to the Mississippi kids and their coach. In fact, we don’t need any of your players when you come back out, Coach. We’ll talk to the people from the team that’s kicking your ass instead.”

  The two men turned and walked out. Coach Wilcox tossed the piece of chalk he’d been holding into the corner. “You guys need a pep talk now?” he said. “You want to prove them right, or you want to stick it to them?”

  Their answer came in the form of their play. They were all angry enough to focus by the time the third quarter began. Terrell wasn’t thinking about Omar Whytlaw, something he would later admit with some chagrin. He was thinking only about humiliating Jordan. Clearly surprised by Terrell’s sudden burst of energy, Jordan suddenly couldn’t get off a shot, much less hit one, because he was being smothered. On offense, Terrell, Danny, and Swanson began working inside out: If Terrell was double-teamed, he pitched it to one of them for an open three. Everyone was playing defense. The bench, silent in the first half, was alive.

  At the end of three quarters, the lead was down to 74–68. The Rebels finally got the score tied with ninety seconds left, when Danny hit a three from the corner to make it 91–91. Neither team scored on the next two possessions. With less than thirty seconds to go, Jordan posted up and Terrell heard Coach Wilcox yell, “Don’t double!” He wanted Terrell taking Jordan on alone.

  Jordan caught the ball and tried to shot-fake. Terrell didn’t move. Jordan looked up to see if anyone was open, but no one had left his man. Finally, he took a dribble and tried to go through Terrell to the basket. The whistle blew. It was an easy call: charging. The Rebels got the ball back with sixteen seconds to go. They inbounded, got the ball to midcourt, and called time with twelve seconds left.

  “Terrell, Coach Welsh isn’t as dumb as I am, so he’s going to double you as soon as you get the ball,” Coach Wilcox said in the huddle.

  “Do you want me outside?” Terrell said.

  “No. Jordan’s quicker than you. Your advantage is inside. They’ll have to double you there. Danny’s been hot, so they won’t leave him.” He turned to Swanson. “You ready to win this game, Jay?”

  Swanson looked surprised. But after stiffening for a split second, he nodded. “Damn right I am.”

  “Okay. Remember the play we’ve run a couple times today—‘Weak right’? I promise it’ll be wide open.”

  The play was fairly basic: Danny would dribble to the left of the key and get the ball to Terrell in the post. They were counting on Danny’s man—probably Alex Mayer—staying with him, because he had made three threes in the fourth quarter. Swanson had missed twice. So, in all likelihood, Swanson’s man would leave him on the right side of the key to double Terrell. As soon as that happened, Terrell would reverse the ball to Swanson for what should be an open shot. If, by some chance, there was no double-team, Terrell would be on his own to get a shot over Jordan.

  They inbounded. Danny swerved left as Terrell posted up, arms extended, calling for the ball. Danny got the pass to him with five seconds left. Terrell saw that Mayer had stayed with Danny as he drifted toward the corner. Just as Coach Wilcox had predicted, Swanson’s man bolted through the key to try to strip Terrell if he put the ball on the floor.

  Terrell saw him coming and never dribbled. He made one quick fake and then coolly pitched the ball to Swanson on the far side of the court. He could see that Swanson was almost into his shooting motion as soon as he caught the ball.

  The buzzer went off with the ball in the air.

  Swish.

  Everyone was rushing to mob Swanson, Terrell, and Danny included. The final score was 93–91. When they unpiled, the UBS sideline guy was standing there with a big grin on his face, saying, “Jay, let me get you here for a minute.”

  “Sure,” Swanson said, grinning.

  Terrell saw Danny start to say something, but Swanson shook his head. “I got this.”

  He stood next to the very short sideline guy as they waited for a cue. “Thanks, guys,” the TV man said. “Jay, tell us what happened on that last play.”

  “No,” Swanson said, looking down at him. “One of your people told us at halftime that you didn’t need to talk to us. So go talk to the Riverboats. We dedicate this win to Omar Whytlaw.”

  Before the sideline guy could say another word, Swanson turned and walked away into the waiting arms of his teammates, who pummeled him as if he’d just hit the winning shot all over again.

  PART II

  FOURTEEN

  After his performances in Teaneck and at the other all-star tournaments he played in during July, Terrell Jamerson was rated the number one high school player in the country going into his senior season. Michael Jordan was number two.

  Terrell’s mom was proud and amazed. She knew her son was a standout player, and she’d certainly noticed the flood of phone calls and letters from college coaches and a staggering number of other “interested parties”—they’d already changed their phone number three times to try to escape the constant ringing. Still, somehow, the number one ranking crystallized things for Melinda Jamerson. Her son had a huge opportunity here.

  But every time Terrell looked at those rankings, he thought about Omar Whytlaw, who was now in a rehabilitation center in Chicago trying to learn how to live his life without the use of his legs. Things change.

  In September, they decided which coaches to invite for official home visits. Mike Krzyzewski from Duke was high on Terrell’s list. He was college basketball’s all-time winningest coach—a no-brainer. In addition, Terrell had asked Roy Williams from North Carolina; Mike Todd, the coach at Massachusetts State; Grant Hathaway from the University of Atlanta; and Ben Howland, the coach at UCLA.

  Terrell suspected his mom wasn’t going to let him go to college in California, but when he’d visited UCLA, mostly to see what Los Angeles was like, he’d been really impressed. Hathaway and Atlanta had made the cut because Barrett Stephenson, the coach at Concord High School—who happened to be dating Terrell’s mom—felt that the U of A was an up-and-coming program.

  It was slightly surreal, having coaches he’d watched on TV now sitting in his living room, telling him how he could be a star at their schools and, later, in the NBA. On the court, Terrell felt at home—in control. But oddly, here—at home, surrounded by coaches singing his praises—he felt out of place. It was hard to think. Hard to know how to choose.

  After each set of college coaches had gone, Coach Wilcox, Coach Stephenson, and his mom would turn to him, and Terrell would shrug and say, “They were nice. I’d like to visit the campus and get to know some of their players.”

  But then came Coach K…

  Krzyzewski bowled Terrell over with his humor and his honesty. Terrell felt like Coach K was talking to him rather than at him. He’d brought Jeff Capel and Steve Wojciechowski, his two top assistants, with him and Terrell liked them too. Coach K’s pitch wasn’t that different from what the other coaches were saying, except for two things: He didn’t act as if Terrell was the greatest player he’d ever recruited in his life.

  And, maybe more important, he’d told him very specifically he was not going to recruit Danny Wilcox. The other coaches made it clear they’d love to have Danny if that would make Terrell happy.

  “I believe Danny’s good enough to play a role for us,” Krzyzewski had said. “But I’m not going to recruit him for two reasons. First, it’s not fair to him to have
people say we only recruited him so we could get you to come to Duke. Second, I know Tommy Amaker would love to have him at Harvard, and Danny can be a star there. He can also get a pretty decent education.”

  Terrell wondered what Krzyzewski would have said if he’d told him that he was going to go to college with Danny—period. He and Danny had talked about it but had decided it was a bad idea—for almost exactly the reasons Krzyzewski had brought up.

  After Krzyzewski and his assistants left, Coach Wilcox had looked at Terrell and said—as usual—“What’d you think?”

  This time Terrell smiled. “Where do I sign?”

  “I agree,” his mom said.

  Coach Wilcox and Coach Stephenson nodded.

  Since it was September, he couldn’t actually sign a letter of intent to go to Duke. The first chance to do that would come in November. Still, they all agreed that he would call Coach K the next day to tell him he’d decided. Then there’d be press conferences and the inevitable media, but for once Terrell didn’t mind the idea.

  That night before he went to bed, Terrell had sent Danny a two-word text saying, “It’s Duke.”

  Danny had apparently been staring at his cell phone, because about five seconds after Terrell hit send, a reply came flying back: “Fantastic!”

  Terrell slept better that night than he had in weeks.

  But the clear picture he had in his mind when Krzyzewski left his house quickly became murky the following day. When Terrell came down to breakfast, Coach Stephenson was sitting at the kitchen table with a coffee mug in his hands.

  Even though his mom and Coach Stephenson had been seeing each other for over a year, he almost never spent the night, and, at least in Terrell’s memory, he had never done it on a school night. But his mom was standing at the kitchen counter making eggs and bacon, like it was a regular morning.

  “Morning, Mom…Coach,” Terrell said, trying to not seem surprised by Coach Stephenson’s presence. He sat down and took a sip of the orange juice that was on the table. His mom raised an eyebrow at Coach Stephenson, who clapped Terrell on the shoulder—something he had never done before. “Quite a night, wasn’t it?” he said.

  “Yeah—the best,” Terrell answered.

  “You comfortable with your decision?” Coach Stephenson asked.

  “Oh yeah,” Terrell said. “I can’t wait to tell everybody. Can’t wait for the signing date, so people will stop bothering me.”

  Coach Stephenson laughed—not a real laugh but a fake, forced laugh. Terrell caught his mom giving him a look. What was going on?

  “Listen, Terrell, I understand why you want this over with. I get that…,” Coach Stephenson said. His voice trailed off.

  “But…?” Terrell said.

  “But I’m not sure you should rush into this just to get it over with. It’s too important to rush. You want to be sure so you don’t make a mistake.”

  Terrell was confused. “How could it possibly be a mistake to pick Duke and Coach K?”

  Another fake laugh. Terrell had never seen Coach Stephenson look so uncomfortable.

  “You’re right. Obviously. Duke. Coach K. But…”

  “But what?” Terrell snapped, finally out of patience.

  “Terrell, watch your tone,” his mother said, finally proving she hadn’t lost her voice overnight.

  “Sorry,” Terrell said. “But I don’t get what’s going on here. Last night you said—”

  Coach Stephenson cut in. “Last night I didn’t want to say anything in front of Andy…Coach Wilcox. He’s not family.”

  Now Terrell was mad. He liked Coach Stephenson, but there wasn’t anyone he trusted more than Andy Wilcox—especially when it came to basketball. With the possible exception of Danny. “ ‘He’s not family,’ ” he repeated. “And you are?”

  “Terrell!” His mom again.

  “I’m sorry, Mom, but what the hell is going on here? Ten hours ago we all said Duke. Now all of a sudden it’s, ‘Let’s think about this.’ What happened?”

  His mom set a plate of eggs and bacon in front of him, but Terrell couldn’t eat.

  “Terrell, I know how important this decision is and how emotional it can be,” she said as she sat down at the table. She leveled him with a look. “But you know how I feel about using profanity in this house.”

  Terrell’s mom was about five foot seven, meaning she was a foot shorter than he was, and she weighed about a hundred pounds less than he did. That didn’t mean he wasn’t scared of her.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  “We just think you need to visit all the schools before you make a decision,” Coach Stephenson said. “I mean, you haven’t even made your official visit to Duke. How can you be so sure?”

  “I was there in August, remember? Danny and I took that trip and stopped at six different schools, including Duke and Carolina. You even said back then it was better to just walk around on our own rather than get the grand tour on an official visit. I’ve seen the place. I know exactly what I’m getting.”

  “But you don’t know what you might get at another school—” Coach Stephenson stopped suddenly.

  “What does that mean?” Terrell said.

  “It means,” his mom said, “that Duke may very well be the right place for you. But you owe it to the other coaches who came here to talk to us to at least see their schools.”

  “Mom, I made my official visit to UCLA, and I’ve seen Duke and Carolina—”

  “That leaves Mass State and Atlanta,” Coach Stephenson said. “You haven’t seen either of them yet.”

  “I’m not all that interested in Mass State—we’ve talked about that,” Terrell said. “I want to go someplace warmer.”

  “Atlanta’s warmer,” his mom said.

  He nodded. “I know. But I thought Coach Wilcox was right when he said we should watch out for newer programs trying to use me to get to the big time. Plus, none of us liked Coach Hathaway all that much.” He was giving his mom the pleading look he used when he wanted her to trust that he knew what he was doing.

  But she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at Coach Stephenson, who said, “Terrell, you need to carry the process through to the finish line, then decide. We’re all agreed on that, right? So make the rest of your visits, and then we’ll reconvene. If your choice is still Duke, I’ll be one hundred percent behind you.”

  He spoke with an air of finality. As if he was Terrell’s father. As if Terrell needed his permission. And that pissed Terrell off as much as anything. Terrell’s father had died when he was a baby, so he’d never really known him. It had always been just him and his mom, and that was enough—more than enough.

  But his mom was clearly with Coach Stephenson on this. And Terrell was so thrown by that fact that he gave in. Fine. He’d go through the motions and make the visits in October. Whatever.

  Terrell was sound asleep when he became vaguely aware that the phone was ringing downstairs. This wasn’t unusual, although his mom had just changed their phone number again.

  It was Saturday, and practice wasn’t until 11:00. Specifically, this morning was the first practice of his senior season, and he knew it was going to be kind of a media circus. Danny had told him that his dad said close to a hundred media members were planning to come.

  He groaned and was about to roll over when he heard his mother’s voice from downstairs. “Terrell, you’ve got a call down here,” she said.

  “Who is it?” he yelled back, thinking whoever it was could call back later.

  “Mike Krzyzewski,” his mom said.

  Terrell sat straight up in bed. “Be right down!” he called back.

  He scrambled out of bed and took the stairs down three at a time.

  “Did I wake you?” Coach K asked.

  “No, Coach. I mean, I was just, you know, waking up.”

  Terrell heard Krzyzewski laugh. He felt embarrassed that he was stumbling over his words.

  “What time is practice today?” Krzyzewski asked. His
tone was that of a friend calling a friend. He could have been Danny. Except that Terrell wouldn’t have sprinted down the steps to talk to Danny.

  “Eleven o’clock,” Terrell said.

  “Listen, Terrell, I called just to tell you one thing, and it has nothing to do with whether you’re going to come to Duke or not. You already know how I feel about that. I talked to Coach Wilcox last night, and he told me about all the media coming today and how tough it’s been for you since the summer, dealing with everyone who wants to be your new best friend.”

  Terrell laughed. That, he thought, is an understatement.

  Krzyzewski went on. “Don’t worry about any of it. It will all take care of itself. Play basketball—enjoy basketball—and keep trying to get better. Take care of your classes and your grades. And remember who your real friends are. Just worry about those three things and you’ll be fine. More than fine.”

  Terrell wanted to blurt out, Coach, I’m coming to Duke! but his mom was standing nearby. So he settled for “Thanks, Coach. It’s great of you to call.”

  “Have fun today, Terrell,” Coach K said. “Okay?”

  “Got it.”

  “We’ll talk soon. And if you ever want to talk to me, you know where to find me.”

  “Thanks, Coach.”

  He hung up. His mom was still standing there. “What was that about?”

  “He just wanted to wish me luck starting practice and to remind me to have fun.”

  His mom nodded. “Uh-huh. And to remind you he wants you to come to Duke.”

  Terrell looked at her for a moment and started to say something. He stopped himself, hearing Coach K’s words in his head: “Remember who your real friends are.”

  “He never brought that up,” he finally replied.

  “Hmm,” his mother said. She turned and walked toward the kitchen. “I’ll make breakfast.”

  “I’ll go shower.”

  He walked slowly back up the stairs, wondering who his real friends were. He trusted Danny implicitly. And Coach Wilcox, even though the dudes had told him over and over again that he shouldn’t. Was it possible that his mom wasn’t one of his real friends? The thought actually made his head hurt. But she and Coach Stephenson had been acting strange since Coach K’s visit.