by Rich Wallace
Alan points to the Baptists as we huddle up before the game. “That is the most patient, team-oriented team in the league,” he says, “and if we let down tonight, they’ll send us packing again. We’re at least thirty points better than they are. Let’s show it.”
“You guys starting?” Beth asks.
“Yeah,” Alan says. “We’re starting.”
I don’t shoot at all the first few times we have possession, working it around, finding Alan and Robin inside for a pair of layups apiece. Next time up, I fake a pass to the corner and drive, hitting a soft jumper in the lane to make it 10-4. They call time-out.
“Let’s press,” I say in the huddle. “Just a couple of times, just me and Peter. Let’s put them away early.”
Alan nods. “Okay,” he says. “Next basket. Press, but don’t foul.”
They don’t expect it. Peter tips the inbounds pass and I grab it, laying it up off the backboard. We go right back into the press, and they try a pass to midcourt to break it. Beth steps in and intercepts it. We pull it back out, work it around, and Robin hits Alan inside for an easy layup. We’re up by twelve and everything’s clicking. By halftime, we’ve built it to twenty.
“Now we’ll sit,” Alan says. “Peter play the pivot, Beth bring up the ball. Play tough, deliberate defense and work for good shots on offense. Jay and I will give you some rests, but I want you guys to do the work. Let’s go.”
It’s not the prettiest half of basketball, but we maintain the lead and you can see some confidence developing. I go in and play center for about three minutes, which is fun. I can get up higher than any of their players, so I snag a bunch of rebounds.
We’re ready for Thursday. We win and we’re in. If Kaipo’s team beats us, we’ll be tied with one game to play, and it’d almost definitely come down to a play-off. I don’t want to let that happen.
The Sound in My Head
I decide not to call Julie from the bar. I want to disassociate this relationship from that place. So I take a break and go over to the diner.
A guy who I assume is her father answers.
“Is, uh, is Julie there?” I say.
“Hold the wire.” I hear him set the phone down, then there’s silence for about a minute until she picks up.
“It’s Jay,” I say.
“Hey,” she says, and I don’t hear any challenge in her voice. She sounds glad to hear from me. “What’s going on?”
“Not much,” I say. “I wanted to, you know, set something up. You said you’d want to go out sometime.”
“Sure. When?”
“Well, because of work and all, I’m pretty busy this week. But maybe a week from tonight. Is that all right?”
“Let me think. Yeah, that’s great. I mean, I’ll have to have another uncle die or something, but I’ll work it out.”
“Okay. Would a movie be okay?”
“Sure.”
“Okay.” I let go of my breath. “Good.”
“Great. You want to get together before that?” she asks.
“Yeah. I want to.”
“You don’t work Saturday afternoon, do you?”
“No. Not until about five.”
“I’ll come pick you up,” she says. “Like at noon. We can hang out. Whatever.”
“Great,” I say. “That’s great.”
“Yeah,” she says. “I think it will be.”
Thursday. Beth arrives at the gym with Kaipo, and she’s hanging on his arm. Alan and I go over, and Alan waves her toward him and says, “Later.” He shakes hands with Brian, who gives him a playful shove on the shoulder.
Brian and I smack hands. “Good luck,” he says.
“You too.”
Alan sort of drags Beth down to our end of the gym.
We’re quiet while we warm up, but very focused. My energy level is high, and I’m working to control it. I take a lot of jump shots, and follow up the misses with high, leaping put-backs.
Robin and Beth tie their hair back. Alan goes down to the locker room to throw up.
The bleachers are getting full. Somebody brought in a boom box and it’s playing some rap shit.
I just want this game to get started.
Alan waves us over to the bench, and we huddle around him as he stares at the floor. “This game means a lot to me,” he says. “It means a lot to all of you, and to the guys on the other team. It may mean something to the other players in the league …. It means absolutely nothing to anyone else in the world.” He looks up, catches my eyes, then Peter’s, then Beth’s. “Do you give a shit? Do you want this thing as much as I do? … Let’s kick some ass.”
We all put our fists together and shout “Let’s go!” louder than we ever have, with an edge.
We’re maybe too intense in the opening minutes, too physical, hustling just a little more than we need to. We make a few sloppy plays, but we keep it even. The problem is the fouls. I draw one and Alan gets two before the first quarter is half over.
“You guys,” Beth says during a time-out, shaking her head. “We lose one of you and forget it.”
“We’ll settle down,” Alan says.
I wipe my face with the front of my shirt. My legs are tired. I never expected that.
I get in a shooting zone in the second quarter, hitting a couple of short jumpers and a long one. Kaipo’s had only one steal from me, and I’ve kept him from shooting as much as he normally would. But he’s getting it inside to Robinson, who’s only hit a couple of baskets, but did draw those fouls on Alan.
Kaipo crosses midcourt with the ball and I guard him close. I don’t go for the steal because he almost always drives past me when I do. But I have to keep the pressure on, keep him from getting an open shot, even from twenty feet out.
He gets it in to Robinson, but Alan’s got him covered good and Peter slides over to help. Kaipo drifts toward the baseline and I race to stay with him. Robinson gets him the ball and he goes up with it, shooting it over my outstretched hand and sinking it cleanly. They’re up by two.
Alan inbounds the ball to me, and I take a quick breath as I start to dribble. “Watch it,” Alan yells, but it’s too late. Kaipo flicks it out of my hands and drives to the hoop. Alan darts over and tries to draw a charge, but Kaipo slips cleanly past him and banks it in for two more.
They hadn’t been pressing, but I should have been ready. Alan slaps the ball between his hands and passes in to me, and I shield it with my body this time. When I turn, I see Kaipo at midcourt, with a hint of a smile on his face.
“How much time?” I yell, as I dribble past the scorer’s table.
“Less than a minute.”
I decide that we should hold it for the last shot of the half. We can’t see the clock, but the scorer gives you a “Twenty … fifteen … ten” warning at the end of every quarter.
I wave Alan out from underneath and pass him the ball. We work it around the perimeter, killing time, but everybody knows I need to end up with it. Alan has the ball at “Fifteen,” and I run over and get it. I dribble to the top of the key with Kaipo on me tight, keeping my shoulder in his face, protecting the ball.
I feint right, then drive into the lane with Kaipo all over me. I pop up, drifting away. All I see is blue shirt, but I get the shot off as he makes contact with my arm.
The shot goes in. The foul’s called, too, and I make the free throw to cut the lead to a point at halftime.
We head for the bench, but Alan says, “Downstairs,” so we follow him down the narrow back stairway. He pokes his head in the men’s locker room, but then comes out. He looks at Robin. “Check the women’s room,” he says.
She does. “It’s empty,” she says, so we go in there and sit down. I get a quick look at Spit’s mural, which is vivid and impressive.
“Great half,” Alan says. “We’re going to a modified zone on defense. Jay, you stay on Kaipo. Peter, you take Robinson. Stay in his face. If he gets past you, I’m there, but don’t give him an open jumper. I’ll kill them off the boards if you can ke
ep him away from the basket. Robin and Beth, you play the wings. Don’t get caught in a screen.”
“Don’t worry if they get a guy loose in the corner,” I say. “They’ve only got two guys who can hit that consistently—Brian and Robinson. And if Robinson plays outside, they’ve got nothing underneath.”
Alan sticks his fist out and we all put ours out, too. “All right,” he says, “let’s go. We own this league. Let’s do it.”
The strategy works. Robinson tries to take advantage of the mismatch with Peter, but his shooting is off and Alan keeps getting rebounds. You can see Robinson’s anger growing; he’s throwing lots of elbows. We build the lead to four, then seven. Alan and I are doing all of the scoring, but the other three know their roles, when to come to the ball, just how to feed it to Alan.
Late in the quarter, I nail a jumper from deep in the corner to extend the lead to eight. I pump my fist as we run downcourt. Kaipo takes the ball and dribbles up slowly. The relaxed, sort of amused look he usually has on his face in these games is gone, replaced with a hardened intensity. He crosses midcourt, takes two quick dribbles, and unleashes a twenty-five footer that swishes cleanly.
I bring it up, work it inside to Alan again, and he pivots and scores. The lead is seven.
Kaipo dribbles up, reaches the same spot as before, and promptly hits another one, never even bothering to look inside. The lead is four. We get another layup. He hits another bomb. The lead is three.
I make a bad pass, and one of their guys knocks it clear. Brian gets control and I pick him up in the backcourt. No more open shots.
Ten seconds left in the quarter. I guard him tight. He starts to drive and I backpedal and stumble. He sets up and shoots.
The lead is gone.
“Damn,” Alan says as we get to the bench. “You want to switch?” he asks me, meaning should he guard Kaipo instead?
I shake my head. “No. We’re still outplaying them. The offense is working. I’ll shut him down.”
Alan looks at Josh and Randy, who haven’t played a second. He takes a deep breath. “Beth. Take a short rest. Randy, you come in. You’ve got one assignment, and one assignment only. Harass the shit out of Brian in the backcourt. You won’t get a steal, but you might get on his nerves a little.
“Beth, you and Josh report in after two minutes for Robin and Randy. Josh, you do exactly what I told Randy to do. You guys don’t have to foul him, just slow him down a little. Jay, you pick up at half-court.”
The Randy Press is about equivalent to having a mosquito harass an elephant, but it does get Kaipo out of his rhythm, if only slightly. He scores the first basket of the quarter, but this time it’s only worth two points and we make him work a little harder to get it.
I dribble up very deliberately. I’ve had some good stretches of basketball this season, some good ones tonight. But these final eight minutes better be like nothing I’ve ever done before.
Kaipo picks me up at midcourt. I watch the movement inside, with Peter and Alan struggling to get free. Kaipo’s all over me, and I do a dumb thing and stop my dribble. They immediately double-team me, but I hear Robin yelling and somehow bounce the ball to her. She’s got an open lane and she drives, but Robinson comes out and cuts her off. She makes a nice pass to Alan, who’s open underneath, and he banks it home to tie the game at 47.
Kaipo hits his sixth straight bucket, I make a driving layup, and he comes back and hits another. Alan calls time-out. Josh and Beth report in.
“Two minutes’ rest, Robin,” Alan says. “Jay, keep chasing that man.”
“I’m playing him full-court the rest of the way,” I say.
“How much time is left?” Peter asks.
“Lots,” Alan says. “Suck it up.”
I slow it down a little. Kaipo’s too hot; I’ve got to break his momentum. I get it in to Alan, and he goes up and pounds it in over Robinson, getting fouled in the process. The free throw gives us back the lead, 52-51.
I press, not going for the steal, but wanting to make Kaipo work for every inch. Then it happens, that rare mistake. He switches hands and slightly loses control, just enough for me to poke a hand in there and knock the ball away. It bounces toward our basket and we scramble toward it. I get a hand on it first, slide onto a knee, and come up with it, maintaining a dribble and stepping toward the hoop. Kaipo’s off balance and can’t help fouling me as I shoot. The ball goes in anyway.
Alan and I slap hands hard as I walk to the foul line. “You make this sucker,” he says.
And I do. A four-point lead is big. We can win this.
I stay in Brian’s face. I’ve got this man now, I know every move. He makes a pass inside, cuts on the give-and-go, takes it back, and goes up for a jumper. And I know it’s coming, I know where it’s going. I time my jump right, get my hand up, and deflect the ball out of bounds.
Alan comes over. We bump chests. He’s steaming.
I stay glued to Kaipo. Robinson inbounds the ball to their other guard, who hasn’t touched it in I don’t know how long. He loses control and Alan grabs it. He cradles it in his arms. I can hear his fierce breathing as I take it from him and dribble.
The thing you’ve gotta know about basketball is that you can play as hard as you want, fight for every rebound, dive for every loose ball, run your ass off up and down the court, but you still have to put the ball in the basket. Shooting the ball through a hoop from eighteen feet away with a man in your face and the pressure on your shoulders is not an easy task in any situation. But somehow you do it, somehow you really can will it to happen. Somehow you don’t allow it not to.
Alan scores again. Robinson takes a time-out with us up by six. Alan tells Robin to get back in there. Four more minutes and we’re champions.
We don’t say much. I’m breathing heavy, my shirt is soaked, but I’m not tired, not at all. In fact, I have to tell myself to stay in control, to not overplay these last few minutes, to not let myself get burned.
We exchange baskets, with Alan getting a pair of layups and Robinson and Kaipo hitting one apiece. Next time up, Brian plays off me a bit, ready to get inside and help out on Alan, who’s been unstoppable this half. I get greedy, I shoot the three. It bangs off the rim, and Kaipo soars for the rebound. He comes down on the run, and I’m caught flat-footed. He goes the length of the court and lays it in. It’s 61-57.
Kill some time, I tell myself. Be patient. I make safe passes, first to Peter, then Robin, coming right back to them and retaking the ball. When Alan gets open, he’s getting the ball. If he doesn’t get open I’m keeping it.
Kaipo finally fouls me. I turn and yell, “Time?”
“One-twenty,” comes the reply.
I sink the first one, miss the second. Robinson comes down with the rebound. Alan stays in his face.
Kaipo hits a three. I dribble up and look inside for Alan, then drive to the hoop, drawing Kaipo and Robinson to me. I spot Peter wide open underneath and send him a soft bounce pass. He fields it and makes the easy layup, the only player other than me or Alan to score for us this half.
It’s 64-60 and there’s about half a minute to play. Kaipo knows they need two scores. He won’t force a three-pointer, but he’ll take it if it’s there. Most important is to make him eat some time.
I hound him good, not giving him a path to the basket. He’s looking patient, but I know he’s aware of the clock. When he starts his drive, I stay with him. I hear Alan yell, “Screen,” and I collide with Robinson near the free-throw line. He shoves me off, the ref blows his whistle, and I figure that has to be an offensive foul. But the call is on Alan instead, who fouled Kaipo as he went up for a shot.
That’s four on Alan, but that won’t be a factor unless we go to overtime.
Kaipo hits both free throws, and they go into a furious full-court press, desperate to get the ball back. Nine seconds left and we’re up by two. They either have to steal it or foul somebody. Alan takes the ball out-of-bounds under their basket and looks at Peter. I yell “No!
” and Alan turns toward me. Kaipo’s all over me, but Alan manages to get me the ball and I’m immediately fouled.
I take a deep breath and walk the length of the court to the free-throw line. Seven seconds left. No matter what I do, Kaipo is going to go down and hit a three-pointer. If I miss this shot, they’ll win the game. If I make the first I’ll get a second one, and the best they could do is send it to overtime. If I make them both, it’s over.
I bounce the ball three times slowly, concentrating on the rim. The sound of the spectators, the breathing of the guys waiting for the rebound, the rubbing of my fingers on the ball as I shut my eyes and inhale, it all finally matches the sound in my head, it all fits together.
Kaipo’s to my right, coiled and intense. I let it fly, softly over the rim, and it swishes cleanly through the net.
The referee slaps the ball back to me and I take another breath and three more dribbles. I squeeze the ball into a universe and send it toward the basket, and I know from the moment of release that it will make it.
I put up my fist as the ball ripples the net and holler, “Don’t foul!”
We’re up by four. They don’t have time to catch us.
Kaipo takes the long inbounds pass, dribbles three times on the run, and cleanly hits a twenty-eight-footer as the final whistle blows. Not enough. We win it.
Alan embraces me. Robin and the others run toward us, yelling and pumping their fists.
Kaipo smacks my shoulder. “Hell of a game,” he says.
“You’re the man.”
Beth hugs me and kisses my cheek, and Kaipo smacks hands with me again. “Most fun I ever had on a basketball court,” he says. “Great job.”
Kaipo’s played bigger games before, and he’ll play plenty of others. This one may be out of his head in an hour, but it sure won’t be out of mine.
Alan and I had our highest-scoring games of the season. I scored thirty-one and Alan had twenty-nine. Kaipo finished with forty-two, but we made him work for every point.
Alan and I go downstairs and sit on the bench in the locker room. He keeps shaking his head, going, “Awesome game. Just awesome.”