After a few red possessions with Wakefield playing the point, Coach Archer had him switch with Alex. On the very first play after the switch, Wakefield bumped Alex from behind and Alex lost control of the ball. Coach Archer and Coach Birdy were, as usual, refereeing. Alex heard the whistle and Wakefield was called for the foul.
It was that way for about ten minutes. Every time one of the backups couldn’t stay with one of the starters, they fouled. It was as if they had gotten together before practice and said, If we can’t guard ’em, we’ll foul ’em.
It didn’t take long for Coach Archer to figure out what was going on. After Early practically mauled Jonas as he was releasing a three-point shot, Coach Archer blew his whistle and didn’t even bother calling the foul.
“Everyone to the jump circle,” he ordered.
Coach Archer walked into the middle of the circle and looked at all his players.
“We’ve got a problem here, and we might as well address it right now,” he said. “There are three guys on this team today who were not on it when we started practice in November. As it happens, they’ve all earned the right to play a lot of minutes.
“Wakefield, my plan right now is to keep starting you, because I want a senior out there to start the game and because Alex gives us a burst of energy coming in off the bench.
“But I am not going to tolerate this constant chippiness.” His voice was low, but intense, and he was looking at Wakefield and Early and the other three seniors. “We already lost Myers for a handful of games because you”—he pointed at Wakefield—“resorted to dirty play. And that will not happen again.”
He stopped and looked around the circle of players. “Try to remember we’re all on the same team. I know everyone wants to play—I respect that; I like that. And, as I said to you before, we need everyone in this gym to contribute if we’re going to be a good team. But the next time anyone commits a cheap foul or pushes or shoves for any reason other than to try to get to a loose ball or a rebound, you aren’t playing the next game. Maybe two. If you think I’m bluffing, try me.”
He looked at each of them again, pausing to look Wakefield, Early, McAndrews, and Wilson right in the eye. Only Wakefield, Alex noticed, held his gaze. None of the four said anything.
“Okay,” Coach Archer continued. “I’m going to take your silence to mean you understand. I know I’m new to you older guys and you are still learning about me just as I’m learning about you. But I seriously doubt any of you think that I’m going to do anything but play the guys I believe give us the best chance to win.
“I know the presence of Myers, Ellington, and now Bellotti means that some of you are going to play less. I know firsthand that doesn’t feel good. Check my playing time in college. It was, to put it mildly, limited. But I contributed to my team. I came to practice and played hard—and clean—every day. I pulled for my teammates. I learned the opponent’s plays so I could run them as effectively as possible during practice. I’ll say this one last time: every one of you standing here right now can make us a better team—a pretty good team from what I saw last night.
“But it’s up to you. It all depends on your attitude. You want to come in here and be disruptive by fouling on every play or by not paying attention when we walk through things—that’s fine. I’ll bring some kids up from the JVs who will do what we ask, even if they can’t do it as well as you guys can.
“It’s your call. All I ask is that you be fair with me and with your teammates, and I promise I’ll be fair with you.”
He looked at all of them again.
“Anyone want to say anything?” Coach Archer asked. “If you do, say it right now. I don’t want this to linger.” It was the proverbial you could hear a pin drop moment.
Nothing. He clapped and put his whistle to his lips to send everyone back to their positions. But just before he could blow his whistle, Alex heard Zane Wakefield’s voice.
“Coach, I do have one question,” he said.
“Fire away, Wakefield.”
“Do you think you can be fair to everybody on the team if you’re dating the mother of one of your players?”
For a moment, the gym was completely silent, everyone seemingly frozen on the spot where they were standing. Coach Archer let the whistle drop and stared at Wakefield for a few seconds—which felt to Alex like several minutes.
Then Coach Archer smiled and folded his arms. If the thought crossed his mind to deny what Wakefield had just said or to express shock or outrage, it didn’t show. Alex felt himself shaking. How in the world had Wakefield found out? He wanted to deck him, but there was no time because Coach Archer had quickly found his voice.
“Tell you what, Wakefield, let’s do this,” he said. “Let’s take a vote on who your teammates think should be getting the most minutes at point guard. In fact, I’ll take it a step further. I’ll leave the gym while you guys vote. So will Coach Birdy, so no one feels like they’re going to be in trouble for disagreeing with the lineup Coach Birdy and I believe gives us our best chance to win.”
He nodded at Steve Holder. “Steve, you’re in charge of the vote. Come and get us in my office when you’re finished.”
He turned and started walking away.
“Coach, you don’t have to…,” Wakefield said, but the two coaches were already leaving.
Holder waited until the door was closed, then turned to his teammates. “I’m not going to say a word until we vote,” he said. “Then, as captain, I’d like to say a few things before we ask the coaches to come back. So, let’s get this over with.
“Everyone who thinks Myers should play the majority of minutes at the point, raise your hand.”
The hands of four starters went up instantly—Holder included. Alex also put his hand up. After a brief pause, McAndrews and Wilson put their hands up too. That gave Alex seven of twelve votes.
“Just for the record, those who think Wakefield should be playing more, raise your hands.”
Wakefield and Tony Early both put their hands up. Holder looked at the other three seniors—Pete Taylor, Larry Ceplair, and Arnold Bogus. “You guys haven’t voted.”
“I abstain,” Bogus said. “I understand how Zane and Tony feel. I also understand what Coach is trying to do.”
Taylor and Ceplair both nodded.
Holder shrugged. “Fine. The official vote is seven for Myers, two for Wakefield, three abstentions.” He looked at Wakefield. “Want a recount, Zane?”
Wakefield said nothing, and Holder shook his head in disgust.
“Wakefield, Early, if you don’t like the way this team’s being coached, you should quit. We can take a vote on that too, if you want.”
“I never asked for a damn vote,” Wakefield snapped.
“No—you just brought up an issue that has nothing to do with basketball just to embarrass your coach or to try to make one of your teammates feel bad, or both. If you don’t want to be part of this team, get the hell out of here. If anyone disagrees with me on that, say so.”
He looked around. No one said a word.
Holder turned to Todd May, the team manager, who had been standing off to the side.
“Go tell the coaches we’re ready to play basketball,” he said. “Reds, it’s our ball. Alex, stay in red. Whites, you better be ready to play some defense.”
There was little life to the rest of practice. Told not to play dirty, or semi-dirty, the whites responded by not trying very hard. Alex could tell by the look on his face that Coach Archer was seething, but apparently one confrontation per day was about all he could handle. With little competition from the whites, the reds got sloppy and lost focus. The last hour of the practice was pretty much a waste of time.
Clearly, Coach Archer could see that. At 5:10—twenty minutes before they had to give up the court to the girls’ team—he called a halt.
The team gathered around him at midcourt. He had little to say. “If we practice like this tomorrow, I can promise you we won’t win on Friday,” he sai
d. “Which will be too bad, because even though Bryn Mawr’s good, it’s an eminently winnable game, and that would be a big deal for all of us.
“You all have to decide what kind of team you want to be.” He looked directly at Wakefield and Early. “And if you don’t want to be part of this team, and I mean part of it, you need to come see me. Like I said before, we’ve got guys on the JV who would love to have your uniforms.
“Steve.”
He turned and walked away as Holder stepped into the middle of the circle, his right arm in the air. “Let’s hear it on three,” he said. “Team!”
They put their arms up and said, “One, two, three, team!”
Alex noticed that Wakefield and Early had simply walked away without taking part in the end-of-practice cheer. He was neither surprised nor disappointed. Maybe, he thought, they were going to talk to Coach Archer.
No such luck.
Wakefield and Early were at practice the next day, and little changed. A couple of times Coach Archer stopped practice and had everyone run suicides. All that did was sap their energy—already lagging—a little bit more. The team was now clearly divided into four different cliques: the four starters and Alex, the sixth man, who were all in agreement with their coach and wanted things to go better; McAndrews and Wilson, who didn’t like losing minutes but weren’t bailing completely because they still wanted to get playing time; the three seniors at the end of the bench, whose roles hadn’t really changed in the new order but who felt obligated to somehow stand up for Wakefield and Early; and of course, Wakefield and Early, who were mad at the world.
It made for a very unpleasant—to say the least—feeling in the gym, and Coach Archer seemed to have no answer for it. Alex sensed that if the coach kicked Wakefield and Early off the team for bad attitudes, the other three seniors would walk with them. Sure, they could bring up JVs to fill the uniforms, but as a coach with a grand total of three career wins, Archer didn’t really want the dissension inside his team to become a public spectacle. Alex also suspected that he was hoping as long as Wakefield and Early were still on the team, they wouldn’t go public with the gossip that the coach was dating the mother of a player.
Alex hadn’t told his mom what had happened at practice on Wednesday because he figured she would stop going out with Coach Archer if he did. He didn’t want to be responsible for that, even if it might make his life easier.
With all that on his mind, he didn’t practice especially well on Thursday. He was almost afraid that Wakefield might ask for a recount. But when Alex said so to Jonas after practice, his friend laughed and said, “On your worst day, with one hand tied behind your back, you’re still better than Wakefield.”
The bus ride over to Bryn Mawr was pretty quiet. What’s more, the Lions struggled to get it together when the game began. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Bryn Mawr’s guards—Posnock and Morgan, both seniors, were every bit as good as Steve Holder had said they were. And the rest of their team was solid. They came out in a zone defense, which forced the Lions to shoot from outside, and their shots just weren’t dropping.
By halftime they trailed 31–21, and Alex honestly wouldn’t have blamed Coach Archer if he had decided to play Wakefield and Early for most of the second half. Alex had been dominated by Posnock and had four turnovers and zero assists. Part of the reason he didn’t have any assists was because on the occasions when he had been able to get the ball to either Jonas or Max Bellotti for an open shot, they had missed: Jonas was zero of five and Bellotti one of six—the one on a breakaway layup when Steve Holder had managed to poke the ball free from the Chargers center and Bellotti had scooped it up on the run for an easy basket.
Much to Alex’s surprise, Coach Archer didn’t read them the riot act at halftime.
“I don’t want to say this was totally predictable,” he said, “but this was totally predictable. You can’t succeed at any sport if you feel like your teammates are your opponents. Let’s face it, that’s what we’ve got here, right? We’re a team divided, and some of that’s my fault. I’m willing to own it.
“But all of you,” he added, moving his finger in a circle so he could point at all twelve of them, “have to own it too.”
He paused. “Look, they’re good. No one really expected us to come out here and win, so if we lose it’ll be a blip on the radar at school and in the league. Heck, we haven’t come close to beating anybody good yet, have we?
“But I know, and I think you all know, we’re plenty good enough to beat this team. Just calm down. Alex, you don’t have to beat Posnock off the dribble on every possession—especially when they’re in zone. Recognize what you’ve got out there. Jonas, Max, you’re both rushing your shots. This is a good high school team we’re playing, not the Spurs. Take your time when you catch the ball and you’re open. If you get a shot blocked, it’s on me—okay?
“Steve, keep doing what you’re doing. You other guys, what’s he doing? Just playing—that’s all. That’s why we’re in the game. Patton, Cory, Jameer, just do what you need to: play defense, rebound, and keep the ball moving on offense. If you’ve got a shot, take it; don’t be scared to do that.”
He looked at them all again. “Answer me honestly, guys—is there anyone in here who doesn’t think we’re good enough to win this game?”
Alex almost expected Wakefield and Early to say something, but the locker room was completely silent.
“Good,” Coach Archer said. “Then let’s go out and do it.”
Bryn Mawr’s gym was tiny even by high school standards, maybe half the size of Chester Heights’ gym, which seated about thirty-five hundred. Because of that, it had been packed to the rafters even with a lightly regarded opponent. It was a Friday night in January, and there was no snow to keep people home, so anyone who cared at all about the Chargers had packed the place.
The crowd had been loud in the first half with their team in control of the game. But they clearly weren’t prepared for what took place in the third quarter. It began when Alex, helped by a solid Patton Gormley screen near the top of the key, got a step on Posnock and then, spotting Bellotti in the corner, got the ball to him for an open three. The shot was off Max’s fingertips almost as soon as he caught the pass, and it hit nothing but the bottom of the net.
Coach Archer had told them in the huddle that Alex would start the second half. “No screwing around now,” he said—to everyone but also, it seemed, as a reminder to himself that he simply couldn’t chance letting the deficit grow by starting Wakefield. “Let’s go out and set a tone—our tone.”
Max’s basket did exactly that. It wasn’t so much that Bryn Mawr came out playing worse but that Chester Heights came out playing better. Bellotti’s opening shot seemed to loosen everybody up. Jonas hit a three from the corner a moment later, and then Alex went all the way to the rim, made the layup, and got fouled by a late-arriving Charger defender.
Meanwhile, Morgan missed a contested jumper and Posnock threw a pass too hard to center Jason Adams and it went off his fingertips. In under two minutes the Lions had put together a 9–0 run and a one-sided game went to 31–30. Bryn Mawr’s Coach Splaver called time to settle his team down. Posnock and Adams worked a perfect pick-and-roll off the time-out, and the Chargers rediscovered their rhythm. But the Lions were locked in now, understanding that their coach was right—this was a winnable game.
The game rocked back and forth, both teams making plays. Alex remembered football season when he had entered games with his team trailing and the game seeming to hang in the balance on every play. This wasn’t all that different. As the point guard, he was still the quarterback, but the decisions he had to make were more split second: Dribble and penetrate, or pull up for a shot? Find Max or Jonas on the perimeter, or push the ball inside to Holder? McAndrews and Wilson came in to relieve Gormley and, for short spells, Jonas and Max. Neither Holder nor Alex came out at all. Alex didn’t think about his wrist once—which he guessed meant it was fully healed.
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Wakefield and Early might as well have been nailed to the bench. Alex didn’t think it was because Coach Archer was making any sort of point. The coach just didn’t believe they could compete in this game.
Holder picked up his fourth foul with 4:53 to go and the score tied at 56–56. Coach Archer decided to take him out in the hope that the team could hang in without him for a couple of minutes. He put Gormley on Adams. Coach Splaver knew what he was doing. Twice Posnock found Adams in the low post. Twice Gormley—giving away four inches—had no chance to stop him, fouling him as he scored the second time. When Adams made the ensuing free throw to make it 61–56, Coach Archer called time to get Holder back into the game and to calm his team down.
By now the gym was so loud he had to pull his players close to him in the huddle and shout to be heard.
“Those last two baskets are on me—not you, Patton—understand?” he said. “Steve, you gotta play with four fouls. I shouldn’t have taken you out.” He looked at Alex. “They’ve killed us with pick-and-roll all night. You ready to give ’em some of their own medicine? We haven’t run one the whole game. You do it right and Steve will get a basket and get fouled—I promise.”
He looked at all of them. Alex noticed that all eyes were locked on him. None of the players who had been in the game were thinking about cliques or playing time or who they liked or disliked. The others were leaning into the huddle, listening intently.
As the horn sounded to send the players back on court, Alex felt someone pat him on the back. To his surprise, he turned and saw Tony Early.
“Come on, Myers, we need this basket right now,” he said. “Go do it.”
Alex almost did a double take. But there was no time to wonder what was going on. They had a game to win.
The pick-and-roll had become the offense du jour of the NBA. It wasn’t as easy for younger players to run because the timing and the execution had to be perfect or it would lead to a certain turnover. The play itself was basic: big guy comes up to screen—or set a pick—and little guy uses the screen to create space, while the big guy rolls in the direction of the basket and waits for a pass. If the man guarding him tries to stop the little guy, the big guy should be open.
The Sixth Man Page 13