The Sixth Man

by John Feinstein

  “Don’t worry about anything happening off court. Let me worry about that.

  “Everybody understand?”

  They did—or at least they said they did.

  “What do you think?” Jonas asked Alex as they walked to the locker room.

  “I think tomorrow’s going to be a long day,” Alex said. “A very long day.”

  Alex was out of bed before sunrise and came downstairs to find his mother already at the kitchen counter drinking her coffee.

  “Trouble sleeping?” she asked as he poured some orange juice.

  “Yeah,” he said. “What about you?”

  “A little,” she admitted. “This is tearing Evan up, as you might imagine. He wants to win the game very badly, but he’s also concerned about Max and about his job. No matter what happens today, he thinks Mr. White will fire him when the season’s over.”

  Alex had thought about that. He had come a long way in his feelings about Coach Archer since the end of November. He and his mom hadn’t talked much about their relationship the past few weeks, but he sensed it had become more serious. She had stopped asking if he was okay with it. It had just become a given.

  He wished the same was true of his relationship with Christine. Things had been so hectic that they’d only been out once in February—another Saturday-afternoon movie, followed by another quick, but very encouraging, kiss on the lips. He guessed they were dating. She wasn’t not his girlfriend….

  It was his dad he was really frustrated about. He had called a few times since the King of Prussia game and seemed genuinely concerned about what was going on. But he never even brought up the possibility of coming to the game, and Alex didn’t ask him about it. There was no point. He and Molly were supposed to go back to Boston at spring break. Molly didn’t want to go. Alex didn’t blame her.

  Alex never would have thought for a second that he’d end up having more faith in Coach Archer than he did in his dad, but at the moment it wasn’t even close.

  Coach Archer had proven to be a good basketball coach once he had gotten past his anti-football bias. And he had handled the situation with Max about as well as anyone could have asked. For him to be fired would be massively unfair. It would also probably mean he’d leave town in search of another job, which Alex knew would make his mom sad.

  He sat down at the table and looked at his mother. “Remember what you told me when we were dealing with the switched blood samples back in the fall?” he said. “You said, ‘Alex, it’s going to work out because the truth is always an absolute defense.’ Well, in this case it’s going to work out because being right is an absolute defense. Coach Archer’s doing the right thing.”

  His mom smiled. “Thanks. I hope that’s true.” She took a long sip of her coffee, then asked, “What would you think about playing the game with no one in the gym? Just players, coaches, and officials?”

  Alex made a face.

  “Yeah,” his mom sighed. “Evan didn’t think it was a good idea either. He said it wasn’t fair to either team, or to Max, really. He thinks the school board just needs to get this right and let Max play.”

  “He’s right,” Alex said.

  “I know,” she said. She stood up, kissed him on the forehead, and said, “I’ll make some pancakes.”

  That sounded good to Alex.

  In fact, the pancakes were the highlight of the morning. By noon, word had spread that the school board had scheduled a conference call for five o’clock. That was the earliest time all nine members were free. Some were traveling. Others had work commitments.

  That meant the players would have to report to the gym and hope for good news before tip-off at seven.

  According to the media, a number of Philadelphia’s local gay and lesbian groups were planning to show up outside the gym to protest Max not being allowed to play. The antigay group from the last game hadn’t said what their plans were, but everyone assumed they’d be at the school in force as well.

  The man who had thrown the baseball, Glenn Greene, had been released on bond that morning after being formally charged with aggravated assault. His statement as he left the courthouse was up on YouTube by lunchtime: “First Jason Collins. Then Michael Sam. After that, a college basketball player. Now a high school kid. Our society is in free fall. Someone has to stand up to the gay rights bullies.”

  It was such twisted logic that Alex found it hard to believe he was serious, but clearly he was—and he wasn’t alone.

  Greene had issued a nonapology apology for what had happened.

  “I’m glad he wasn’t hurt badly,” Greene had said. “I thought his actions were obnoxious, just what you might expect from one of them. But if I had it to do over again, I would simply stand up and say, ‘Sinner, repent.’ ”

  “Unbelievable,” Matt said at lunch.

  “I guess we’re lucky no one was carrying a gun,” Christine said.

  It was that specter that had caused both schools and the conference to agree to pay for full-on, airport-like security. Even the players had to have their bags checked when they arrived and had to be wanded.

  Max had picked up Alex and Jonas at their houses, so the three of them walked in together. Alex couldn’t help pointing out the irony that the security people were wanding the person who might be the target of the nuts they were supposed to be on the lookout for. The security person wasn’t amused.

  “Just doing what we were told to do,” he said. “Don’t need any lip from any of you.”

  Alex was about to respond when Jonas grabbed his arm and put a finger to his lips. Alex knew he was right. There were a lot more important things to worry about right now.

  The locker room was quiet, none of the usual banter or joking around. Alex asked Zane Wakefield if he had any idea about what his father was going to do. Wakefield groaned. “He thinks he has to recuse himself because I’m involved in the game,” he said. “I told him he should do the right thing and let Max play.

  “He said I was being selfish,” Wakefield added, “that I just wanted to win the game. And I said…” He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. “I said that of course I wanted to win the game, but that I cared more about being fair to a guy I’ve come to respect.”

  Alex patted him on the shoulder. Who would have thought there would come a time when he felt sorry for Zane Wakefield—let alone almost liked him.

  Shortly before five-thirty Coach Archer walked in. They all looked up hopefully, but he had no news. Which was bad news.

  “Apparently they’re just now starting the call,” he said. “Someone’s plane was late. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were stalling.”

  “Now that they’ve got all this security, where’s the danger in letting Max play?” Steve Holder asked.

  “I asked Mr. White that a few minutes ago,” Coach Archer said. “He said that just because someone doesn’t have a weapon doesn’t mean there won’t be a riot. I pointed out that with five hundred people outside demanding that Max play, there might be a riot if he doesn’t.”

  But Alex knew there were anti-Max people outside too. His mom had texted him as she was walking in.

  “I know I’m asking the impossible,” Coach Archer continued. “But let’s try to go through our normal pregame. Get your ankles taped. Relax a few minutes; we’ll go out at about 6:15 to warm up.”

  They did the best they could. When they came up the steps to the gym, they could see it was already almost full. There didn’t appear to be any specific factions anywhere—signs had been banned, apparently—but there were very loud cheers when people spotted Max in uniform, and some loud boos.

  There were security people posted all around the court and behind both benches. Alex was reminded of the movie The Longest Yard, about a football game between prison guards and convicts. The atmosphere felt a little like that. Except, as far as he knew, no one on either side had committed a crime.

  It felt good to be moving—going through their usual warm-up drills. Alex no
ticed that several of the Chester players made a point of walking over to Max to shake hands and ask how he was feeling. Each time, the building rocked with cheers—and some boos.

  At 6:45, as always, they headed back to the locker room to relax—ha!—and get their last-minute instructions.

  Coach Archer was pacing—the way he always did—when they piled into the locker room. No one even had to ask the question.

  “Still no word,” he said.

  He pointed at the grease board, where he always wrote down the starting lineups for both teams and then went over matchups. He always did the guards first, the center next, and the two forwards—Max and Patton Gormley—last.

  When he got to Max, whose name was written in its usual spot, he said pointedly, “Waxman is their weakest defensive player, Max. We’re going to come to you early, so be ready.” He paused and smiled. “It also won’t hurt with the crowd if you nail a shot or two right away….”

  He was about to go on when Alex heard Zane Wakefield swear very clearly and loudly. They all stared.

  He held up his phone. “My dad just texted,” he said. “He recused himself, and the vote was four to four. Which means they’re not going to let Max play.”

  There was dead silence in the room. Coach Archer stared straight ahead for a moment, then turned back to the board.

  “If they start to double you, Max, make sure you don’t pick up your dribble too soon.”

  Alex knew what he was doing: sticking to his commitment to play Max until someone stopped him from doing it.

  There was a knock on the door. Alex glanced at the digital clock in the corner that showed how much time was left until tip-off. It said 10:44. They always left the locker room with five minutes left. Coach Archer ignored the knock and was about to start talking again when the door swung open. Mr. White was standing there with Alison Telco and three security guards.

  “The vote is in,” White said. “Our ruling has been upheld. Mr. Bellotti, I’m here to inform you that you cannot play in this game. These gentlemen”—he nodded at the security guards—“will get you safely out of the building once you’ve changed into your street clothes.”

  He looked at the players. “Boys, I’m truly sorry about this.”

  “No you’re not!” Alex blurted.

  He stood up and took a step in White’s direction, although he had no idea what he was going to do if he got to him. A security guard stepped in front of Mr. White.

  “Alex,” Coach Archer said. “Sit down. Let me handle this.”

  Steve Holder said, “No, Coach, let us.” He looked around at his teammates. “Anyone in here going to take the court without Max?”

  Dead silence.

  “You might need more security guards, Mr. White,” Steve said. “Because if Max has to leave, we’re all leaving.”

  Mr. White’s face turned an alarming shade of red. “Don’t be ridiculous. The gym is full, your opponents are here, and your season’s on the line. You will play.”

  He pointed at Coach Archer. “If your team isn’t on the court before the anthem, you’re fired.”

  “That’s fine,” Coach Archer said. “But this is still my locker room for, I’d say, seven more minutes. Leave now—all of you—and let me talk to my team.”

  When the door closed a moment later, Max stood up.

  “Guys, listen,” he said. “I appreciate all of you doing this for me—so much—but you gotta play the game. We can’t let Coach Archer get fired over this. And I honestly believe you can win without me.”

  “Max, sit down,” Steve Holder said, standing up. “We all know you’re doing the honorable thing here. But we’re not going out there without you. Not because we don’t think we can win, but because it would feel unbelievably empty to win without you. Anyone disagree?”

  Alex looked around. No one was saying a word, but every player was nodding. Except someone was missing. Zane Wakefield had disappeared. He must have slipped out when White and the guards had gone.

  “Excuse me, Steve, Coach,” Alex said. “Anyone know where Wakefield went?”

  “I’m right here,” Wakefield said, walking back toward them.

  “Interesting time for a bathroom break, Wakefield,” Coach Archer said, almost smiling.

  Unbelievable, Alex thought. At the most critical moment of the season, perhaps of their lives—

  “I didn’t go to the bathroom, Coach,” Wakefield said. “I went out the back door for a minute to call my father.”

  They all got very quiet very quickly.

  “I told him if he didn’t cast a vote, we were forfeiting the game.

  “And then I asked him how he would feel if it was me they were doing this to. Would he tolerate that for even one second?”

  They all stared at him, waiting for him to finish the story.

  His phone buzzed. Wakefield looked down at the screen and smiled.

  “They just recounted the votes,” he said, his voice cracking. “It’s five to four. Max plays.”

  They were all on their feet screaming. Half the guys were pounding Max, the other half Wakefield. Over the din, Alex finally heard Coach Archer’s voice. They turned to him.

  “Fellas,” he said, a huge smile on his face. “We need to save some energy. We’ve got a game to play.”

  Two minutes later—with the clock under four minutes, not that anyone really cared—they charged out of the locker room. Word had clearly reached Mr. White and company, because no one got in their way as they surged up the steps to the gym. When they got to the top of the stairs, Steve Holder, who was normally the first one out on the court, stopped.

  “Wait, wait,” he said. “Max. How about you lead us onto the court?”

  Max never had a chance to respond, because they were all pushing him to the front.

  “Everyone ready?” Holder said. God, were they ready. “Go, Max!”

  And so Max charged onto the court, followed by his teammates, as most of the building went crazy. Alex saw the Chester players, who were going through their final warm-ups, turn around when they heard the cheers. Almost all of them were smiling. Their coach, Robert Sprau, started yelling for them to turn around and focus on what they were doing.

  Chester had dominated the first game, in part because Alex couldn’t handle point guard Avery Jackson but also because Max had been way off his game. Now, just as Coach Archer had hoped, Max came out flying.

  He made his first three shots—all from beyond the three-point line—and the Lions jumped to a quick 14–5 lead. Alex came in for Wakefield—they exchanged high fives for the first time all season—when it was already 8–3, and the lead kept building. By the end of the first quarter, it was 25–14, and Alex was starting to think all the pent-up emotions they’d had before the game were going to carry them to an easy win.

  Of course it couldn’t possibly be that easy. In the second quarter, Jackson began to use his strength to get inside on Alex, and shooting guard Mike Tuller got hot too, just as Max was cooling off a bit. At halftime, it was 41–40, with Chester Heights clinging to a one-point lead.

  “If I’d told you an hour ago we’d be in here leading by one at half, would you have been okay with that?” Coach Archer said. “This is just the kind of game we expected. You don’t stumble into a championship—you have to go out and win it. You can see the game is there for you, right?”

  They all nodded, sitting on the edge of their chairs, still pumping all sorts of adrenaline. “Okay, we’re going to start the second half in zone, in part to give Alex some more help on Jackson but also because we’ve got some foul trouble. Max, Jonas, Steve, you’ve got two apiece. I may spell you here in the third quarter some to make sure you’re fresh and okay with fouls for the fourth.

  “Everybody okay?”

  They all nodded, ready to run back to the court even though they still had ten minutes left before the second half started. Alex felt as if his heart were about to burst out of his chest.

  The zone helped as the seco
nd half began. Playing a full step back from Jackson, daring him to shoot threes—not his strength—Alex was able to force him to give the ball up sooner than he would have wanted. But Jackson was smart, and found Tuller in the creases for open shots. What’s more, as often happened when a defense played zone, the Clippers began to get offensive rebounds.

  The lead seesawed. Chester Heights still led by one, 60–59 after three quarters, and neither team was able to build more than a three-point lead at any time. As promised, Coach Archer had used the bench in the third quarter, getting minutes for Jameer Wilson and Cory McAndrews and even for Wakefield and Early. Even so, Alex could feel himself flagging as the game wound down, still running on adrenaline but tired by the pace and intensity of the evening.

  With 1:09 left, Tuller shot-faked Jonas, got him in the air, and jumped into him, creating contact. It didn’t matter who had created the contact—since Jonas had been faked off his feet, the foul was on him. The crowd groaned. It was Jonas’s fifth, meaning that Wilson had to come in for him. Tuller, who already had twenty-seven points, added two more from the line, and Chester led, 79–76.

  Things were getting desperate. Coach Archer called time.

  “Jameer, we need you to be a screener—a solid one,” he said, looking at Wilson. “Max, you gotta be a decoy here; they’re going to load the defense to your side because they know Jameer’s not a shooter.” Max and Jameer both nodded.

  “Alex, you have to make this play happen. If Jackson plays off you and you feel it, you can take a three. My guess is, up three, they’re going to attack the line. You need to get in the lane and find Steve or Patton. One of them’s going to be open.” He looked at Gormley. “Patton, if it were me on defense, being honest, I’d guard Steve like crazy and see if you can make a shot. You ready?”

  Gormley looked him right in the eye. “You bet, Coach,” he said.

  They came out of the huddle with everyone in the place on their feet. If they didn’t score on this possession, they would be forced to foul right away, and Chester was the best foul-shooting team in the conference. Alex couldn’t remember anyone missing for them all night.