Drive

by Rob Roberge

  I was feeling great—sun on your face, rings tapping on the steering wheel great—until Parcell reminded me about Gates and Morris. All the time we talked about the deal, it didn’t hit me until now that it’s my job, my responsibility, to tell them. I pace for a while. I clean my room. When I’m done, I look around to see if there’s anything else I can do to put it off. Finally, I walk to Gates’ room.

  “Steve,” I say after I close the door behind me. “This is the hardest thing a coach has to do.” Sentence after sentence trips, club-footed, out of my mouth and it hits me that these aren’t my words. It’s a script—what my USBL coach said to me the last time I was cut. Gates interrupts me.

  “What was the deal?”

  I tell him.

  Gates shakes his head and looks down at the floor. He wipes his face and it seems like he’s about to cry. And I can’t blame him. He’s been around and he knows what this means.

  “The short end of a two-for-one,” he says. “In the Gulf Coast League.” He takes a deep breath and nods. “Mobile got a shooting guard?”

  “Cornell Maclain,” I say. “I wish they didn’t, but they do.” I look down at the floor. There are coffee stains on the rug. Gates was a hell of a two-guard before he lost the knee. “Steve. I know where you are.” I point at my leg.

  He puts up his hand. “Don’t,” he says. “I know you’re trying.” He takes another deep breath and starts to shake a little. “Just get the fuck out.” He speaks slowly and deliberately. He looks up at me. “Get out.”

  I shake my head and head out the door. I close it and take a few steps towards Morris’ room and I hear something smash against a wall.

  “Fuck,” he screams. Another smash. And then it’s quiet.

  22

  Morris goes easier. He’s a lummox, happy to have a job. Srill,I feel awful. I’ve told two people they have no future in twenty minutes. I need to pass on some good news and I knock on Hedda’s door.

  “We made a deal,” I tell her. “You’re starting at small forward tomorrow night.”

  She laces her sneakers—she’s starred dressing in her room, instead of at the gym. She looks up at me.

  “Who’s gone?”

  “Morris and Gares for a point. You’re at small, I’m moving Grant to power and Darnell to the middle.”

  “I can play in this league,” she says.

  “I hope so. You’ve got your chance.”

  She stands. “This isn’t because you owe me?”

  “Does it matter?” I say

  “No.”

  “I’ll see you at practice,” I say and go down to my car feeling heavy and slow. I look back up at the second floor and Gates is out of his room with two packed bags. I get in the car and turn the key. It’s dead. I pop the hood, knock the starter a couple of times and try it again. I look up and Gates is gone—either back in his room or down the stairs.

  23

  I decide to take Parcell up on his offer to work out in one of his gyms. My leg is shot for a while—I can’t run, so I might as well work the upper body. I wait at the counter behind some guy in a business suit. He moves on and I limp up to the desk.

  “I don’t have a membership,” I say. “But Rube Parcell said I could work out here.”

  As soon as I say Parcell’s name, there’s paperwork in front of me. “You’re his basketball coach?” the clerk says. She says it like you’re his suitcase.

  “Yes,” I say. I end up with two months free with full privileges.

  “Let us know if there’s anything we can do for you, Mr. Thompson,” she says. I thank her and walk to the locker room, thinking things could be worse—I could be someone else’s suitcase.

  I go through the motions on the weight machines. Staying healthy never made a whole lot of sense to me after all the rehab. I worked so many machines in my life with one goal in mind—to get the leg back—that they seem pointless to me. Even now, though, running straight for the sauna makes me feel like I’m cheating somehow. I finish some curls and move over to the bench press.

  On the machine is Parcell’s topless cleaner. “Hi,” I say.

  She doesn’t break her rhythm and pumps out twelve more as I watch. She’s cut and defined and sweaty. She gets to a sitting position.

  “All yours,” she says and gets up.

  “We met at Rube Parcell’s office, didn’t we?” I say. She turns and looks at me. “Joanna? You were cleaning.”

  “Right and wrong,” she says. “Look, I come here to be alone and I’m in the middle of something, OK?”

  “Sorry,” I say and she walks over the rowing machine. I stare at her ass and legs as she walks away. She stops and turns around.

  “Getting a good look?”

  I look down and get to work on the bench press.

  24

  Lewie Keller is as quick as a waterbug. He’s going two-on-two—teamed with Hedda against Darnell and Money—-and he’s blowing by Money every time. Nice crossover, great spring, I watch him hit Hedda—he leads her beautifully on a switch and she powers in for a lay-up. Terry’s right, the kid’s a player.

  Money gives Keller space and he dribbles out high. He jab-steps twice to the left and Money doesn’t bite. Hedda calls for the ball on the post, but Darnell’s behind her and Money’s shaded over. Keller should take the jumper, but he dribbles out on the post and looks to the lane. Money stays back with Hedda, daring him to take the shot.

  Keller, reluctantly, takes the J and I see why we got him so cheaply. Terry said his jumper was weak, but it’s the most pathetic excuse for a shot I’ve seen in years. Comes out of his hands like a line-drive knuckleball. It pounces off the back of the rim like it was shot out of a cannon and comes back to Keller twenty feet out. Money chased the ball off the boards and that’s all the daylight Keller needed. He cuts down the lane and dunks with one hand before Darnell can make the switch.

  Darnell’s got a sore Achilles and I wonder if he’s pushing too hard. I blow the whistle and walk over to Keller.

  “Take five.” I say and shake Keller’s hand and introduce myself.

  “Do we really fly to away games?” Keller says.

  “Sometimes we do,” I say and he looks impressed. He should be—it’s unheard of for the bush leagues to fly and Parcell drops money left and right for a team that’s yet to win a game. I wonder when local legend Ben Thompson’s honeymoon period will end. “I know it’s quick, but you’re starting tomorrow.”

  Keller smiles, spins the ball on a finger. He drops it to the floor and casually dribbles it behind his back, back and forth. “You won’t be sorry,” he says.

  “Don’t put too much pressure on yourself. Just play. Have fun.”

  “I’m playing, I’m having fun,” Keller says.

  I blow the whistle and call the team together and introduce them to Keller. “Light scrimmage today,” I tell them. “No plays until we get to know each other. Nothing fancy. Just freelance and play the game.”

  I roll the ball out and sit in the bleachers. Keller fits in perfectly. Latimore’s out on the wing, break after break, finishing like a pro. The spacing, which has been our biggest problem, falls into place. Money gets clean looks without having to run off too many screens. Keller penetrates—they roll down, he hits Money spotted up. They shut off his lane—he hits Hedda or Latimore cutting to the hole. They look like a team and they wipe the floor with the substitutes.

  After practice, I run into Darnell in the parking lot.

  “Can I get a ride, coach?”

  “What’s up?”

  “Piss in a jar day,” he says. “Then a meeting.”

  Latimore’s under court-ordered NA meetings and his contract stipulates drug tests. “Sure. Hop in.”

  He thanks me and gets in the car and I’m reminded again that this world is not made for tall people. I’m normal person tall, but Darnell, like most power forwards and centers is circus tall. His knees .are up at his chest and his shoulders are all tucked in like he’s been shoved into o
ne of those magician’s disappearing boxes.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Seat’s broken.”

  “I’ll live.”

  I pull onto the street. Traffics heavy and it’s stop and go toward the hospital.

  “What do you think of Keller?” I say as we stop at a light.

  Darnell looks at me. “He can play a little.”

  “I’m thinking CBA, maybe Europe,” I say.

  “Could be,” Darnell says. “No further with that shot. But he’s a solid minor leaguer. He’ll help.” He rakes a breath. “Is this it for the deals?”

  “If I wanted to trade you, I would have,” I say.

  “Someone wanted me?”

  I nod.

  “Shit.” He shakes his head. “Don’t know who’s crazier. Them for wanting me or you for keeping me.”

  The light changes and I slip the car into gear.

  “You surprised there was interest?” I say.

  “In me? Very.”

  A few minutes later. I can see the hospital up ahead.

  “Almost there,” I say.

  “Whoopee,” Darnell says. He blows an imaginary new year’s noisemaker and looks out the windshield with a tired smile.

  “It bother you?” I say.

  He gives me a hard look and doesn’t say anything for a minute. “Wouldn’t matter if it did. But, yeah, being reminded twice a week that I fucked myself out of a life three times over kinda wears thin, coach.”

  I turn into the parking lot. “Sorry.”

  “Ain’t your fault.”

  “Not sorry in a responsible sense,” I say. “Just sorry in the general sense. That you have to go through it.” I stop the car.

  “You ever been to a meeting?” he says.

  “AA, not NA.”

  “Same shit,” he says. “Everybody wants to tell their little stories of how they fucked up and what they lost.” We get out of the car and Darnell looks down at me over the top of the Toyota. “They want to make friends, you know? We’re buddies, us fuck-ups.”

  “I never took much to it, either,” I say. “Part of recovery, I guess.” I feel stupid as soon as I say it.

  “Never figured that out,” Darnell says. “No point in my life I want back. What the hell am I’m supposed to be recovering?” He shakes his head and walks across the lot. “You’ll wait?” he calls back.

  “I’ll wait.”

  “Wish me luck,” he says. I look at him. “Just kidding, coach.” He waves and walks toward the hospital.

  25

  The house is packed. Our first sell-out. Parcell plastered it all over the papers and radio that The Sarasota Sun will be the first men’s team ever to start a woman. ESPN II sends a crew and they’re courtside along with the local reporters. It’s a zoo. The press treats Hedda like she’s a freak—which she is—and a joke—which she’s not.

  The team’s running warm-ups. I walk over and pull her aside.”You OK?”

  She nods. “just a game.”

  “Just stay in control,” I say. “Play within yourself.”

  “No problem,” she says.

  “It’s not charity,” I say. “I’ve got my best five starting.” I start to walk back toward the sideline.

  Chucky Hoops is back. Talk in the papers is that The Hawks and The Nets are looking for shooting guards. Since Petrovic died in that car accident, The Nets are thin at the two spot. The Hawks went with Augmon—who can’t shoot beyond fifteen, and Ehlo—who’s old and slow, last year. I wave at Chucky and he waves back. Behind our bench, Rube Parcell sits with a game program rolled up in one hand—The Chicken Man thinks he’s John Wooden. I go to the bench to get some water.

  “How’s my coach?”

  “Good,” I say. “Nervous.”

  “All the great ones get nervous, boy. A good sign.”

  “Sure.” I say. I look back at the team. Losers get nervous, too, I think. People that are about to get their asses kicked, they get nervous. I look over to the other bench and Clem Garret looks back and shakes his head. The paper, after the screaming incident, quoted him saying I didn’t belong in coaching.

  For five minutes, it’s half-court ball—slow and deliberare with both teams looking to post up. Their point guard, Bill Sterrs, is a good half-court player, and he’s getting the ball down low pretty well—good clean entry passes full of deception. He’s a step slower than Keller, though, and he doesn’t go left well. I call time, with us down 10-5.

  “We’re going to press,” I tell the team as they sit. “1-3-1 full court. Darnell, you’re on the ball. Lewie, go middle. Hedda and Money on the wings. Grant, stay back,” I say and draw the little X’s on my clipboard. “I want total energy—give it everything full court. You need a blow, give me a signal.” I clap and get them out of the huddle. As they start toward the court, I call Lewie, Hedda and Money over.

  “Sterrs can’t go left without putting his head down. The minute the head goes down, I want the trap. Not before. Watch his head.”

  The trap kills them. We didn’t run it the other night—I didn’t have the right players—and it’s obvious Garret didn’t prepare them. We shade Sterrs right, force him left, and throw the trap. We get six steals in the quarter. Hedda gets loose on the wings, Darnell gets a couple of dunks hanging back, and Keller scores on a couple of breakaways. At the end of the quarter, we’re up 35-22. The crowd is into the game, Parcell winks at me every time I look up, and I feel like a genius.

  Midway through the second quarter, the game’s going so well that I run out of things to say. I should just sit on the bench and enjoy, but I’m full of this nervous energy, so I keep pace the floor and scream coaching clichés. “Trap,” I yell. “Hit the trailer. See the ball. Rotate, damn it, rotate.”

  I’m yelling to feel like I’m doing something at this point. They don’t hear any of this, and they don’t need to. At the half, we’re up 25. My throat is sore as hell, but I’m jazzed. I forgot what winning felt like—how good it is to own the opposition. On the way into the tunnel, I pass by Chucky Hoops.

  “See you after the game?” he says.

  “Bad news?” I say.

  “Depends on who’s getting it,” Chucky says.

  “After the game,” I say.

  It’s about Monty—I know it. Luckily, though, pro camps don’t start for a while, so no one’s going to take him from me right away. I walk away from Chucky, head down, and wonder how long I’ll have the team together. My three best players—Money, Darnell, and Keller—they could get a better offer anytime. Plus, Darnell is one slip away from the end of his career.

  For the third quarter, none of it matters. Monty hits everything he throws up. The trap still gives them fits. At a time-out, Garret walks over to me at the scorer’s table.

  “Call off the dogs,” he says. “This one’s over.”

  “Fuck off, Clem.” I walk back to the huddle.

  Hedda puts up ten in the quarter and, when I pull the other starters with two minutes left in the third, I leave her in. The crowd goes nuts every time she touches the ball. I keep her on the floor—let her have this moment. She’s becoming bigger than the win, but she’s earned it. We stretch the lead to 38 early in the fourth. I pull her and she gets a standing ovation. The camera crews start to come toward her when she takes a seat. The game’s still going on and I walk over in front of the bench.

  “Get the fuck away from my bench,” I yell. I overreact, but I don’t want to turn this into a circus. The camera guy looks at me. “I’ve got players out there,” I say and point. “You’ll get your interviews. Show some respect.”

  I feel like an asshole, like a parent, but when I look up, there’s Parcell. He smiles, nods and taps his head a couple of times with the rolled-up program. “Good show, Ben Thompson,” he says. He lights a victory cigar. First he’s Wooden, now he’s Red Auerbach.

  The game enters garbage time and gets ugly with both teams running around without doing anything. We win by thirty. When I get to the locker room, Money keeps
making fun of me. He drags his right leg, hunches over like Quasimodo.

  “Get the fuck away from my bench,” he says. “Me coach. You media.”

  “It was that bad?” I say.

  “You are one territorial son of a bitch,” Money says. He wears a towel, and zips down an imaginary fly and makes like he’s pissing on the bench. “My bench,” he says. “Stay away. Me in control. Me protect players.”

  Darnell walks by me on his way to the showers. “You’re gonna have a heart attack,” he says and smiles. “Losing stresses you out and winning might kill you.”

  “Practice tomorrow at two,” I say. They nod. The locker room is fun for the first time—winning makes life easy.

  I meet Chucky Hoops in my office. A couple of NBA teams and one in Europe want to get a look at Money in pre-season. Our season ends October 4—right before NBA camps start. I ask Chucky to keep it quiet and not tell Money or his agent. He’s still got a lot of work to do on his game and I want him to stay desperate. He plays better without a safety net. Chucky agrees to go along with me.

  26

  I go out on the court and ESPN II is still talking to Hedda. She’s in her jersey on the bench under those interrogation lights they use for TV. She towels off her face and waves. I wave back, go out to the parking lot and head to The Bunker.

  When I get there, Terry’s at the bar talking to Bone and Parcell’s topless cleaner.

  “The big winner,” Terry says as I limp to a stool. “Club sodas all around.”

  “One in a row isn’t much of a streak.”

  “It’s how they all start. Bomber,” Terry says.

  “True enough,” I say. Terry puts a club soda and lime in front of me.

  “You don’t drink?” the topless cleaner says.

  “Not don’t,” I say. “Can’t.”

  “Health?”

  “Something like health.” I take a sip and look at her. She’s got on a pair of faded and torn jeans, a black silk shirt, and a leather biker jacket. Her short red hair looks nice against the black and blue. “Why are you being nice to me, Joanna?”

  She puts out her hand. Terry and Bone move down the bar a little. “Confession time. My name is Sean. Joanna’s one of my professional names.”