Drive

by Rob Roberge

  “He seems like a good kid,” I say

  “He might be,” Terry says. “Now. Good luck keeping him that way when he starts hitting for thirty every night. When he starts beating up on CBA retreads and you tell him his game still needs work—see how responsive he is then.”

  “Stop,” I say. “You’re depressing me.”

  “Don’t mean to.”

  “My fault,” I say. “I brought it up.” I finish my coffee. “Will you come tomorrow? Last game.”

  “For this team.”

  “Right,” I say. “For this team, You should see this kid—he’s something to watch.”

  “Like who?” Terry says and smiles, talking in EV talk.

  “Great slasher,” I say. “Big problems in his game, but he gets to the hoop like Bernard King.”

  “King?”

  “Not his whole game, but the way he drives.”

  He wipes a glass dry and hangs it on the rack above his head. “You’re not trying to rope me into the job?”

  “I’m not. I want you to see him play.”

  “I’ll come. But I won’t take the job, Bomber. I’m done.”

  “I understand,” I say and get up from my stool.

  “You don’t understand,” he says. “And I hope you never do.”

  81

  We’ve got close to a full house—which surprises me since we’re out of competition for the championship round. Parcell sits behind the bench with the Weatherspoons. He’s got his program wound up in a tube like Wooden, and he winks when I come out to the court. The team runs warm-ups. Parcell leans forward and motions me over to him.

  “You will dress better when we’re CBA, won’t you, Ben Thompson?”

  “Probably not, “ I say. I lean closer to him. “You sure you want Tucker’s folks this close to the bench?”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I swear a lot,” I say. “And I’ll probably swear at their kid before the night’s over.”

  He taps me on the head with his program. “Didn’t use disappearing ink on the contract, Ben Thompson. His parents are no longer important.” He turns and gives them a smile and a wave. “They’re meangingless to us, now.”

  I look at him. He was acting like their best friend at the meeting, and I worry a little about staying useful to Rube Parcell. “Right,” I say.

  “Do your job, Ben Thompson. Don’t question my judgment.”

  I turn and watch the team. We’ve got the Bayou Dogs in town, and we should kill them—they’re in last place since Galveston folded, and we’ve swept them so far. Money looks loose—he’s headed to a pro camp, and he’s strutting around the court like he owns it. Across the way, Terry, Bone and Sean sit together about midway up the bleachers. I give a wave, mostly to Terry since I wasn’t sure he’d show, and they wave back.

  The horn blows and the team comes to the bench.

  “This is it,” I say. “Let’s have some fun with it.”

  From the start, Lewie blows by their point, breaks down the interior defense, and we’ve got open looks all over the floor. Money opens 4-for-6, Hedda has a couple of put-backs, and by the time the Dogs call time, we’re up 18-5. The team sits on the bench and I raise my hands. “Nothing to say. Keep it up.”

  Late in the first, we’re up 29-13 and Money steps in the passing lane and picks one off on the right wing. He takes off for the hoop, and Rudy Larson, their shooting guard, cuts off his path. Money steps on Larson’s foot and turns his ankle, and drops to the floor, rolling around. He screams.

  I look at him rolling on the floor, thinking it’s over. I can’t move and I feel sick. I’m watching him, thinking injury, rehab. He stops rolling and I finally get over to him.

  “Don’t move,” I say.

  He waves off my help. “Let me up. Just turned it. I’m OK.”

  “Stay down,” I say.

  He gets up on his feet and limps for two steps and starts to hop to the bench. He winces as he sits down.

  “You sure you’re OK?”

  “Hurts,” he says. “But it’s just a sprain.”

  “You’re done for the night.”

  He looks up at me. “I can play.”

  I lean down close to him so the other players can’t hear me. “You will not fuck yourself up in a nothing league. This league is over for you. I’m not risking it.”

  He looks like he’s about to argue, but he stops. “I hear you, coach.”

  “Weatherspoon, you’re in for Money.”

  Tucker springs off the bench.

  I put my arm around his shoulder. “Nervous?”

  “Little,” he says.

  “Just play. Same game—basket’s the same height. Don’t try to take over. Get in the flow of the game.”

  “OK, coach.” He runs out on the floor. I pull Lewie aside and tell him to try to get Weatherspoon some looks.

  I sit back on the bench next to Money.

  “You scared the hell out of me,” I say. Sprains can hang around, make you favor a leg. Money’s going to need all the breaks he can get to make a roster and I never should have put him in a position to get hurt.

  “I’m fine.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Neither did I. At first.”

  “Ice it down,” I say. “Take care of it.”

  They make a little run and the game stays mildly competitive into the second. Weatherspoon’s playing a little tentative—he’s passing off when he has a lane, he jab-steps when he should drive. I call a timeout,

  “Where’s the guy I saw in Miami?” I yell at him. I act more disappointed than I am.

  “Sorry, coach.”

  “Drive the fucking ball, Tucker.”

  “Right.”

  “Your man better than you? Can he stay with you?” He shakes his head. “Then take him off the dribble. He’s a chump.”

  I send the team back out and sit down.

  “Jumping ugly at the kid,” Money says.

  “We’ll see if it works.”

  Two possessions later, Weatherspoon takes his man off the dribble. No hesitation, no jab-step—he just explodes by him and dunks baseline.

  “Yes,” I scream. “That’s it, Tucker.”

  We start to pull away and Weatherspoon starts tearing up the gym. Near half-time, they try their third defender on him. At first, it was all penetration, but he’s got the rhythm, and he starts hitting short jumpers. He takes the ball on the left wing, cuts middle, and spins back with a pretty turnaround from about fifteen feet out.

  “He might be something,” Money says.

  “He might,” I say. And I think of all the things that could go wrong and all the ways I could screw up.

  Hedda grabs a rebound and kicks it out to Lewie, who hits Weatherspoon. Tucker takes the ball off the right wing and goes underneath for a reverse dunk.

  Money claps and kicks his feet out. “He’s almost as much fun as me.” He pokes me in the side. “Your kid’s feeling it.”

  Everything Tucker throws up is falling. You have nights like this where you just can’t miss. The Bayou Dogs don’t have anyone with his quickness. Not all his nights will be like this—he’s too thin and too young and he’s got bad habits and he will struggle—but tonight, he’s got it going and he can’t be stopped. It’s an amazing feeling—it’s like luck, but bigger—like every coin on the planet fell heads-up in your path and they’re all yours. The crowd loves him, and he’s in that zone you play for—live for. I look at him and think Darnell had this—this and more—and it wasn’t enough.

  Two minutes before half-time, we’re up 61-39 and Tucker takes his man off the dribble and pulls up and hits from about ten feet off glass. He runs up the court, smiling. He might be a player—his lateral quickness and his first step, even with the hitch, are something you don’t see much.

  “I’m done for the night?” Money says.

  “You are.”

  “Guess I’ll just relax and enjoy,” he says. He grabs one of my bottles of wa
ter and takes a drink.

  Money leans back and crosses his legs, full of confidence. I look at him, hoping everything falls into place and this really is his last night in the minors.

  The next time we have the ball, Weatherspoon gets it on the left wing and he has that look in his eyes that says to his man, I can’t miss. I won’t miss. Do whatever you want, try whatever you can, but it doesn’t matter—you don’t exist. It’s just me, the ball, and the rim and the sun might burn out and the world might stop turning before I miss again.