by Dan Koontz
“No,” answered one of the triumvirate emotionlessly. “Not in person.”
“He is something to behold. YouTube doesn’t do him justice,” Bradford continued. “He’s a solid 6’10” – maybe not even done growing, but he plays a small forward. Now, I know he’s only considering a one-year contract right now, but keep in mind, you guys aren’t encumbered by a salary cap like teams in the NBA are, so if things go well next year... who knows beyond that? I’m sure you’ll want to make a strong first impression with your offer.”
“Our offer is firm,” another of the stone-faced Russian retorted, unimpressed by Bradford’s sales pitch. “Tell us what happened at his last game.”
“Sorry?” Bradford asked, feigning ignorance and not about to volunteer anything.
“We heard he was taken to the hospital.”
“Oh that? That was nothing. A little dehydration. Maybe a touch too much Stolichnaya the night before? Eh?” Bradford said with a hopeful grin but getting nothing from his guests. “No. Of course he doesn’t drink any alcohol.” When was this ride going to be over?
“When were you going to mention this to us?” one of the Russians asked, studying his facial expressions like a KGB interrogator.
“I’m not sure I was, to be honest with you. He’s starting today’s game. It really isn’t an issue,” Bradford said casually.
“It is an issue!” the Russian in the middle snapped, for the first time demonstrating some form of emotion.
“Gentlemen, let’s just relax,” Bradford said, leaning back in his seat, fully aware that his telling them to relax would have the exact opposite effect. The outburst actually put him more at ease. Emotion loosened inhibitions.
“We haven’t signed anything...” one of the Muscovites started angrily.
“Neither have we, gentlemen,” Bradford interrupted smoothly but decisively, sensing the opportunity to seize the upper hand. “Neither. Have. We. I can see you appreciate directness. So I'll do my best to accommodate you. You are my guests here, and I plan to take good care of you, but don’t forget, I’m not asking you for any favors. You aren’t helping me out by signing J’Quarius Jones. The demand for this kind of talent far outweighs the supply – especially in Europe. It’s 250 bucks a ticket to get into tonight’s game! A high school game!”
The Russians silently conceded the point, the obstinance fading from their faces as the anger still smoldered underneath.
“Scouts from the top teams in Turkey, Greece, and Spain will all be in the gym tonight. Now, to this point, your offer has been the best, but those other teams weren’t too far off. And some are a little closer to home for him geographically.
“A bidding war would be one way to go I suppose, but I’d like to get this signed and done,” Bradford concluded. “How about you?”
“You will allow us to watch the game first?” the man in the middle asked with his first attempt at a smile.
“Of course,” Bradford answered, mirroring the Russian’s disingenuous expression, as the limo pulled up to the arena.
CHAPTER 8
“Alright guys, bring it in. Let’s go!” Coach Wright barked at his players, as they slowly congregated in a rough circle around him in the middle of the locker room.
“This is the last time we’re going to play together as a team,” the coach said. “Let’s finish the season the way we’ve played all year – as winners! And as a team!”
“TEAM!” the boys shouted in unison, their emotions running higher than usual for their final game.
An abrupt silence followed as they all dropped to one knee and bowed their heads in anticipation of the coach’s pre-game prayer.
“Lord,” he started, “we ask that you would allow these young men to honor you by playing to the best of their abilities – abilities with which you have so richly blessed them. Let us play this game with grace... and ferocity. Let us stay true to our principles... even as we attempt to destroy our opponent. Keep us humble ... even as we crush our opponents’ pride. Let these young men soar... even as you keep them grounded in the knowledge of who they really play for: God. Family. Community. Team.
“Please watch over us and the team we’re about to compete against. And finally Lord, we ask that you watch over our brother J’Quarius with extra care tonight and keep him safe throughout the game. We give all the glory to you. Amen.
“OK, guys. This is it. One more game to perfection. ‘Team’ on three,” the coach said, as the boys rose to a stand. “One, two, three...”
“TEAM!”
As the circle dispersed, a few of the boys bounced up and down on the balls of their feet, loosening up their legs. Others rolled their necks side to side, simultaneously shaking nervous energy out through their dangling arms, as they inched toward the door of the locker room. The second best player on the team breathed in long deep breaths and then blew out slowly through pursed lips, his eyes closed, meditating to the rhythm of the music blasting from his headphones. J’Quarius hadn’t moved from his spot in the middle of the locker room and was back on one knee with his head bowed.
Assistant Coach Hansford Washington gently laid his hand on his son’s shoulder. “You ok?”
“I don’t know,” J’Quarius answered.
“What’s going on? Is something hurting you?” Hansford asked empathetically.
“No. Nothing hurts. I just still don’t feel right.” He paused for several seconds with his head down before looking back up at his dad. “I guess I’m scared.”
“Do you want to sit this one out?” Hansford asked, expecting a quick and emphatic “no,” but getting only silence in return, as his son hung his head back down. “Look,” he said softly. “J’Quarius, look at me. If you don’t want to play, you don’t have to.”
“Alright guys, let’s go!” The head coach said, throwing the locker room’s double doors open, allowing the din of the arena to flood in from the tunnel.
“I’ll see how it goes in the shootaround,” J’Quarius said. He couldn’t resist the urge to give his dad a hug before he hardened up his expression and joined his team at the threshold to the tunnel, ultimately unwilling to let his dad, his coaches or his team down.
A blast of black and red confetti at the mouth of the visitor’s tunnel announced the arrival of the Chicago AAU team, as they confidently jogged through to an explosive reception from the crowd. J’Quarius didn’t play road games. No matter where he played, he was the one everyone had paid to see.
In one corner of the arena, a group of four Russian tourists decked out in CSKA Moscow regalia danced in front of a TV camera, frantically waving a homemade poster that read, “The Dawning of the Age of J’Quarius.” In the club level a fan wore an Ohio State Buckeye jersey with the name J Jones printed on the back, holding a sign that pleaded, “It’s not too late.”
At midcourt a pair of ESPN broadcasters debated where J’Quarius’s high school career would rank historically now that it was coming to a close. The press boxes were packed with local, national and international media, while executives from all the major shoe companies cheered as enthusiastically and conspicuously as they could from their various courtside locales.
Unfazed by this type of reception, J’Quarius jaunted over to the ball cart, picked up a ball, took a hop-step back and drained a three-pointer. Ten paces behind him, over on the sideline, his dad whispered in the head coach’s ear to try to play J’Quarius as sparingly as possible.
~~~
Outside the arena, Ryan was milling around without a ticket amongst a few hundred late arrivers, a handful of increasingly desperate scalpers and a few media members, vigilantly keeping his eyes peeled for anyone either he or his parents might know. He’d already had a near miss, passing within a few yards of Skylar McGhee, one of his classmates who would have relished the opportunity to rat him out. But he was pretty sure he hadn’t been seen.
Just before the game was scheduled to tip, he spotted what he’d been looking for – a local sportscaster setting
up a live shoot just outside the main entrance of the arena. He casually slid Jasper’s phone out of his pocket, activated the camera, and positioned himself as close as he could to the news crew without distracting them.
Placing the phone on top of a railing to keep it as still as possible, he zoomed in as far as he could toward the reporter’s chest where a press pass flipped randomly in the breeze and snapped as many shots as the frustratingly slow shutter speed would allow while the reporter was facing his cameraman.
At the conclusion of his 25-second puff piece, the reporter called it a wrap, and Ryan retreated to the sidewalk to begin analyzing the dozen or so shots he’d been able to get off, hoping at least one would be adequate.
“Hey, kid,” the sportscaster called out, his ego inflated by Ryan’s taking pictures of the broadcast, thinking this would be a wonderful opportunity to use his celebrity to make some kid’s day.
Ryan was immersed in reviewing the pictures he’d taken, his expression meeting each one with a disapproving grimace. Too far away! Even though the reporter had been standing still, the press pass was constantly flapping in the wind.
“Hey, kid,” the reporter repeated from close range, startling Ryan, who looked up with a guilty half-smile. “I saw you taking pictures over there. How would you like for my real-life TV cameraman to take a picture of the two of us on your phone for your scrapbook?”
Scrapbook? Ryan could almost feel his eyes rolling into the back of his head, but he quickly recognized this as an opportunity. “Would I!” he gushed, handing over his phone.
Ryan forced a smile for the photo, leaning in toward the sportscaster, as the cameraman melodramatically “nailed the shot.”
“Have you ever thought about being on the news when you grow up?” the reporter asked.
“That would be a dream come true. I’m down here covering this event for my school paper,” he said without batting an eye. “Hey, do you think I could get a shot of your press pass, so I can show everybody at school what a real one looks like?”
“Sure,” the reporter said, bloated with pride, handing over his credential. “Now, you stay in school and work hard, and you just might end up on TV one day too.”
Ryan centered the press pass in the frame of the phone’s display and finally got the perfect shot. “Thanks,” he beamed, this time with genuine glee.
“Any time,” the self-important local TV man answered, as he headed back to the van.
Ryan walked back toward the arena and sat down with his back against the wall to try to figure out how to upload the picture. Within five minutes he'd done it, leaving himself about twenty minutes to kill before he was scheduled to meet Dillon.
Back in Ryan’s bedroom, his digital frame awakened from sleep mode to display its newest picture just as Sara walked in to put away some clean laundry. She studied the picture quizzically – the local Fox station’s field reporter’s press pass for a basketball game, which would have been starting right around that time at the pro basketball arena. Ryan would have called her if he’d changed plans. This didn’t make sense.
She walked over to the closest home phone and dialed Ryan’s number.
Surprised by her call, Ryan jumped up and sprinted as far as he could from the sounds of the crowds and city streets, and answered the phone on the third ring, trying not to sound out of breath.
“Hey Ryan, I was just in your room putting some clothes away when a picture of a press pass from downtown Cleveland popped up on the screen. Where are you?”
“I’m over at Jasper’s!” Ryan said, leaving the “where else would I be?” implied. He could live with not always volunteering the truth at all times, but it killed him to flat-out lie. “We’re working on our project.”
“Well what is this picture? And why is it on your frame? You only put like 5 pictures a year on that frame,” Sara said suspiciously.
“You know that guy Skylar McGhee from my class?” Ryan responded without pause. “He’s been bragging to everyone all week that he was going downtown to some high school basketball game today – like anyone really cares. It’s a high school game! And now he texts out a picture to everyone in the class that he’s got press access. It’s a high school basketball game! Jasper and I thought it was hilarious, so anyway, I uploaded it. It’s not like I’m going to keep it on there.” Skylar was definitely at the game, so at least superficially, his story would hold water.
“Hmm. Ok,” Sara responded slowly. Ryan was good, but she had a degree – and experience – in child psychology. And even though he had never given her a reason not to trust him, this didn’t feel right. She decided to keep him on the phone as she ran downstairs to her smartphone to track his location. “So what do you guys have planned for the rest of the night?”
“Not much,” Ryan said, now sensing something was amiss himself. His mom frequently called to check in, but never to chit-chat. He placed Jasper's phone flat on the sidewalk and hunched over it, so he could continue talking while he enabled its map feature. “We might go see a movie if we finish our project early," he said as he keyed his name into the search box.
Sara dashed into the living room and scanned all the flat surfaces before squeezing her eyes shut, trying to remember where in the world she left her phone, as she kept up the small talk. “That sounds like fun. What are you guys thinking of seeing?”
Ryan was almost certain she was just trying to keep him on the phone at this point. Desperately willing the map to load, he cursed the solitary bar of service he was getting as tiny sweat droplets began to bead on his forehead. “Uh, I don’t know,” he said, “Jasper was talking about seeing some movie I’ve never heard of. It’s at some small art house theater. He said it was NC-17, whatever that means."
“Hmm, well don’t be out too late,” Sara responded, completely oblivious to what he’d just said, bolting over to the smartphone she’d finally spotted on the island in the kitchen. The map was still up, and it put Ryan’s location on the street just outside Jasper’s house. “So you’re over at Jaspers working on your project?” she asked pointedly and abruptly, now clearly attuned to the conversation.
Ryan’s map was still loading. “Were you even listening to me?” Ryan stalled. “I said we were going to an art house theater to watch an NC-17 movie, and you told me not to stay out too late?” Load!
“Oh, yeah. I knew you were joking,” Sara answered tersely. “Now what did you say you guys are up to?”
“Well,” Ryan drawled having no idea what the location of his phone was, trying to come up with a safe answer based on his best guess, but just at that moment the map mercifully zoomed in on his phone’s location – on the street outside Jasper’s house. Idiot! He was supposed to keep the phone on him! He’d probably left the phone in his car, parked outside his house. “Right now we’re outside working on some sidewalk art,” he said with the first thing that popped into his mind. “Have you ever seen that before? With the chalk? You can make it look 3D if you’re good at it. It’s actually pretty cool.”
“What does that have to do with your project?” Sara demanded.
“Well... Nothing” Ryan stammered, feigning trepidation about coming clean with what they were really up to. “We were most of the way done, and we just decided to take a quick break. We were just about to go back in. Sorry.” He figured even a small confession could potentially pass as the source of whatever had raised his mom’s suspicion in the first place.
“Ryan, that’s fine,” Sara said reassuringly, now convinced by both the content and the tone of his story. “You don’t have to be working the whole time you’re over there. But you do need to tell me what you’re up to, ok? You need to earn the freedom your dad and I have given you.”
“I know,” Ryan said ashamedly.
“Alright, now enjoy that NC-17 movie,” Sara said. “And don’t forget your fake I.D.”
“I won’t,” Ryan laughed, hoping he’d just dodged a bullet.
~~~
Half a block away,
at the Renaissance Cleveland convention center, Dillon Higley was making plans to split up with his adoptive father who had accompanied him to the app-development conference. Dillon had manned his booth for most of the morning and early afternoon, so he was now free to explore the other exhibits.
“Ok, so I’ll meet you back here at 6,” Dillon agreed, gesturing to his booth. He then picked up his laptop and his phone and carved out a circuitous route toward the exit, making sure he wasn’t followed. The convention center was big and crowded enough that he would never be missed, and the hotel was conveniently connected to the arena through another building, so he wouldn’t even have to step outside, but it was still a good ten minute walk, and he had some work to do.
His first stop was the business center in the hotel lobby. Using his room key to pay, he sat down at one of the terminals and plugged in his laptop. In no time at all he'd grabbed the shot of the press pass and several other recent photos of Ryan off of the digital frame. Then with remarkably little effort, he fashioned Ryan a personalized press pass, changing the text and the photo but keeping the Fox reporter’s bar code on it. He then printed it out, cropped it, inserted it into the plastic sleeve from his “exhibitor’s pass” that he was wearing around his neck, and took off for the arena.
Just as the game was scheduled to start, Dillon arrived at the will call window to pick up his tickets – one in section 230 and one in 213. Then he walked out the northeast exit to look for Ryan.
Ryan was leaning against the rail at the top of the stairs just outside the arena, wearing a Hunting Valley Academy polo shirt, per the plan, when he saw Dillon exit the building.
Dillon looked like he was stepping into the sunlight for the first time in his life. His mop of coal-black hair accentuated the pallor of his complexion, and his gaunt limbs looked like white pipe cleaners with knees and elbows. He was almost three years older than Ryan, but he was a little shorter and actually looked younger. He was dressed in a plain black t-shirt and baggy jeans, hunched forward, struggling under the weight of his overstuffed backpack.