Super World

by Lawrence Ambrose

  Jamie jogged around the property, keeping her pace slow to prevent the strange gravity-detaching sensation, watching her father work out on their driveway basketball court with a ferocity she'd never seen in him before. He was a perpetual motion machine – jump shots, drives, lay-ups, dunks. He'd worked out for hours, and never seemed to tire. An energizer bunny on speed. He appeared slim and fit now – his extra weight having melted off. She was impressed despite herself. He might be on a fool's errand, but he looked good doing it.

  Cal tossed her the basketball as she jogged up. She dropped it on the grass.

  "Come on, Jamie, take a shot!"

  "What are you doing, Dad? I mean, really."

  "Practicing. What does it look like?"

  "I can see that. The Sheriff will be showing up a week from now to throw us out. Don't you think you should be making arrangements to move? Pack your stuff? Find a place to live?"

  "I have a place to live," he said with a grin. "The Minnesota Timberwolves."

  "Dad..."

  "Now hear me out, Ms. Hardheaded Realist. From all my measurements, I've calculated that I am approximately three times faster and stronger than I used to be. About three times more endurance. And – more or less in synch with that – I can think about three times faster. It's a kind of amazing correspondence."

  "You left out that you're talking about three times faster, too."

  She walked up to him against her better judgment. Her dad had always been a wild-eyed dreamer-schemer, and now he was scheming on jet fuel. He had changed – incontestably – and so had she. There could be no doubt that the alien probe, covert U.S. military machine, or whatever the hell it was had affected them. But short of true super-powers, no six-foot, forty-seven year old guy was going to make it in the NBA or any other professional sport.

  "Do you even know how fast you could run or high you could jump before?" she asked. "Or how fast you could think? How could you even measure that?"

  He gave her a rueful smile. "I admit that's more of a guess. But I have a pretty good idea about my vertical and running speed – my best standing jump before the object arrived was probably around 12’ with my top speed maybe 10-12 miles per hour."

  "So you're saying you can jump about three feet high and run" – she paused, frowning – "thirty to thirty-six miles per hour?"

  "At least thirty. I had old Jensen drive beside me on his four-wheeler. He couldn't believe the figure – thought maybe his gauge wasn't working right." He grinned.

  Jamie puzzled over that for a moment. "That's as fast as a dog."

  "Yup. Exactly what I was thinking." His grin spread. "You get it, don’t ya? There are guys taller, stronger, and can jump higher even now, but they can't match that speed! Or my quickness. Those are my entry strengths into the NBA. I should be able to lead a blazing fast break, even by the best basketball players' standards. I can dunk from the free throw line even though I can't jump super-high, just because of my speed. I should be able to steal the ball, drive around people, block some shots, shoot way more accurately. My visual acuity is way better – probably three times better again! You wouldn't believe how clear and close that basketball rim looks now from twenty-two feet out!"

  Jamie listened to her father's gushing with a growing sense of unease – growing in lock-step with her belief that he might not be completely delusional.

  "Is it right, Dad?" she asked in a constricted voice. "I mean, to use a machine to gain an advantage?"

  "Was it right that you were cured of cancer?"

  "We don't know if it's permanent."

  He raised his palms defensively. "Look, I don't know what the future holds, but I'm not going to apologize for getting some good luck. We lost your mom to cancer. You got Stage four. Maybe it's about time for a reversal of fortune."

  "Maybe, but it still doesn't seem quite fair to the other athletes."

  "You think I'm cheating because that thing that dropped from the sky made me more athletic? Do you think Michael Jordan, Julius Erving, Lebron James, or Kobe Bryant weren't lucky when they won the genetic jackpot?"

  "True. But I think there's a difference between being cured of an illness – if that's what's happening – and using whatever it's doing for personal profit."

  "Girl of mine, personal profit is the only thing that's going to save our butts right now."

  Jamie sagged against the basket support. She had the feeling she wasn't being completely rational about this – that she was trying to make a big issue of out something that wasn't that big. But her anxiety wouldn't go away.

  "Doesn't it all seem like it's too good to be true?" she asked. "Like we're being tested or something – and this all could change in a moment? Wasn't there an old Twilight Zone episode where aliens gave this guy super-strength and he just did stupid ego stuff until they took his power away?"

  Her father's triumphant smile shrank. He seemed to deflate, as if the wind had gone out of his sails.

  "Shit," he said, lowering his voice and glancing at the shop. "Do you really think that could be happening here?"

  "I don't know what to believe, Dad. Whatever the explanation is, it has to be far out."

  Cal walked past her and picked up the basketball. He tossed it against the backboard and moved with cat-like quickness and sprang to catch the ball just as it bounced off the rim, jamming it through the hoop. But before the ball cleared the net he caught it with his left hand and laid it into the basket. Jamie wasn't a fan of professional sports but she was fairly sure only an elite athlete could do what she'd just witnessed.

  "Okay, Dad," she said with a resigned smile, "I'm officially impressed. If you're set on trying out for the Timberwolves, I say go for it. Not that I see any anyone in the front office being willing to give you a tryout."

  "Thanks, sweetie. Turns out I already have an appointment."

  "Seriously? What did you tell them to get them to see you?"

  "I didn't tell them anything. An old high school friend of mine put in a good word for me. Remember Jack Newell – high school star center who came back to coach the Fighting Hawks? He played for the Timberwolves for four years – mostly off the bench, but he still has some good standing there."

  "What in heaven's name did he tell them?"

  Cal grinned. "That he had an 'incredible new prospect' he'd like them to meet."

  "I DON'T know, dude," said Jack Newell as he and Cal Winters walked in from the nearby parking ramp and through the main entrance of the Target Center in downtown Minneapolis. "This has to be the craziest thing I've ever done. And I've done some crazy things to do with b-ball, believe me."

  "I feel honored," Cal laughed, though inside he was sure he was squirming with doubt just as much as his friend was.

  "Yeah, well, I feel like my neck's stretched out on the chopping block. I have dreams of working for the Timberwolves one day. If this goes south, I'll be the laughing stock for the next century. Ain't no way I'm getting through the front door again after that."

  "I hear you, buddy. I'll try not to let that happen. You saw what I could do with Quentin."

  "Quentin's a damn good small college point guard," said Jack, "but this here's the big league."

  "The Wolves lost a lot of games last year, and they've shaken everything up with new head coach Herbert Milner – a record-winning coach at Duke - a new GM, and other staff. They're desperate to rebuild. This is the perfect time."

  "Right. And what better way to start rebuilding than with a forty-seven year old white dude?"

  "When you say it that way, Jack, it almost sounds crazy."

  "Just don't let me down, White Chocolate. Don't you dare go 'Oh, I lost all my powers' on me when it counts."

  "No pressure or anything."

  "Man, this game is all about pressure."

  They made their way through the Target Center crowds, drawing a few curious looks – the tall black man who looked like a former player with the white guy who was probably upper management – climbing the stairs t
o the second floor and the Minnesota Timberwolves' offices. The Timberwolves' Director of Player Programs/Scout, Levon Martin, was waiting for them in an office overlooking the arena. A tall black man of about Jack's six-four height, he rose and shook Jack's hand with a broad smile and Cal's with a puzzled one. He motioned for them to sit and straddled his long legs over a corner of his desk, facing them.

  "It's good to meet you, Jack. I've heard good things about what you did here and what you're doing for UND."

  "Thanks, Levon. I've heard good things about you – and about your new coach. Looks like you got a good shot at turning things around next year."

  "We got the quality coaching staff and some promising draft picks and free agency prospects. I'm just the grunt in all this, looking for promising players and helping the ones we have reach their potential."

  "What could be a more noble quest?"

  They traded smiles.

  "So where's this young Michael Jordan you were bragging about?" He nodded to Cal. "Is this his agent?"

  "I guess you could say that." Jack forced a chuckle. "And he's also the prospect."

  Levon Martin's laugh started strong but ended on an uncertain note as Jack and Cal smiled but offered no explanation.

  "Funny," said Levon.

  "Yeah," Jack agreed.

  "But seriously? Is he hiding outside the door?"

  "More like in plain sight."

  Levon stared between them, his smile growing more pained by the moment.

  "Guys, sorry, but I think I'm missing the punch line here."

  "I apologize for not telling you the whole story over the phone," said Jack. "But I didn't think you'd believe me. But the proof is in the pudding as they say. Cal, here, may not look it, but he has some exceptional basketball skills."

  Levon peered at me with narrowed eyes. "Not to be offensive, but you must be in your forties, maybe mid-forties?"

  "Forty-seven. I'll be forty-eight in August."

  The player-manager nodded slowly, as if waiting for comprehension to dawn.

  "So let me get this straight," he said, turning to Jack. "This is the guy who could give our team a shot in the arm?"

  "Right," said Jack.

  "The second coming of Allen Iverson?"

  "Hey, well, I might've exaggerated a little there." Jack made a motion to loosen a tie he wasn't wearing. "But he's as quick and fast as any human being I've ever seen. He can hit the open jumper and drive to the basket. He can take the basketball out of your hands. He destroyed my star point guard in one-on-one."

  Levon shook his head and faced Cal. "Why haven't I ever heard about you? Where have you played ball before?"

  Cal cleared his throat. "I was on the junior varsity high school team."

  "Now why didn't you tell me that at the start, Jack. We wouldn't even have bothered with setting up an audition."

  Jack chuckled, but the player-program director's amicable expression hardened into open irritation.

  "Why do I feel like I'm on a reality television show and the cameras will come out at any second? Gentlemen, I do have some other work to attend to today."

  "I know you're a busy man, and the last thing I – we – want is to waste your time. So how about a quick demonstration? If you still think this is a joke, then we'll get out of your hair."

  Levon rose from his chair and turned to the arena. The squeaks and thumps of someone on the court below carried faintly up to them.

  "Tell you what. We have a promising young man on the floor right now with Assistant Coach Dick Adler. Why don't you take your 'Mr. Natural' down there and have him play some one-on-one with him? If Dick says he's impressed, we'll take it from there."

  "Sounds fair."

  They shook hands, and the pair headed downstairs.

  "That could've gone worse," said Jack. "They don't give tryouts to just anyone, you know."

  "I realize that. Thank you for putting yourself out there for me."

  "I wouldn't have done it if I didn't think you had a chance. Please do us both a favor and take this guy to school." Jack caught his arm before they entered the arena. "Don't show any mercy, Cal. Go full-bore. As Kareem once said about Chamberlain, 'If I didn't try to humiliate him, he would've humiliated me.'"

  Cal felt suddenly shaky. His shakiness didn't improve when he saw his opponent: a shade taller than Jack, with long legs and calves rippling with sinew and muscle and a body to match. A greyhound after years of power-lifting.

  "Oh, shit," Jack whispered. "That's Randy Masterson, out of Duke. One of the top high school players in the country two years ago. He blew off basketball for a stint with the Green Bay Packers as defensive end, then was sidelined with a back injury. After rehab he decided to 'switch teams' and return to his first love."

  "Is he rehabbed?" Cal asked, swallowing.

  "There's a question about that, but rumor has it he's good as new."

  The man standing on the sidelines – Cal assumed he was the assistant coach, Dick Adler – was barking into a cell phone and pacing angrily. His voice was loud enough that a few snatches carried across the parquet floor – the clearest one being: "You gotta fucking be kidding me, Levon!"

  He glared at Jack and Cal as they approached, turning away to continue the conversation as Randy Masterson stood with the basketball dangling in one huge hand looking between them and the coach with a bemused frown.

  The closer they got, the more intimidated Cal felt. The guy had to be six-five, and his arms appeared long enough to touch the rim without jumping. Cal couldn't even conceive of doing battle with him. But then his imagination was still rooted in his old self. All his adult life he believed he had a high basketball I.Q. He had, in his opinion, a great understanding of the game, and could see the weaknesses and strengths of players as well as strategies. If only he had the athletic ability to go along with his sports brilliance, he often told himself – and occasionally, skeptical friends – the sky would be the limit. Now he was, relatively speaking, a great athlete. It was time to learn the truth about allegedly high basketball I.Q.

  He'd given that a fair test with Quentin Daniels, thwarting his desire to drive to his right and spotting his cues for feinting a shot as opposed to taking it. The result had been a 10-2 massacre in Cal's favor. But as quick and springy and skilled as the twenty-year-old had been, he was around Cal's height and build. Randy Masterson was, relatively speaking, a monster. An incredibly athletic monster, Cal guessed.

  Jack gave the younger athlete a big smile and motioned for the ball. Randy Masterson shrugged and tossed it to him. Jack handed it off to Cal. Cal hesitated. He was wearing shorts, but he'd planned to strip to his gym trunks and T-shirt.

  "Can I change?"

  "No." Jack was eyeing the red-faced assistant coach. "Do it. Now. Before they throw our asses out of here."

  Cal started dribbling toward an increasingly puzzled Randy Masterson. He made a half-hearted attempt to block Cal's path, but laid back as the older man accelerated around him and drove to the basket. Cal considered going for a dunk but played it safe with a lay-up.

  Randy extended a hand for the basketball, but Cal noted Jack Newell's shaking head and dribbled around him to the top of the key where he stopped, facing the former collegiate standout.

  "Check," said Cal, tossing him the ball.

  Randy cocked his head at him, half-smiling, as if it was all a joke he hadn't quite deciphered. Cal held out his hands for the ball.

  "Are you serious?" the tall athlete asked.

  "Prepare to meet White Chocolate, big guy," Jack said, in an announcer's voice.

  "Jason Williams' dad?"

  Jack laughed. "You wish."

  Randy Masterson snorted and tossed the ball to Cal's waiting hands. Cal stutter-stepped – more out of indecision than intention – faked a drive which Randy bought, and pulled up for a jumper when he had several feet of space. He knew the shot was off the instant it left his hands – but he also knew where it was going: striking the back of the rim and
bouncing high to his right. His opponent was swiveling into defensive rebound position in front of the basket, tree branch arms extended outward to block Cal out, but he wasn't where the ball would go. Cal sprinted to the spot, leaping off one foot in full sprint, shooting past Randy Masterson and rising high to catch the ball with one hand a foot over the rim and slam it down in a single explosive motion.

  He dropped to the floor, the sound of his sneakers slapping the hardwood echoing in the sudden silence. Randy Masterson stood gawking. The assistant coach lowered his cell phone slowly, staring at him. He then raised the phone and murmured what sounded like, "I'll get back to you."

  Cal returned to the top of the key, his heart thundering – a joy unlike anything he'd ever experienced reverberating through his being. This was a lifelong fantasy come true. It couldn't possibly be real. But his opponent's eyes as he checked the ball, full of wonder and fierce determination – and more than a hint of fear – told him it was. The impossible had happened: he'd become the "baller" of his dreams.

  Randy tossed him the ball and dropped back, conceding Cal the open shot. Swish. The next play Randy played him tight, and Cal drove around him to the basket with ease, finishing with a two-handed dunk.

  "Okay," said Assistant Coach Adler, striding up, "time out."

  "I'm Jack Newell. This is my old friend, Cal Winters."

  "With emphasis on 'old,'" said Cal with a smile.

  They shook hands. Coach Adler stood with arms folded, studying Cal and then Randy Masterson with narrowed eyes.

  "Where did you come from, again?" he asked Cal.

  "Grand Forks, North Dakota."

  "What I meant is, someone with your abilities would be known somewhere. Did you play at the high school or collegiate level?"

  "No, sir."

  "No one noticed your athleticism?"

  Cal shrugged. He had rehearsed answering these questions – making up something or even just telling the truth – but the least unbelievable explanation seemed to be none at all.