Crossover

by Jeff Rud

  There was no point heading home and then turning right around and coming back for the game against Davidson. At quarter past five, I got up, said goodbye to Lukas and headed out the theater door. “Good luck,” Luke said.

  “Thanks, man. I’ll probably need it.”

  In truth, I was a little nervous about the game. Coach Williams had been riding me pretty hard all week. It wouldn’t hurt to arrive at the gym early, loosen up and spend some extra time working on my shot.

  When I got to the gym, I threw on my practice shorts and a sweatshirt. Then I grabbed a basketball out of the rack in the equipment room and stood directly under one backboard, about a foot away from the rim. It was how I began every solo shooting session: taking several shots, with both my right and left hands, from each side of the floor. My rule was I had to swish one, bank one in, roll one in off the front rim and bounce one in off the back rim. Only then could I slide one step farther out and repeat the entire process.

  I didn’t even hear Coach Williams come through the gym doors behind me. “Evans, great to see you here early,” he said before heading into his office.

  It was nice for me to hear something positive from the coach for a change. It had been a rough week bouncing between basketball practice and the musical with homework in between. And Coach had been really uptight all week about tonight’s season-opener. You could tell he was already feeling more pressure this season than in any other year I had played for him.

  At 6:15 PM the Davidson players began coming through the double doors of the gym. They were wearing the familiar red, white and blue Davidson Dukes varsity jackets, and oozing confidence. Davidson was the other powerhouse team in our district, and their players obviously felt pretty good about themselves. They strode toward the visitors’ locker room, laughing and talking loudly.

  By then, the rest of my teammates had shown up and joined me in an informal shootaround. “I can’t stand those guys,” Sammy said after the last Davidson player had entered the locker room. “They think they’re an nba team or something.”

  The rest of us, even Ben Stillman, nodded as we continued our shooting.

  “Okay, guys, let’s bring it in!” The harsh blast of Coach Williams’s whistle and his stern voice served as a pre-game wake-up call. We took his signal and headed for the locker room. It was almost time for the most important season of my basketball career to begin.

  Unlike junior ball, where we all showed up pretty much ready to play, the locker room was a big deal at the senior varsity level. We now got to keep our locker stalls for the entire season. Our names were taped above the spots where we dressed. We were also allowed music. Pete Freeman, the senior who was our sixth man, the first player in off the bench, was in charge of the tunes. As we pulled on our blue-andgold Sainsbury Eagles jerseys and shorts, the locker room filled with the pulsating beats of 50 Cent.

  “All right, turn it off!” Only Coach Williams’s voice could cut through the bass beat and all the pre-game conversation. “Let’s get down to business.”

  Everybody was silent as Coach strode to the center of the locker room. All eyes were on him. He was dressed in a sharp black suit, blue shirt and gold tie. I hadn’t seen the coach in a suit before. It was obvious to all of us how seriously he was taking this season.

  “I don’t have to tell you guys how big this year is for us,” Coach began, his eyes surveying the room. “And of all our games this year, none—not one—is any bigger than this one.”

  Coach was right on that account. The Davidson Dukes were our arch rivals. The Dukes were defending district champions and had been runners-up at regionals the previous year.

  “But this season is different,” Coach continued. “It’s different because of you guys. You have talent. And tonight we’re going to find out whether you have the heart to go along with it.”

  I looked around the room. Coach had everybody’s attention. Ben Stillman looked serious for the first time since practice had begun this fall. Pete Freeman, maybe the most happy-go-lucky kid on our team, had fixed a solemn gaze on the tips of his Nike hightops. Sammy Curtis drew a deep breath and clenched his square jaw. We were all serious and ready to go.

  “I know what you are capable of,” Coach Williams said. “Now let’s go out there and show everybody else.”

  We all began to chant, first softly and then louder. It was a tradition we had begun as a junior varsity team, and it had simply carried over to the senior team. “Eagles! Eagles! Eagles!” The volume grew, as did the intensity. One by one, we filed out the locker room door and into the gym.

  What a difference thirty minutes had made. When we had entered the locker room, the gym had been practically empty. Now there were at least four hundred people in the stands and a cheerleading team on either side of the court. The Sainsbury High School band was set up in one corner of the gym. They were blasting out our school song—”Soar, Eagles, Soar.” I could even smell the butter on the popcorn. This was high school basketball— the big time.

  We headed out for the pre-game in our new blue-and-gold warm-ups. They had a spread-winged Eagle on the back of the jackets and our numbers on the pants, directly over the right thigh. Big Ben Stillman fired down the lane and jammed the basketball through the hoop to begin our layup drill. The crowd went crazy. I followed up with a two-handed dunk that drew “Oohs” from the little kids in the front row. I remembered being one of those kids not so long ago, watching games at Sainsbury, hoping to catch the eye of one of the players on the court. Finally I was out there on the floor, one of their high-school heroes.

  chapter eight

  It seemed like only seconds before the referee blew his whistle three times, signaling that it was three minutes to tip-off. Coach called us into the huddle and we stripped off our warm-ups.

  “Okay, guys, this is it,” Coach Williams said, his voice rising to be heard above the crowd noise. “You’re varsity players now. Let’s make some noise.”

  Even though I’d had my share of disagreements with the coach, his words left me pumped up. This was the most excited I had ever felt as an athlete. I put my right hand into the middle of the pack with my teammates. “One, two, three—Eagles!” we screamed.

  It felt great to walk onto the court as a starter on the Sainsbury varsity team. I shook hands with Eric Larsen, the senior Davidson forward. I would be matched up against him. I knew Eric pretty well. We had played plenty of summer ball against each other. He nodded at me, and I nodded back. “Good game,” I said.

  From the opening tip, though, things just didn’t go our way. Instead of winning the jump against Davidson center Dave Ansen, Ben Stillman mistimed his leap and the ball went directly to Eric Larsen. He fired it upcourt to Randy Hinks. The Dukes had an uncontested layup just three seconds in.

  Instead of getting out to a confident start, that basket seemed to throw the jitters into the entire Sainsbury team. And even though we tried, we couldn’t recover. By halftime, Davidson led 30–22. Ben Stillman had missed all five shot attempts he had taken, three of them air balls. I had gone zero-for-two. This certainly wasn’t the dream start that Coach Williams or any of us had imagined.

  “That was awful,” Coach bellowed as soon as our last player had made it into the locker room at halftime. “If I could get them together and dressed in time, I’d put the junior varsity out there for the second half. At least they’d give me some honest effort. You guys look as if you’ve never played a game before. You look scared. Are you scared?”

  Each of us shook his head. I knew we’d had a poor half. I could see that Coach was upset. But I was pretty sure that every-body—even Stillman—was trying as hard as he could.

  After going over the mistakes we’d made in the first half—and it took a while—Coach had some final words for us. I wouldn’t describe it as a pep talk. Not really. “Now, unless you all are ready to go out and give me a complete effort,” he yelled, “then there are going to be major changes come Monday. Do we understand each other?”
/>   I gulped. I wondered what he meant, exactly, by “changes.”

  The second half was much better for us. Our nerves had settled somewhat. We began to work the ball around the perimeter, into the post and then back out, just the way Coach had shown us in practice.

  With one minute left, we had erased Davidson’s lead, and the score was tied 40–40. We had possession of the ball. Coach Williams signaled for a time-out.

  “Okay, guys. That’s more like it,” Coach said. “You had me worried for a while.”

  The coach pulled out his whiteboard with the basketball key on it. With a blue marker, he drew the play he wanted us to run for the rest of the game. “Let’s work our four-up and get Stillman the ball,” he said. “Ben, you drive and look to dish if you get tied up. Okay?”

  We all nodded. Hands went into another huddle. “Eagles!” We exploded onto the court.

  Layne Dennis, our senior point guard, brought the ball down the floor. He reversed it to Pete Freeman on the weakside wing. Freeman waited for Stillman to cross to the high post; then he delivered the pass perfectly to the hand that was farthest from the defender.

  Ben gathered the ball, faked left and then spun right, driving the lane. He elevated into the key and soared toward the rim. Meanwhile, Eric Larsen slid over to pick up Stillman, leaving me wide open under the basket. But the pass never came. Stillman crashed into Larsen, and the whistle blew. “Shooting two!” the referee shouted.

  The Sainsbury crowd roared. Ben Stillman was going to the free-throw line with thirty-one seconds left and a chance to put us ahead.

  Ben strode to the line. The rest of us found a place in the lane, playing for the rebound. “First one’s dead,” the ref said, reminding everyone that there was no rebound on the initial free throw. Ben released the ball awkwardly, and it bounced off the rim. No good.

  I gazed over at Stillman. The guy was a goof, and he had a huge opinion of himself, but after four years of playing together I could tell when he was nervous. And he was definitely nervous now. “One shot!” the referee yelled. Ben cradled the basketball, bent his legs and released it. The orange sphere bounced softly around the rim, and this time it fell in. Stillman had made one of two and we were up 41–40.

  Davidson called a quick time-out. In the huddle, our coach gave Stillman a pat on the back. “Way to put us ahead.” He grinned. “Now listen up, everybody. The ball is likely going to Larsen. Kyle, make sure you don’t let him get by you. Okay?”

  I nodded. I knew that Davidson would try to find Eric Larsen on this play. Larsen was one of their best shooters and definitely the Dukes’ top performer in the clutch.

  I left the huddle determined not to let Larsen get away from me. I knew the Dukes would be setting screens for him. “Tell me what’s happening, okay?” I said to my teammates loudly as we took the floor. “Let me know about the screens.”

  Sure enough, the Dukes were intent on running Larsen through a maze before he got the ball. I managed to slip under the first pick set for him, but the second screen proved more difficult. It was Dave Ansen, the plodding Davidson center. Ansen wasn’t particularly skilled at anything, except for setting bone-jarring screens.

  It might have been okay had Ben been talking to me on defense. But as Ansen set a blind off-ball screen for Eric Larsen, I had no idea what was coming. Whether he saw it developing or not, Ben Stillman never said a word. As Larsen cut hard around Ansen, I followed. My shoulder crashed dead-on into the larger Davidson player. I was rocked backward at least three feet. I felt the taste of blood in my mouth from a collision with Ansen’s elbow.

  But what happened next really hurt. Eric Larsen had sprung open off that screen. Ben Stillman was at least a foot behind him trying desperately to catch up. Larsen took a perfect pass from his point guard and laid the ball cleanly into the basket. It was 42–41 for Davidson with just ten seconds remaining.

  We had one time-out left, which Layne Dennis wisely called. In the huddle, Coach Williams was livid. “Don’t you guys ever talk out there?” he screamed, eyeing both me and Stillman. “That hoop was way too easy.”

  I felt about two inches tall rather than the six-foot-two listed in the game program. Stillman, meanwhile, was simply sneering at me. Like it was somehow all my fault.

  “Okay, boys, let’s concentrate,” Coach said. “Let’s run the same thing as last time. Let’s run our four-set, high post from the weak side. Pete, you get the ball to Ben and let him create, okay?”

  Freeman inbounded the basketball into Dennis and then headed quickly down-court. Once he reached the baseline, he sprinted back to the offside wing, where he caught a crisp pass from Dennis. Freeman waited for Stillman to cut and then delivered the ball on target.

  There were six seconds left when Ben cut toward the hoop, again beating Dave Ansen. But once again, Eric Larsen slid over to pick up Stillman on the drive. I was wide open under the hoop with my hands extended. All Stillman had to do was dump it down to me for the winning basket. But instead he held on to it, thudding directly into Larsen. The two players collided and hit the floor. Ben bounced up and headed toward the free-throw line. But the referee stretched out his left hand, fist clenched, signaling an offensive foul. That was it. The game was over. Davidson had won 42-41.

  The rest of the Dukes mobbed Larsen, who had drawn the charge from Stillman to win the game. Meanwhile, everybody in an Eagles uniform looked dejected. Nobody more so than Coach Williams, who was the first to shake hands with the Dukes and head into the locker room.

  “Okay, guys, listen up,” the coach said after we had all taken a seat. The body language in the locker room told a sad story. Players slumped in their stalls and stared down at the cold tile floor. “That was a tough loss. And worse yet, it was a game we should have won. If you guys had played anywhere close to your potential in the first half, we would have breezed past these guys.

  “Let’s put this one behind us,” he continued. “But let’s learn from it. This is senior varsity ball now. You can’t afford to be unprepared mentally or physically. Today, you guys weren’t ready mentally when the opening whistle blew.”

  I didn’t disagree with what Coach was saying. None of us, myself included, had been very sharp at the start of the game.

  Glancing down at the score sheet, which had just been handed to him by our manager, Coach cleared his throat. “Stillman, twenty-one points. Fifteen after the break. Nice game.”

  Ben Stillman’s face brightened considerably. He smiled at Coach. “Thanks,” he said.

  Listening to them was a little hard to take. Yes, Stillman had scored twenty-one, but I thought he should have had forty given all the chances he’d had. Plus, he was playing against the much slower Ansen. And besides, he had blown the last two plays of the game. He had missed a free throw and then committed the charge that cost us the win.

  I hurried to pull on my sweatpants and varsity jacket. It was nearly nine o’clock, and some of the guys were going out for a pizza. I just wanted to get home. This game had left a bad taste in my mouth.

  “Evans,” the coach called as I headed toward the gym door. “I need to talk to you a minute.”

  Startled, I followed him into his office. “Close the door,” he said.

  “What’s up?” I asked, by now feeling anxious. All the guys would be wondering what was going on.

  “Five-for-thirteen,” he said, reciting my shooting stats for the night. “You can do better than that, kid.”

  I gulped. “Yeah, Coach,” I acknowledged. “I think I was a little nervous out there. First game and all.”

  The coach fixed his gray eyes directly on mine. “Just as long as nerves is all it is,” he said.

  I had no idea what he was talking about. “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “Evans, do you know what burning the candle at both ends means?” Coach said.

  I nodded. “It means you’re spreading yourself too thin.”

  “Correct,” Coach said. “And I’m concerned you’re doing
that by being involved in this theater thing.”

  Now I understood what the coach was getting at, but I was also getting angry. My acting had nothing to do with how I had shot the ball tonight. And besides, I had gone five-for-eleven in the second half, nearly fifty percent. I knew Ben Stillman had taken more than twice as many shots as me and scored just twenty-one points to my ten. All he’d managed in the first half were six free throws. But Coach had said “good game” to him.

  “I don’t think so, Coach,” I said.

  “Well, let’s make sure, Evans,” he shot back. “If you’re going to remain a starter for me, I need a one hundred percent commitment. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Coach” I said firmly.

  As I left the coach’s office, I was pissed. Remain a starter? What did that mean? And why was I the one being delivered the ultimatum when it was the whole team that had lost? Why did Ben Stillman, who blew the game, get an “atta-boy” while I got dumped on?

  Sammy Curtis was waiting for me outside the coach’s office. “What was that all about?” he asked as we made our way through the gym parking lot.

  “Coach doesn’t think I’m giving one hundred percent,” I said. “He thinks I’m too busy with Oliver! It’s complete crap.”

  Sammy didn’t say anything for a few seconds. “Why don’t you just quit?” he finally said.

  “Quit basketball?” I asked. “Are you serious?”

  “I meant the show,” Sammy said. “Obviously, you’re not quitting hoops. But I don’t get why you want to hang around with all those theater geeks anyway.”

  Now I was really pissed. Sammy was my friend and a good guy, but he was just as bad as Coach. I wanted to tell Sammy that I liked theater almost as much as basketball, and that the guys in the show were actually pretty cool. But something stopped me from speaking.