The Final Four

by Paul Volponi

  Despite the string of Trojan victories, Crispin Rice, whose teammates nicknamed him “Snap-Crackle-Pop” for his ability to shoot a basketball, has been in a scoring slump lately.

  “I guess there’s been a little bit of pressure on me, thinking about the engagement and all,” said Rice. “But I’m confident I’ll get my touch back.”

  Of course, Crispin Rice is optimistic. He has Hope on his side.

  The pair will set a wedding date sometime after the NCAA Tournament.

  “I’ve failed over and over and over again in my life, and that is why I succeed.”

  —Michael Jordan, considered by many to be the greatest basketball player of all time, despite being cut from his high school varsity team as a sophomore

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MICHAEL JORDAN

  7:24 P.M. [CT]

  MJ knows he’s not the focus on offense for the Spartans, and maybe not even a second or third option in the minds of his teammates. But that doesn’t matter to him. He still holds on to a scorer’s mentality—that he can drain any open shot if he puts himself in the right spot or the ball bounces his way.

  On Michigan State’s first possession of overtime, Malcolm jukes left with his dribble. When Roko commits in that direction on defense, Malcolm jets back to his right, where MJ mans the corner.

  MJ steps back, giving Malcolm plenty of room to operate.

  Roko throws his legs into high gear to catch up.

  MJ sees Baby Bear step squarely in front of Roko to set a screen. As the Croatian runs into that brick wall of flesh, the Trojan guarding MJ darts after Malcolm, leaving MJ wide open for a mid-range jumper.

  Instantaneously, MJ feels his mouth go dry and the sweat starting on his palms.

  Planting his feet firmly on the floor, MJ extends his hands forward, waiting for the ball. Malcolm sees him. His eyes look right into MJ’s.

  But the pass never comes.

  Instead, Malcolm forces up a shot with two defenders closing in on him.

  In a heartbeat, MJ pushes through the curtain of curse words in his mind, and he rushes towards the rim to rebound Malcolm’s miss.

  The ball hangs in the air, right in front of MJ.

  But just as he reaches for it, Baby Bear comes barreling to the rim from behind.

  The pair battle for the same rebound, with the ball going off MJ’s leg and out of bounds.

  The ref points directly at MJ, slapping at his pant leg. Then he thrusts an arm towards the opposite basket, like a sucker punch to MJ’s midsection, awarding Troy possession.

  “Don’t dog your own teammate for the rock!” Malcolm explodes at MJ. “You’re balling for our team, not theirs! Get your head out of your ass!”

  Baby Bear has the same snarling look for MJ, minus the sharp words.

  MJ sucks it all up and swallows that tongue-lashing. He’s not about to fight with his teammates. Not while he’s still trying to find his place on the court.

  Then MJ heads back on defense, muttering, “It’s all about trust, Malc. Just pass me the ball when I’m open. That’s all.”

  ON A CABLE SPORTS NETWORK PROVIDING LIVE UPDATES FROM THE FINAL FOUR

  Announcer: There’s no doubt that most of you are familiar with this iconic name. Maybe you’re not so familiar with the Michigan State player who currently bears it in college basketball. He’s normally a reserve, spending most of his time on the bench. But due to a pair of Spartans fouling out earlier tonight, junior Michael Jordan is seeing important minutes on the court as I speak. Let’s get to know him better through an encore presentation of Rachel Adams’s award-winning interview series, One-on-One.

  On screen, Rachel Adams (screen left), holding a small pile of index cards, and Michael Jordan (screen right) are sitting on stools, facing each other. Erected between them is a life-size cardboard cutout of the famed Michael Jordan, with one hand on his hip in a Superman pose and a basketball tucked beneath the other arm. In the background is a darkened gymnasium basketball court.

  Rachel Adams: Tell me, honestly, what’s it like for a basketball player to grow up with the name Michael Jordan?

  Michael: It can be hard, real hard. How can I explain it? I guess it would be like if your name was Oprah and you had one of those TV talk shows. How could you ever measure up? (Adams laughs) It’s probably harder on me having the name Michael Jordan (glancing over at the cardboard cutout), because I love the game of basketball so much, since I was a little kid.

  Adams: So it’s safe to say that there was a lot of pressure involved, a lot of unrealistic expectations?

  Michael: Think about it—I had this name to deal with even before I really learned how to play basketball. When I was, like, seven years old and couldn’t reach the rim yet with a shot, people were saying, “Hey, your name’s Michael Jordan; you’re not supposed to miss.” That’s pressure. I’d eat breakfast every morning and a guy with my name was on the Wheaties box. If I grew up playing chess or piano, it probably wouldn’t matter. People wouldn’t make such a big deal out of it. They’d never say, “There goes Michael Jordan to his piano lesson. He must play piano as great as the real Michael Jordan plays basketball.” It probably wouldn’t come into their minds.

  Adams: But Michael (pointing a finger at him), you are the real Michael Jordan, right? There’s nothing fake about you. I mean, it is your name.

  Michael: That’s true. I have to remember that. Thanks for reminding me. I am the real MJ (pinching himself on the arm). Yeah, that’s me. The only Michael Jordan I know. And a least I’ve still got my hair (looking at the bald image of Jordan). It’s one thing I do have over him.

  Adams: What do you think people expect from you because of that name?

  Michael: I think they expect me to dominate every basketball game I play in. That I’m going to score a lot of points and win championships. Oh yeah, and that I’m going to dunk on everybody all the time. (Screen cuts to a famous video clip of Michael Jordan dunking from the free-throw line during an NBA All-Star Game dunk contest) Or people come up to me and ask, “Is Michael Jordan your father? Are you his son?” That’s always a good one.

  Adams: What do you tell them when they ask that—“Is Michael Jordan your father?”

  Michael: I mostly say, “I wish Michael Jordan was my father, because that means my father would still be alive.” Don’t get me wrong—I love my mom. But she got remarried a few years back to a guy with three kids of his own, all younger than me. So she’s been busy helping to raise them. It got a little lonely sometimes, like I’d been forgotten. So I’d sit and wonder what it would be like if my dad was still here.

  As heartfelt music begins to play, on screen appears this Michael Jordan shooting alone in a gymnasium, wearing a green Michigan State Spartans warm-up jersey. Rachel Adams’s voice is heard over the video.

  Adams: In truth, this Michael Jordan never really knew his father. Anthony Jordan split up with Michael’s mother, Justine, several months after Michael was born. A few months later, Anthony Jordan was killed in a car accident. But before he left Michael’s life, he gave his son the name of his athletic hero. He also left behind a box with some possessions—among them an old basketball. That ball became one of young Michael’s favorite things to play with.

  The broadcast cuts back to the interview.

  Michael: I dribbled that ball around everywhere growing up. I played with it so much the grips wore off and it became all smooth. I still have the ball at home. I let my stepsiblings touch it, but they’re not allowed to take it out of the house. I’ll probably keep it forever.

  Adams: Interestingly enough, I understand Michael Jordan isn’t your hero.

  Michael: No, President Barack Obama is. He’s my hero.

  Adams: Tell me why, Michael.

  Michael: Well, besides being the first black president, I read that Barack Obama only met his father a few times, because his dad was working as a diplomat in another country. Obama met him one Christmas when his father was visiting the U.S. I know that he got
a basketball as a present. So President Obama is sort of like me: we both got basketballs to remember our fathers by. Anyway, we’re both left-handed. And I’ve seen some of the president’s game on the news clips. It’s kind of like mine—scrappy with a little bit of a jump shot.

  Adams: And do you realize what happens, Michael, if your Michigan State Spartans win the National Championship?

  Michael: Yeah, the team will get invited to the White House to meet President Obama (a smile appearing on his face).

  Adams: What would you say to President Obama? Would you tell him about the similarities in your lives?

  Michael: Nah, he wouldn’t want to hear all of that. I’d probably just want to shake his hand and maybe take a picture with him.

  Adams: If this Michael Jordan magically came to life (glancing at the cutout), what would you say to him?

  Michael: I’d say how all of his success has made it rough for me. I don’t think he’d have much sympathy, though. He’s a super-tough competitor. He’d probably tell me to just work harder at everything.

  Adams: Michael, you’re not a starter on the Michigan State team, and you more than likely won’t be turning pro. What do you want to do after graduation?

  Michael: I’m majoring in media and communications. Maybe one day I’ll have a job like yours. So this interview could be good practice for me, on-the-job training.

  Adams: Now, Michael, I have to ask you this last question. If you ever had a son, would you name him Michael Jordan?

  Michael: I don’t know (resting his cleft chin in the palm of his right hand). I can’t really call it. Not if he ever wanted to be a basketball player, I wouldn’t.

  The broadcast cuts back to the studio announcer.

  Announcer: It is reported that Hall of Famer Michael Jordan is at the Final Four in New Orleans this weekend to see his alma mater, North Carolina, play in the second semifinal game tonight against Duke. So far, there’s no word on whether the two Michael Jordans have gotten the opportunity to meet each other.

  “I was brought up in this part of Detroit that they used to call the ghetto… My father worked hard, but we were still very poor; and I didn’t want anybody arguing about money, so I became the entertainer—the one who wanted everyone to be happy. I didn’t want there to be any problems.”

  —Diana Ross, famed Motown recording artist whose family moved into the Brewster-Douglass Housing Projects in her early teens

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MALCOLM McBRIDE

  7:25 P.M. [CT]

  Trailing by a bucket, even the offensive-minded Malcolm is determined to clamp down on defense, denying his man the ball.

  “Nothing for you,” Malcolm tells Roko, as he cuts him off from receiving a pass. “If I wanted to make it happen, you’d never touch the rock. You’re lucky my game’s about putting points on the board or I’d be living inside your jersey.”

  The Spartans’ defense smothers the Trojans’ attack. With the thirty-five-second shot clock about to expire, Troy is forced to heave up a bad, off-balance shot.

  Grizzly snatches the rebound, clearing out space with a vicious swinging elbow.

  Then Malcolm rushes over to him to claim the ball.

  Stalking the sidelines, Coach Barker signals a play by raising a fist into the air.

  Malcolm grimaces at the sight of it, grinding his teeth in disgust.

  He can’t believe the play isn’t for him.

  “I wouldn’t call your number, either,” mocks Roko, as Malcolm brings the ball up court. “It’s already too much about you. You don’t have teammates. You have babysitters.”

  Malcolm glares at Roko’s red hair and uniform, and then drops his shoulder like a bull about to charge.

  The rest of the Spartans are following Barker’s call.

  But halfway through the arranged set, Malcolm blows off the play, attacking Roko one-on-one instead.

  Barker throws his arms up in frustration, turning his back to the court. Even if Malcolm could see him, it wouldn’t have any effect.

  Malcolm’s only focus is on finding a clear path to the basket or creating one for himself. Besides, Malcolm knows that Barker won’t bench him. This is his overtime. He’s the one who has carried the Spartans this far.

  Bursting past Roko, Malcolm doesn’t have a planned move. He’s playing by touch and feel. And what comes out of him is a high, arching shot—a running teardrop floater in the lane.

  Crispin leaps to block it, but the ball just clears his fingertips before nestling into the net.

  The score is knotted 66–66, with 2:40 left in overtime.

  But Malcolm isn’t done. He reads Crispin’s disappointment at narrowly missing the block. He sees him lose concentration and get careless with the inbound pass to Roko. That’s when Malcolm darts in front, stealing the ball.

  Backing off with his prize, Malcolm hesitates for a second, selling the idea to Roko and Crispin that he’ll wait for his teammates to regroup on offense.

  Then Malcolm heads for the hoop at full throttle, past the suckered pair.

  Roko can only rake him across the arm, trying to stop an easy score. But Malcolm’s momentum and strength are too much. He drags Roko with him to the basket and scores anyway.

  The ref raises his arm for a foul on Roko.

  Then he lashes his wrist straight down to signal the basket counts, too.

  A wave of green rocks the Superdome, starting at the Spartans’ bench.

  Even Coach Barker is now clapping for Malcolm, straining what’s left of his voice with approval. “Big-time play! Big-time!”

  Before Malcolm heads to the foul line for a free throw, he stops in front of a TV camera beneath the basket. He stares into the lens, beating at his chest with a clenched fist. Malcolm hits himself harder and harder, until he feels the sting of those blows deep inside.

  AUGUST, TWO YEARS AND SEVEN MONTHS AGO

  The elevator doors sprang shut behind him as Malcolm turned the corner and saw it was his apartment door that the neighbors were pounding on.

  Soon his parents were out in the hall, too.

  “Malcolm, come here, baby!” shrieked his mama, shaking out both of her hands at the wrists, like that motion was the only thing keeping the rest of her body and mind together. “Stand by me. I don’t want to lose sight of you, too. Not right now.”

  And that wait for the elevator to come back again was pure torture.

  “Damn it, this elevator is slow as shit!” raged Malcolm’s father, slamming the button with his fist. “Come on! Where is it?”

  “Stop, please! You’ll break it!” hollered Malcolm’s mama. “I need to see if my daughter is all right!”

  Malcolm thought about jetting down the twelve flights of stairs. But deep inside, he didn’t know if he could face whatever had happened out there alone.

  When the elevator finally arrived, Malcolm, his parents, Ramona’s grandparents, and some other neighbors all piled into it, almost on top of one another.

  “This can’t be happening,” said Malcolm’s mama, hysterical. “She was just here, safe in the house. Lord, please let it be someone else, some criminal who deserves it.”

  With every floor that passed, Malcolm felt his heart sinking further down into his shoes.

  Once they hit the lobby, Malcolm could hear the sickening sound of sirens twisting through the streets, getting closer.

  Outside, through a crowd of people, Malcolm saw EMTs kneeling beside a girl wearing a gray T-shirt.

  It was Trisha.

  The EMTs were working feverishly, pumping at her chest and giving her oxygen.

  Malcolm had never felt smaller or more helpless in his entire life.

  His father was on his knees, praying in the street.

  “Help her, Lord. Please, I’m begging—” was all his father got out before he broke down sobbing.

  It was the first time Malcolm had ever seen his father cry.

  Then, after a few minutes, the EMTs suddenly stopped. They pulled a white sheet
over Trisha’s bloodstained face and lifted her lifeless body into the ambulance.

  That gut check Trisha had given Malcolm maybe ten minutes ago, shoving the basketball hard into his stomach, turned into a huge empty hole that passed right through him.

  “Why aren’t they helping my baby anymore? Why?” screamed Malcolm’s mama, as neighbors rushed to hold her up.

  Malcolm’s legs became like rubber, as he wavered back and forth between tears and searing anger.

  Without a basketball to cling to, Malcolm threw his arms around his mama.

  He felt an earthquake of emotions building inside her—the kind of rumbling that could have brought the Brewster-Douglass Houses crashing down to the ground.

  It was all Malcolm could do to hold on.

  Later on, at the hospital, Malcolm and his parents were told by doctors that Trisha had been struck in the right temple by a bullet. And that it had probably killed her instantly.

  It was the hardest thing Malcolm ever had to hear.

  The cops called it a “stray” bullet, one from a battle over which crew would run the projects’ most profitable drug spots. But Malcolm didn’t need the police to explain anything. He walked those streets every day.

  In all, the cops counted the casings of seven shots fired from a moving car. Two of them ended up in the body of a teenage dealer on a bench twenty yards from the hydrant where all of those kids were splashing, where Trisha was minding little Sha-Sha. Only those bullets didn’t touch the lives of Malcolm and his family.

  The few witnesses who weren’t afraid to talk told the police that the shots came from a black Acura with tinted windows. But nobody got a good look at the shooter’s face, or the car’s license plate number.

  There was no birthday dinner that night or talk of food in Malcolm’s house for days. And Malcolm couldn’t remember hearing any music again until the Martin Luther King High School Crusaders Marching Band played “Wind Beneath My Wings” at Trisha’s funeral.

  At the cemetery, Ramona came up from behind Malcolm and threw her arms around him. “I feel like this is all my fault,” sobbed Ramona. “If I didn’t ask her to mind my daughter, she’d still be here.”