by Paul Volponi
Color Commentator: If you could see it on radio, and you’re a Michigan State supporter, I’d tell you that this is what gut-wrenching looks like in slow motion.
Play-by-Play Man: We’re headed to a second five-minute overtime session. And a fight breaks out on the court! It’s between the two mascots! Unbelievable! Sparty and T-Roy—two guys in seven-foot foam rubber costumes—get into a shoving match in a wild scene that’s now being broken up by security.
Color Commentator: This is what the Final Four is all about. Emotions pushed to the limits, and even more so now as we strap ourselves in for double overtime.
“When you go out there and do the things you’re supposed to do, people view you as selfish.”
—Wilt Chamberlain, who once scored 100 of his team’s 169 points in an NBA game
CHAPTER NINE
MALCOLM McBRIDE
7:36 P.M. [CT]
Malcolm sees Roko extending a hand to MJ, reaching to pick him up off the court.
“Don’t offer your damn hand to my man!” snarls Malcolm, rushing over. “Go worry about your own players. Go save your stupid mascot from catching a beating.”
Roko holds both palms out in front of Malcolm, like a Trojan shield.
“No sweat,” says Roko, backing away. “You can help him.”
Then Malcolm reaches an arm out to MJ and says, “Next time pick your own ass up. Nobody helps you in this world but yourself. And you’re not supposed to be hoisting bombs. You should be setting screens to get me open.”
“Are you kidding me? I almost won it,” MJ tells him, rising to his feet with Malcolm’s help.
“That almost crap is for losers. I’m going to win us this game,” says Malcolm, heading back towards the Michigan State bench alone.
At the Spartans’ bench, Barker pulls Malcolm, MJ, and the rest of the players in around him.
“On offense, start by pounding the ball down low to our big men, Grizzly and Baby Bear,” croaks Barker, looking almost directly into Malcolm’s eyes. “Five minutes is a long time. We want to get that last foul on their center, Rice. They’ve got no one with any size to fill his shoes. So attack him. He’s either got to foul or let us go to the hoop. Once they crumble inside, this game is over. Now, let’s get it done.”
Ringing inside of Malcolm’s head is one contrary phrase: Just get me the damn ball! But of course, he doesn’t say it out loud, not in front of Barker.
An instant before the huddle breaks, Malcolm is the last one to drop his hand on the pile, putting his at the very top.
AUGUST, ONE YEAR AND SEVEN MONTHS AGO
It was a few minutes past ten p.m. With his parents having just gone to bed, Malcolm grabbed the framed photo of his sister, the one of her full face smiling soft like a heavenly angel’s, from the glass table in the living room. He snuck it out of the apartment and brought it with him to a house party in one of the other Brewster-Douglass buildings.
A basketball buddy of Malcolm’s who was running the party—another guy going into his senior year of high school along with Malcolm—told him a scratcher would be there. Not just any scratcher, but one with some real skills. Malcolm had already seen the guy’s work on somebody’s arm—a blazing basketball being dunked through a hoop of fire, a tat that caught Malcolm’s eye straight off.
At seventeen, Malcolm was too young for a legit tattoo parlor.
He could have asked his parents for a letter to bring with him. But Malcolm knew they weren’t going to sign off on him getting inked.
A cousin of Malcolm’s forged a letter like that once. But the artist at the tattoo parlor looked up his aunt and uncle’s phone number and called them. So the cousin missed out on his tat and got himself an ass whipping at home besides.
When Malcolm first saw the scratcher at the party, he started to have serious doubts about letting that guy anywhere near him with a needle. The guy had a pair of silver rings through his nose and another pair piercing his upper lip. He wore a shiny purple shirt and a fedora hat turned off to the side. And he had an African name that Malcolm couldn’t wrap his tongue around, even after hearing it twice.
But when the scratcher saw Trisha’s photo, he said in a rock-solid voice, “She’s beautiful. I remember seeing her before, around this neighborhood. I’m so sorry for your loss, my brother.”
So Malcolm let him take the photo from his hand and go into the next room to sketch it.
“Don’t stress what he looks like,” Malcolm’s buddy said on the down-low, beneath a steady stream of hip-hop. “That’s how most of these artistic dudes are—way out there. What did you expect, for him to look like a baller carrying a big box of Crayolas?”
“I guess you’re right,” answered Malcolm, on the fringe of a living room full of dancing teens.
Then, maybe ten minutes later, the guy came back with a sketch of Trisha’s face that was so lifelike it nearly stopped Malcolm’s heart cold.
“How much for an ink of that here?” asked Malcolm, slapping at his right biceps.
The scratcher wanted $175.
That was fifty more than Malcolm had in his pocket, money he’d saved up a little at a time since Trisha’s death. He’d collected that stack mostly by staying hungry over the last year, putting aside part of his school lunch money.
“Yo, Malc, my cut’s twenty-five bucks of whatever tats get inked at my party. But I’m not about to make a profit off of Trisha’s memory. Just slice that amount off right there and you’re that much closer.”
“That’s cool,” said Malcolm, connecting a closed fist to his friend’s. “But I’m still short.”
“Forget all the money talk,” said the scratcher. “I’ll take the one twenty-five.”
“That’s not a favor to nobody,” Malcolm wanted to make clear.
“Favor? No, I’m being selfish. I’m doing this for me. It’s for my art,” said the scratcher. “Besides, I have a sister that’s passed, too.”
Malcolm took off his shirt. Then he sat at the kitchen table, which was covered with empty beer bottles and Doritos bags, while the guy made a carbon copy of his sketch. He pressed it onto Malcolm’s arm, and it transferred over like a fifty-cent fake tat that you’d buy in a candy store.
The scratcher put on a pair of rubber gloves, and his machine with the needles started to buzz over the music from the party.
“Don’t forget to breathe,” he told Malcolm, with a few girls from the party hovering close by. “The people who pass out getting inked for the first time—it’s not from the pain; it’s because they forget to breathe.”
“Man, I’m not going to faint,” insisted Malcolm. “I never punked out like that in my whole life.”
When the scratcher started, first Malcolm felt the vibration on his skin, and then the sting from the needle.
“This’ll help,” said his buddy, putting a bottle of beer into Malcolm’s left hand.
People at the party kept coming into the kitchen to watch.
“That’s her. That’s exactly her.”
“I feel like Trisha’s here tonight.”
It took the scratcher an hour to finish the ink, and Malcolm didn’t look over at it once. Then, when it was done, he walked up to a plastic-framed mirror on the living room wall.
“It’s like she’s alive in my heart and on my arm now,” said Malcolm, flexing his biceps to give Trisha’s face even more expression.
Then the scratcher put on a big bandage over the tat and taped it down tight.
“What gives? Why you covering her up?” asked Malcolm.
“It’s still a fresh wound,” said the scratcher, handing Malcolm the name of an ointment to buy and rub on it every day for a week. “There are bacteria in the air. Believe me, you don’t want to risk getting an infection. Keep it covered for a day or two.”
On summer nights, Malcolm had to be home by midnight. But with his parents already asleep, he didn’t stress over the clock. And he figured he was safe as he walked in the door fifteen minutes past his curfew.<
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Malcolm had just put the photo of Trisha back and was heading to bed when his mama came out of the bathroom in her robe.
“Did you just get ho— My Lord! What’s that bandage on your arm? Did you get hurt? Stabbed? Did a doctor put that on?” she screamed loud enough to wake Malcolm’s father, who came running out of the bedroom in his boxers.
“Calm down, Mama. Relax, I’m all right,” pleaded Malcolm.
“Relax? You’re hurt. I know you weren’t playing ball this time of night. Now, was it a fight?” she demanded.
Malcolm’s father rubbed his eyes, looked at the bandage, and said angrily, “I’ve got a bad feeling the only fight he lost was with his good judgment at a tattoo joint.”
“Not a tattoo, Malcolm!” she hollered. “You’re a minor! If some idiot drew on your skin, I’ll sue his ass all the way to Toledo!”
“You don’t understand, Mama!”
Malcolm’s father ripped the bandage off.
That’s when all of the yelling turned to silence.
His mama gently brushed the portrait of Trisha with her fingertips.
“I didn’t want you to see it for another two days,” said Malcolm. “Happy early birthday, Mama. It’s a present for you.”
She slipped her hand around Malcolm’s neck, pulled him in close, and kissed him on the forehead.
From that morning’s national newspaper:
PAYING THE PRICE OF AMATEURISM
NEW ORLEANS, La. — Attending the Final Four can be a costly endeavor—travel, hotel rooms and meals can put a severe strain on a family’s budget. But as far as the NCAA is concerned, it is an appropriate burden for the families of players.
The parents, grandparents and siblings of players must pay their own way to attend the Final Four. The only perk the players receive are six free tickets to each game, which they can distribute to their family and friends, but under no circumstances sell for profit.
Perhaps this policy wouldn’t come under such scrutiny by those who believe it’s unfair if it weren’t for the nearly 400 people who are having their Final Four trips paid for by the participating universities. These people include university presidents, trustees and their spouses, coaches’ wives and children, several babysitters and selected booster (program supporters) guests who’ve made past monetary donations. In addition, a number of these people receive a $205 per diem for their trip to the Final Four, increased from the $165 per diem provided for the tournament’s earlier rounds.
Why the difference in treatment between these pampered guests and the players’ family members?
The NCAA views the freebie folks as “professionals,” while the players are considered “amateurs” and are therefore unable to receive any financial benefit.
Though the NCAA admits the rules can be tough on players’ families, they assert that it is necessary to ensure the integrity of amateur competition.
The parents of players have varying views on this issue.
“I think it’s very wrong,” said Maggie Davenport, a U.S. postal worker, whose son plays for the University of North Carolina. “As a family, we’ve had to make some really hard choices with our finances to see our son play. We’ll have no new roof on our house this year. We’ll deal with a leak or two and pray it rains less. Yet I know that some of those people getting a free ride here make 10 times as much as I do in salary. How is that fair? Without our children and the hard work we put into raising them, there wouldn’t be an NCAA Basketball Tournament or a Final Four.”
Television and marketing rights fees account for more than $700 million in revenues for the NCAA. Over 90% of that money ultimately goes to member schools.
Robert Cousins, a computer programmer whose son is a senior on the Michigan State team, has become more tolerant of the system over the years.
“At first, I felt it was hypocritical. Now I realize that if the rules weren’t in place, there would probably be some parents taking advantage of the situation, receiving payments from all kinds of people, both good-hearted and bad,” said Cousins. “This way there’s never a cloud of suspicion. Yes, I’ve spent money on travel and hotels to see my son play, but I haven’t had to pay a dime for his college education.”
College boosters are also not allowed to give aid to players’ families, not unless those boosters have a similar history of providing aid to the families of nonathletes as well. This way the athletes don’t benefit by being on the team.
“I wish the NCAA could make allowances for low-income families. After all, let’s be honest, this is a business,” said a parent who wished to remain anonymous. “Maybe years ago when the dollar figures were much less, a free college education was an equal trade-off. But nowadays, with the money the schools and the NCAA are making on the talents of our kids, it’s a rip-off. They shine that light of being an amateur on you; meanwhile the professionals who run the behind-the-scenes of college basketball are in the dark somewhere counting their money.”
“Love is the force that ignites the spirit and binds teams together.”
—Phil Jackson (the Zen Master), who coached the Bulls and Lakers to a combined eleven NBA titles
CHAPTER TEN
ROKO BACIC
7:38 P.M. [CT]
Roko can feel the body heat of his teammates as they huddle closely around Coach Kennedy. He’s not sure if the splash of sweat he just felt on his shoulder is his own or someone else’s. But it doesn’t matter to him.
“Before we go back out there, I want you all to remember this. And I mean all of you, because even the guys on the bench have their part to play,” says Kennedy, waving his hands like an orchestra conductor, punctuating the rhythm to his words. “No one ever knows for sure what they’ll be called on to do. The longer this game goes on, the more we’ll have to grow to meet some new challenge. We all want to win equally on this team. No one has any more of a desire than the next guy. So each of you, do your job. We all want to win, but we can’t do it individually. That means we have to do it together.”
As the horn sounds to signal the start of double overtime, Roko thrusts his arm forward, and a drumroll of hands slap down on top of his.
Then Roko says, “Together, on three. Ready—one, two, three.”
“Together!”
As the players pair up around the center circle for another jump ball, Aaron Boyce says, “This time we’re blowing the kisses to our girls.”
Then Aaron blows small quick kisses at Grizzly, Baby Bear, and Malcolm.
“Nah, I don’t think any of these dudes are my type,” says Crispin, glaring into Grizzly’s grill from a foot or two away in the middle of the circle.
Out on the perimeter, Malcolm jabs at Roko. “You Cinderellas better watch your kissy-face boy in the locker room, especially while you’re changing.”
“Why’s that? He likes you. I like you, too—even more,” says Roko, in a sarcastic tone. “I just don’t want you to win.”
September 15 (Grade 12)
My new high school teammates do not wish to play with me. They are mostly black players who maybe don’t like the idea of playing with a Croatian. In the locker room today, in front of the whole team, the senior captain Jared asked me, “What are you?” I answered him, “I’m a Croatian.” Then he said back to me, “Oh, so you’re a cartoon? Are you from Cartoonville?” Everyone laughed at me, and I tried my best to laugh along too. I will have to earn my way into their hearts with my basketball skills. I know that good passes for open layups can make friendships happen fast. Every day I will be the first one to practice and the last one to leave—a real gym rat—hungry for their cheese.
December 17 (Grade 12)
I scored 16 points today as the first player off our bench. The crowd inside our gym chanted “Ro-ko! Ro-ko!” as I hit two free throws in the final few seconds to give us a 63–59 victory. I tried not to smile too big as it reached my ears. *Always act like you’ve been there before.* More importantly, Coach played me for the final five minutes—Crunch Time (n
ot Nestles Crunch). He had supreme trust in me and so did my teammates. They all slapped my hand and Captain Jared said I should go out with the starters to Burger King to celebrate. I thanked him for the invitation, but turned him down for a good reason.
After the game, and a shower, I had a date to get pizza with sexy Laura Coles. It was really her idea. She sits behind me in English, and today part of our writing work was to build our dream pizza. We both said pepperoni with green olives, not black. I can’t say 100% that she didn’t copy that answer from over my shoulder. But she said, “We should share a pie sometime.” I jumped on that invitation without waiting, and asked her out for after the game. On the way home I kissed her for maybe a minute straight, with her mouth as wide open as mine. So I delivered at Crunch Time twice today.
I have more dates now with American girls than ones whose family come from Croatia. Some US girls even say I am Hot Euro Stuff!!! I am less homesick every day.
April 12 (Grade 12)
Today I visited Troy—the only college to offer me a scholarship to play basketball. I met Coach Alvin Kennedy, a black man. I liked him immediately. He studied about Croatia before meeting me. He said, “Bok”—which means hello in my language. He asked me if I would like to become a Trojan. I said yes and shook his hand on it. Then I politely asked why the team was named after a brand of condoms. Coach Kennedy laughed so hard that he almost fell down. He took me to the fountain in the main square of the campus and showed me the warrior statue of a Trojan. The statue had a shield and armor, ready for battle. I thought that Trojan’s face looked a lot like Uncle Dražen. That sealed the deal in my heart. Good-bye to the city of Montgomery. Troy, Alabama—here I come.
April 14 (Grade 12)
I faxed my athletic letter of intent to Coach Kennedy this morning. I am very pleased and so are my parents. Now even my father thinks basketball is not a waste of time because it will pay for four years of college in the US (something that is free in my country if your grades are high enough). He praised the spirit of Uncle Dražen. “It is a debt I will forever owe my younger brother,” he said. I feel the same way. I owe Uncle Dražen so much that I can never repay.