by Paul Volponi
“Well, it’s really true. You don’t want to try too hard. Shooting a basketball is all about relaxation, focus, finding a rhythm.”
“You think I’ve lost some of that?” asked Crispin.
“Absolutely. I could show you game film of when you were going good, before you got engaged. You were releasing the ball like there wasn’t another thought on your mind,” said Kennedy.
“I’ve probably been distracted lately,” said Crispin, dobbing the sweat from his face with the bottom of his red and white reversible practice jersey.
“That’s why I’ve been waiting to get you alone on the court, to talk about this,” said Kennedy, walking closer to the rim. “Follow me. Get yourself five or six feet from the basket. I want you to get used to making shots again, not missing them. Work with just one ball, shot after shot. The rock shouldn’t be in your hands for more than a second—keep it up in the air. Pick a song with some bounce to it. Play to the rhythm inside your head, like you were dancing out here.”
So Crispin settled nearer to the hoop, and began humming to himself.
Then, with his hands and feet in constant motion, he started sinking short, easy shots, one after another.
“That’s it. Let that good groove sink into your muscle memory, into your bones,” said Kennedy, looking up at Crispin from beneath the basket. “I suppose it’s pretty easy to get caught up in the whole media thing about America sharing in your marriage proposal, and the team’s winning streak riding on this Hope of Troy nonsense. There’s got to be a lot of pressure, trying to live up to that fairy-tale image.”
“I’ve felt it,” said Crispin in a more relaxed voice, as he continued shooting.
“We’re all programmed not to fail, to be fearful of it. You and Hope put yourselves on a big stage, one that’s very personal. Plenty of strangers’ eyes watching, asking questions, giving advice. But you should trust your own eyes. Judge by what you see.”
“You may not believe this, Coach,” said Crispin, “but all of a sudden, I’ve got a lot to look at in that relationship.”
Crispin thought back to the night before, when he and Hope finally spoke after their argument on the quad. They hadn’t talked or texted each other in almost two days, the longest gap of time they’d gone without communicating since they started dating.
Crispin took the first step, showing up outside Hope’s dorm just as she was getting back from a class.
“You want to figure this thing out with me, what’s going on between us?” he asked in a calm voice.
“I do. I really do,” she answered, coming up to within a foot or so of him.
“Well, what have you been thinking?”
“Honestly, I felt like you were accusing me of cheating to find a way out,” Hope said. “That maybe you were too embarrassed to break up after proposing on TV.”
“Really?” said Crispin, almost in disbelief.
“Tell me you haven’t thought at least once about backing out.”
After a moment of silence, Crispin conceded, “It’s just because this is new territory to me. It has nothing to do with not being in love with you.”
“Well, I’ve got some of those same feelings,” said Hope, behind a deep breath.
Crispin nodded his head, and took a deep breath, too.
“Come on, let’s go get some coffee or something,” Hope said. “Let’s try to get a better grip on all of this.”
A few steps into the walk, Crispin reached for her hand.
The sound of the rock falling to the floor brought Crispin’s mind back to the gym.
“The truth is, there’s probably nothing to see in ourselves and our relationships that hasn’t always been there,” said Kennedy. “Sometimes we just get blinded by other things.”
“I’ll get back on point,” said Crispin, picking the ball up. “I feel like I’m headed there already.”
“One thing you haven’t lost in this shooting slump, though, is the respect of your teammates, especially Roko,” emphasized Kennedy. “Every time you’re open, he gets the ball into your hands.”
“I won’t let any of you down during the rest of the tournament,” said Crispin.
Then, as Kennedy began walking away, he said, “The only way you could ever let us down is by quitting on yourself, thinking that you don’t deserve better in life.”
“I firmly believe that respect is a lot more important, and a lot greater, than popularity.”
—Julius “Dr. J” Erving, NBA Champion and Hall of Famer
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
MICHAEL JORDAN
8:01 P.M. [CT]
As MJ reaches the Spartans’ bench, Coach Barker is waiting for him. He can see by the hard look on Barker’s face that he has screwed up somehow.
He figures Barker is about to hang that blown defensive assignment on him and ream him out for leaving Crispin Rice alone beneath the basket.
Here it comes, that laryngitis voice about to torture my name again, MJ thinks to himself.
“Jordan, next time you get an open shot, take it!” strains Barker. “Don’t be afraid to miss. Dealing with the hell of missing is part of the game.”
“I hear you, Coach,” says MJ.
“I don’t give a damn what you hear,” says Barker, poking a finger at MJ’s head. “I only care what sinks into your brain.”
Then MJ feels himself come under Malcolm’s heavy glare. And if MJ had to put words to that look, it would be, If you take a shot instead of me, you better make it.
JANUARY, TWO MONTHS AGO
MJ couldn’t get comfortable in his seat on the bus ride back to East Lansing, after the Spartans defeated interstate rival Michigan in Ann Arbor.
“Stop squirming around. I’m trying to chill,” said Malcolm, kneeing the back of MJ’s seat. “It’s not like your body’s sore. How long did you play tonight—two lousy minutes?”
“It’s not about that, star. I go hard in the warm-ups, and then I get tight sitting on the bench,” said MJ over his shoulder.
“You know how ridiculous that sounds?” sniped Malcolm, who always sat in the last seat on the bus, as far away from Barker’s postgame speeches as he could get.
“Think he’s squirming and uptight now?” said Grizzly Bear, with his legs stretched to the side over an empty seat. “You should have seen MJ two years ago, the night we played Illinois and they had Michael Jordan’s son on their squad.”
“That’s right, I remember—Jeffrey Jordan, aka ‘Heir Jordan,’” said Baby Bear, sitting behind Grizzly and opposite Malcolm. “MJ was all like, ‘Which one is he?’”
“I warned MJ, ‘If you ask the dude for his autograph, I’ll kick your ass,’” recalled Grizzly.
“Jeffrey? That’s MJ’s middle name,” said Malcolm with a smirk.
“I didn’t know that shit,” said Grizzly.
“Me neither,” said Baby Bear.
And the three of them laughed hard over it as MJ scowled.
“Seeing him must have been like looking into a mirror for you,” mocked Malcolm.
“Yeah, it was something like that,” mumbled MJ, staring out the window.
“So, could Heir Jordan ball like his pops?” asked Malcolm.
“Nah, he wasn’t even a starter,” said Baby Bear. “He mostly rode the bench. I think he transferred from Illinois to some small school in Florida to play with his younger brother.”
“Then what was all the fuss about?” Malcolm asked MJ. “He was no better than you. Playing two-on-two, me and you would have put a whupping on Jordan’s kids.”
“It was about him and me growing up under a microscope—with the same name and pressures on the court,” said MJ, turning back to face the guys.
“Only Heir Jordan did it in a mansion with security guards, watching his father win NBA Championships and get down with the Looney Tunes in Space Jam,” cracked Baby Bear.
“So did you actually get on the court against him, or was this all drama in your head?” asked Malcolm.
&n
bsp; “I watched him during the warm-ups. He had his game face screwed on super tight, so I didn’t say anything to him,” said MJ.
“Back in the day, his pops would have blown off any dude on the other team who wanted to yak before a game,” said Grizzly. “That’s the kind of hard-core competitor he was.”
“I was thinking about that, too,” said MJ. “Anyway, he played seven or eight minutes in the first half, but I didn’t get in.”
“What a surprise,” said Malcolm.
“But in the second half, we were ahead by something like fifteen points with three minutes left. There was a stop in play and the other coach sent Jeffrey Jordan back on the court. Then Barker yelled at me, ‘Go out there and guard him! Show him who his daddy is!’”
“Oh, Coach had jokes,” said Malcolm, slapping his knee in amusement.
“And you have to remember, Heir Jordan doesn’t have a single point in the game yet,” adds Baby Bear for Malcolm’s benefit.
“Almost right away, he gets the rock and I’m in front of him one-on-one,” said MJ, with his shoulders starting to shift, as if he were playing now. “He fakes left and then right, but I don’t budge. All of a sudden, he blasts straight at me. I had to take a step back on my heels, and he cut around. The only thing I could do was foul, but he scored anyway. Then he hit the foul shot for a three-point play.”
“And our home crowd was into it, too. They knew it was Jordan-on-Jordan,” said Grizzly Bear. “It was like a mini-game inside of our game.”
“I would have tackled his ass before I let him score,” Malcolm told MJ. “Did you get back at him?”
“I stopped him another time. Then I finally got the ball in my hands with, like, five seconds left, standing behind the three-point line. But we were ahead by ten points, and Coach told us to kill off the clock. So I just held onto the rock,” said MJ. “After the game, I wanted to fist-bump him. But he was already heading back down the tunnel towards the lockers.”
“I’ll tell you this right now,” said Malcolm. “Me and you come from two different planets. Because sure as anything, I would have shot that three-pointer to get even.”
“See, that’s the difference between us,” said MJ. “It’s not all about me—my wants, my wishes. It’s about the team.”
“I heard that crap a million times—there’s no I in team,” said Malcolm. “It don’t matter how much I play it for myself; you’re still my brother on the court. I’ve got your back over any dude wearing a different color. I would have knocked Jordan Jr. on his royal ass to get you an open shot. Coach should have had your back the same way.”
“Wait, let me get this straight. You’re my brother on the court? You’re my brother on this team?” asked MJ, with his voice slowing down twice to punctuate the same word. “Since when?”
“It’s not my fault you don’t see it. Maybe none of you do,” said Malcolm, expanding his gaze from MJ to Grizzly and Baby Bear, too. “See, you want me to be your little brother. My skills make me big brother to all of you. So when they put the plate of pork chops out on the table, I grab first. Take as much as I want. You all come after. That’s respect for me. The respect I deserve here.”
Grizzly and Baby Bear laughed, shaking their heads at each other, like Malcolm was full of bull.
But MJ looked at Malcolm and thought to himself, “At least that’s something I can wrap my mind around. I don’t completely agree with it—maybe not even fifty percent worth. But I understand where he’s coming from a little more now.”
“[T]he NCAA criminalizes normal behavior.”
—Jay Bilas, a lawyer, TV analyst, and former college basketball player
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
MALCOLM McBRIDE
8:03 P.M. [CT]
As Troy’s opening shot of the fourth overtime glances off the rim, Malcolm takes off, fast-breaking alone up the court. He knows it’s a gamble. That without him boxing out Red Bull, the Trojans have an extra man to try and grab an offensive rebound and score. But by releasing early, Malcolm easily sneaks behind the Trojan defense.
MJ outhustles a pair of Trojans, rebounding the ball for Michigan State. In an instant, he catches sight of Malcolm running ahead of the field.
Then MJ delivers a bullet pass, hitting Malcolm between the numbers in full stride.
Even while dribbling the rock, Malcolm is flat out the fastest player on the court. He’s already several steps ahead of his nearest defender and pulling farther away.
Nearing the foul line, Malcolm is preparing to explode out of his shoes.
He wants to tear down the iron with a slam dunk that will shake the Superdome, and the Trojans’ confidence.
Planting his left foot, Malcolm cups the rock inside his right hand, securing it with his powerful wrist and forearm.
With the camera shutters clicking and the roar of the fans building in his ears, Malcolm leaps forward. And just as he’s ready to pound the rock home, he reaches back for something more, to punish the rim for every trial his family has ever been put through.
But that glint of revenge throws Malcolm off by a mere millimeter.
His dunk rings off the back of the iron, and the rock ricochets twenty feet into the air as if it had wings.
Malcolm’s momentum carries him past the basket and out of bounds.
And the ball lands in the hands of Roko Bacic, who leads his Trojan teammates in the opposite direction.
MARCH, NEARLY FOUR WEEKS AGO
As Malcolm walked off the court after basketball practice, he noticed Coach Barker eyeing him. He was beat tired and wasn’t in the mood to hear Barker bitch about the inbounds play he’d screwed up. So Malcolm bowed his head and tried to walk past.
“McBride,” said Barker, who called Malcolm by his last name whenever he was pissed at him. “I received a text from Ms. Thad. She’d like to see you in her office in fifteen minutes.”
“Coach, I’m too spent to fill out any kind of paperwork now,” said Malcolm, running a fresh towel across his forehead.
“Paperwork, huh? I hope that’s all it is,” said Barker, pounding a ball against the floor. “Get it taken care of, pronto. I don’t care if you have to crawl there.”
Malcolm watched the slits of Barker’s eyes grow sharper and asked, “There something more I should know about this?”
“Just go see Ms. Thad, McBride,” grumbled Barker. “I’ll let her do her job before I have anything to add.”
Then, without saying another word, Barker walked over to the free-throw line, where he started shooting foul shots by himself.
After Malcolm showered and left the locker room, he crossed the street to the athletic administration building and climbed a flight of marble stairs.
A secretary sitting in an outer office told Malcolm that Ms. Thad was waiting for him.
The letters on the frosted glass read
MS. THAD
DIRECTOR OF COMPLIANCE
Malcolm knocked on the wooden doorframe surrounding it.
“Enter,” came a voice from inside, and Malcolm cracked the door open just wide enough to stick his head through.
“You wanted to see me for something?”
“Yes, Malcolm. Thanks for getting here so quickly,” said Ms. Thad in an easygoing voice. “Step inside, please.”
In the six months Malcolm had been at Michigan State, Ms. Thad had talked to him a couple of times about his scholarship paperwork, and she’d given the whole team a speech once about all the little NCAA rules you could break by accident.
She was an absolute hottie, probably in her early thirties. She usually wore skirts that hung just above her knees. So when she spoke, everybody on the team listened—and watched.
Ms. Thad stood up to shake Malcolm’s hand. When she sat back down behind her desk, and her legs disappeared from his view, Malcolm’s focus shifted to the framed photo of a brown and white pit bull on the windowsill behind her.
“Have a seat, Malcolm. I’m afraid that I have some difficult questions for y
ou. I take it you understand the meaning of illegal benefits for student athletes?”
“Illegal? You mean against the real law, or against the NCAA law?” asked Malcolm, settling himself into a soft leather chair.
“The NCAA doesn’t have put-you-in-jail kinds of laws. It has bylaws—rules and regulations that we have to follow,” she said, pointing to a thick NCAA manual sitting on the corner of her desk. “I received a phone call today from a reporter who’s quite friendly towards MSU. This reporter gave me a heads-up that his newspaper is in the process of gathering information about a possible story concerning your family receiving illegal benefits because of your position here on the basketball team.”
“That’s crazy. I don’t have a car, money, a job, or nothing like that. My parents drive the same old wreck, live in the exact same apartment. My father may even be getting laid off soon.”
“That’s what makes this so unusual and sensitive,” said Ms. Thad, who picked up a pen and a long yellow legal pad to take notes. “This doesn’t have to do with taking money, cars, a job, or a house. Unfortunately, I need to ask you about your sister’s headstone in Elmwood Cemetery.”
“What?” responded Malcolm, sitting up straighter. “What did you just say to me?”
“I know it’s difficult, but here’s my question to you. Was the headstone paid for by your parents?”
Malcolm slumped back in his chair and thought for a minute. Then, in a quiet voice, he said, “That’s their daughter. They paid for everything. The funeral. The grave plot. A headstone. My parents had to spread that kind of money out over three different credit cards.”
“I’m sure they did. But is that the same headstone standing there now?”
After a long pause, Malcolm hung his head and answered, “No, it’s not. But why don’t you just leave this all alone?”
“Malcolm, it’s my job to get to the truth. I represent this university. My position is to protect MSU, to find violations that could potentially embarrass us. I’m sorry, but I have to ask you a few more questions concerning this matter.”