by Rich Wallace
“Pool or ocean?” Jared asked, sporting leather sandals and a Yankees cap.
“The ocean, without question,” said Spencer. “Save the pool for tonight. Let’s catch some waves.”
“Wait a minute,” said Fiorelli, who was wearing long blue-and-white surfer shorts and a T-shirt that said GYM RAT. “We gotta eat first.”
“At the beach!” Spencer said. “You can get anything you want on the Boardwalk—sausage sandwiches, french fries, corn on the cob. It’s like a mile-long carnival out there.”
“Then let’s get there.”
“I ain’t stopping you.”
Dunk looked around at the group of players as they walked toward the beach. He’d never really been part of the crowd before, never had what could be called a best friend. He was friendly with lots of kids, but most afternoons and weekends he went his own way.
He was most content to hang out with his family. His dad worked for the Hudson City Department of Public Works—fixing roads, plowing snow in the winter, doing landscaping in the small city parks. He and Dunk played chess together or watched TV in the evenings.
Dunk’s mom worked as a nurse at a hospital in Jersey City. Her best friend was her younger sister, Dunk’s aunt Krystal. The four of them were as close as can be.
But this summer Dunk had begun to branch out, playing games of pickup basketball at the Y and sometimes stopping off for tacos or a soda with guys like Willie and Lamont.
So when they reached the beach he felt comfortable spreading out his towel on the hot sand with the others, and he knew it was all in fun when Spencer tackled him at the edge of the surf and gave him a too-quick immersion in the cool water. Later he was glad to share his giant sleeve of fries with whoever wanted some, and to trade insults back and forth about their hair (Dunk’s was shaved close to his head) or their physiques (only Spencer, Lamont, and Miguel had any muscle to speak of; the rest were either too lean like Fiorelli and Willie or on the pudgy side like Louie and Dunk).
Around four thirty, Spencer decided that they should head back to the hotel. “Before these white guys burn to a crisp,” he said to Dunk, pointing toward Fiorelli and Jared.
“No problem here,” Fiorelli said. “My mom made me pack thirty-SPF sunblock lotion. Nothing gets through that.”
Dunk looked at his own dark arms. He’d put on lotion, too, but he must have been sloppy about it. His shoulders felt hot and slightly sore.
“You missed your nose,” Dunk said to Fiorelli. “It’s as red as a strawberry.”
Fiorelli quickly put his hand to his face. “Get out!” he said. “Is it really?”
“It’s glowing!” Spencer said, delighted. “That thirty-SPF ain’t worth a thing if you forget to put it on!”
“I put it on,” Fiorelli said. He felt his nose again. “Ouch. I guess I did miss that part.”
“Well,” Dunk said, “at least you won’t get lost if you walk on the beach tonight. That nose will be shining like Rudolph’s.”
After dinner they hung around the pool and tossed a Frisbee in the hotel parking lot. The place was crawling with kids their age from all over the state. The coaches did their best to keep things quiet, but they were outnumbered by the basketball players.
The cool water felt good on Dunk’s shoulders as he leaned against the side of the pool, watching Spencer and Willie and some kids from Camden do cannonballs off the diving board. Only Dunk’s head was above the water.
“Who you play for?” asked a kid who was swimming up to Dunk. He stood and shook water from his head. He had to be at least six feet tall.
“Hudson City.”
“You guys any good?”
“We’re here, aren’t we?”
“You’re here. But who’d you beat to get here?”
“Salem.”
The guy smirked. His hair was razor-cut short but he was wearing a yellow sweatband around his head. He grabbed the edge of the pool and hauled himself up, taking a seat above Dunk. “They’re kind of weak, aren’t they?”
“They were okay. We handled ’em.”
“You a starter?”
“Nah,” Dunk said. “Who you with?”
“Your next opponent.” The kid grinned broadly. “We saw your game.”
“Then why’d you ask me how we did?”
The kid shrugged. “Just testing you, I suppose.”
Dunk ran his hand along the surface of the water, skimming it and creating a small wave. “We started slow today, but then we hammered ’em. And Coach gave the subs a lot of playing time.”
“So maybe it was your subs I saw. I missed the first half—team meeting and all. But that couldn’t have been your best players out there at the beginning of the second half. Must have been the scrubs . . . I mean subs.”
Dunk didn’t comment. He could tell that this guy was trying to psyche him out, and that he hoped Dunk would relay that feeling of insecurity to his teammates. But Dunk wasn’t biting. He wouldn’t be fooled by that kind of talk.
“I guess you’ll find out tomorrow,” Dunk said, swimming a few strokes away. “Hope you don’t have nightmares. Those Salem guys probably will.”
The kid laughed. “Your nightmare starts tomorrow morning. As soon as we take the court.”
The Hudson City coaches ordered all of the players to their rooms at ten P.M., with lights out by eleven. Dunk had to step over David’s gym bag and video-game player and Willie’s sneakers and two empty soda cans and his own backpack to get into bed, where he spread out on the sheets and propped his head up on two fat pillows. The TV was tuned to a music channel.
Coach Temple knocked on the door. David opened it, and Coach said, “All accounted for? Good. Keep it quiet now and get some sleep.”
Ten minutes later there was a softer rap on the door. David groaned. “I got it last time,” he said. He balled up a sock and threw it in Dunk’s direction. “Your turn.”
Dunk rolled out of bed and immediately stepped on one of the soda cans. “Ouch!” he said. “I can’t see.”
David turned on a light and threw his other sock at Dunk, who hopped past the debris on the floor and opened the door.
Spencer was standing there, looking mischievous. He slipped into the room, followed by Miguel and Fiorelli.
“You didn’t think we’d go to sleep this early on vacation, did you?” Spencer said.
“It’s not a vacation,” Willie said sharply, sitting up on his cot, wearing just his plain white underwear. “This is the state tournament, man.”
“I know it. But how often do we get to take road trips? Lighten up.”
“I’m tired,” Willie said. “That sun zapped me on the beach. And we’ve got a tough game first thing in the morning.”
“Yeah. Well, maybe I’m too nervous to sleep,” Spencer said, sitting on the edge of David’s bed. “Besides, half the other teams are still out by the pool. Can’t you hear them?”
“We brought food,” Miguel said, holding up bags of pretzels and M&Ms.
“You better not get caught in here,” Willie said. “The coaches’ll bench us all.”
“The coaches already checked the rooms,” Spencer replied. “They did check this one, right?”
“Yeah. But don’t get crazy, or they’ll come back.”
“We won’t stay long,” Fiorelli said. “And Spencer wasn’t kidding. We are nervous. Some of those guys on the other teams are big. And really athletic.”
“They’re just as nervous as we are,” Dunk said, shoving his backpack closer to his bed with his foot. “One guy from Trenton was busting my chops at the pool, trying to make it seem like we got lucky drawing Salem in the first round. But he knew we were good; I could tell.”
“The guy with the yellow headband?” Miguel asked. “He tried the same thing on me. Playing mind games.”
The six players talked for half an hour longer. They had varying levels of athletic experience—Dunk had played on only a few real teams, while Spencer, Miguel, Willie, and Fiorelli had been starters on football,
basketball, or baseball teams for several years. David had experienced the pressure of pitching for the school team the previous spring. They all knew that when teams were evenly matched talent-wise, the deciding factor was usually psychological.
“The ones that win championships are the ones that don’t choke up in a tight situation,” Spencer was saying. “You stay focused and do what you do best. Hit the clutch single, make the interception. Or just perform like you always do and wait for the other guy to screw up.”
“You got it,” Fiorelli said. “Today we started out slow, but we just took care of business and outplayed ’em. There’ll be a lot of pressure the rest of this tournament, but we got that mental advantage. We definitely know how to win.”
Dunk hadn’t thought about it much before, but these guys were right. He’d become a pretty good basketball player over the past few months, and was very good at the one thing he practiced most. The next step was to develop the kind of attitude that Spencer and Fiorelli had.
An attitude that didn’t leave room for failure.
5
High Intensity
West Trenton had a talented team, with a pair of quick guards and a couple of big, strong players inside. The score went back and forth throughout the first half, with neither team ever gaining more than a four-point lead.
Any time one team threatened to open up some breathing room, either Fiorelli or one of the Trenton guards seemed to hit a key shot. When Fiorelli fired in an off-balance three-pointer with two seconds left on the clock before halftime, it gave the Hornets a one-point advantage as they headed to the locker rooms.
“You’re looking like the MVP of this whole tournament,” Dunk said to Fiorelli as they hustled out of the gym.
Jason gave a tight smile. “Thanks,” he said, “but there’s a long way to go. I don’t know how that last shot went in; they had two guys in my face, and I was totally out of breath.”
The starters had played nearly every minute, with only two other Hornets getting on the court for brief appearances. West Trenton had stuck with its best players, too. The tall kid with the yellow headband who’d confronted Dunk at the pool had stayed seated. He gave Dunk a friendly wave once during a timeout. Dunk gave him a thumbs-up sign and a smirk.
“Two things,” Coach Temple said as the players sprawled on the benches and leaned against lockers. “First, it’s pretty obvious that these guys can run with us, so our biggest advantage is neutralized. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t keep looking for the fast break, but we’ve been out of control on a few of them. We can’t expect to just outrun them; there’s gotta be some good passing as well.
“Second, our shot selection has not been great, even though a lot of them are connecting.”
Coach looked directly at Fiorelli, who was on the floor with his back against a locker, his feet sticking straight out and a towel over his head. “Jason, a few of those buckets you made had no business going in. It must be your lucky day. Keep shooting, but let’s move the ball around a bit more and set up some better shots. Willie and Ryan are barely touching the ball. You’ve got to get all five guys involved in the offense.”
“Sounds good to me,” Fiorelli said. “It’s hard to find Willie, though. He’s, like, three feet shorter than anybody else out there.”
“Look harder,” Coach said, obviously amused.
“Maybe we could paint a big white X on Willie’s jersey or something,” Spencer said. “Or spray his hair yellow.”
“Tell you what,” Willie said. “We win this tournament, you can spray my hair any color you want. In the meantime, just get me the ball.”
The intensity rose even higher in the second half, and the score stayed tight as can be. Spencer made a real effort to pass the ball to Willie, who was a good ball-handler and passer. But the man guarding him was a half-foot taller and had a wide wingspan. The only shot Willie managed to take the entire game was a fast-break layup.
West Trenton’s yellow-sweatbanded sub got off the bench to cover Jared for a few minutes, but he was awkward and slow and Jared scored four quick points to give the Hornets a five-point advantage.
Dunk sat through the whole thing, of course, but his stomach was tight and his breathing was intense, just as if he was out there on the court. He knew he wasn’t ready to be a big contributor to this team, but he was part of it nonetheless. He felt the sting of every missed shot and the joy of every made one, was just as humbled any time a Trenton guard faked out Spencer or Willie with a quick stutter step, and felt the pounding of bodies as Jared and Ryan battled their opponents for rebounds.
He’d played a lot of basketball against those guys. He knew how tough and determined they were.
This was his passion; this was his sport. He’d keep working on his game, his endurance, his court smarts. He’d get there. He’d be a player.
In the end, Jared’s punishing play under the basket was enough to make the difference. Hudson City played a smart, patient game down the stretch, cementing a three-point victory and a spot in that evening’s semifinals.
Walking across the court, Dunk felt a hand on his shoulder. It was the tall kid with the sweatband. “I guess you guys are pretty good, aren’t you?” he said.
“Guess so,” Dunk replied. “I can’t take any credit, though. All I earned today were some splinters in my butt.”
“I got a few myself,” the guy said, laughing. “Plus a nice elbow to the throat from your center.” He put a hand to his neck and winced. “Good luck the rest of the way. We wanted a shot at Camden tonight. Hope you can knock them off instead.”
“That’d be something,” Dunk said. “I’ll be yelling my head off. Not much else I can do.”
“Tonight at seven fifteen,” Dunk said into his cell phone.
“I’ll be down,” said Aunt Krystal. “Your mom and dad won’t get there, though. They’d have to leave work by four to beat the traffic. No way they can do that.”
“No problem,” Dunk said.
“So you won this morning?”
“Real tight, but yeah. I didn’t get in. It went right down to the wire.”
“That’s the best kind of game,” Krystal said.
“Not if you’re a sub.”
“I guess not.”
“No problem,” Dunk said. “It was exciting just to watch.”
“Should be fun tonight.”
“Fun? We’re playing against Camden, Krystal. It’ll be hard!”
“One hour on the beach, maximum!” Coach Temple said as the players got off the bus outside the hotel. “I don’t want you frying in the sun. Some of you might even want to take a nap this afternoon instead, gentlemen. Camden’s got a deep roster. Their top guys only played half the game this morning.”
“I’m very energy-efficient, Coach,” Fiorelli said. “I got this metabolism that can go all day. I’m fueled by raisins and sunlight.”
“Yeah, well we’ll see how energy-efficient you are in the fourth quarter tonight. Believe me, you’ll be running nonstop against those guys.”
So all of the starters and a few others stayed by the pool after Coach promised they’d get some major beach time the following afternoon after the tournament ended.
Dunk walked to the beach with David, Miguel, and Lamont.
On the surface, David Choi was a quiet, serious kid, but he had a sly sense of humor. He’d spent the entire game this morning on the bench, just like Dunk had. But he was a talented player, and had been a big reason why Lupita Records had won the YMCA summer league title. He and Spencer had been a formidable one-two scoring punch, and Lamont had been a force inside.
Dunk had played for Envigado Bakery, which finished 4-4. Ryan Grimes was the only other player from Envigado to make the all-star team.
“You played an outstanding game this morning, Lamont,” David teased, grinning so widely you could see his full set of braces.
Lamont was a strong guy and nobody usually messed with him. But he looked surprised. He’d only been off the b
ench for a brief segment late in the first half after Jared picked up his second foul.
“Six seconds, wasn’t it?” David said.
Lamont looked away with an embarrassed smile. “Had to be sixteen, at least,” he said.
Only eight men had played for Hudson City, as Coach left his starters on the floor throughout the close contest.
“Maybe twelve,” David said. “A crucial twelve seconds, though. Big-time.”
“And how many seconds did you get?” Lamont asked. “I think it was something like zero.”
“Something like that,” David conceded. “I lost count.”
They reached the beach and Dunk knelt down to take off his sandals. The sand was scorching hot, though, so he quickly put them back on. “We better set up by the water,” he said. “It must be a hundred degrees out here.”
“Not too far from the food,” Miguel said. He inhaled deeply. The fried and grilled foods on the Boardwalk smelled delicious and tempting. “I could go for some eats. Anybody else?”
“Always,” Dunk said. “Let’s see—I smell hamburgers, cotton candy . . . fried chicken, maybe ice cream. Can you smell ice cream from this far away? Probably not.”
“Caramel corn!” Lamont said. “I definitely smell that.”
“Tell you what,” Dunk said. “Ten minutes in the water, then we try as many foods as we can stomach. We got all afternoon to digest.”
“And all evening, too,” David said, “if the game goes the way I think it will. Too bad for you, though, Lamont. Coach said he’s planning on using you for another ten seconds. You better watch what you eat.”
“You better watch what you say,” Lamont replied with a laugh. “Or the next thing you’ll be tasting is ocean water.”
After a quick swim they made their way up to the Boardwalk, awed by the great variety of rides and miniature golf and games of chance and food stands. There was a place to shoot basket-balls to win prizes and a huge merry-go-round and a Ferris wheel.