of back-ups.
That means I get to watch while the coaches work through the sets. They’re sizing up our horses for the season, and so am I.
At the bigs we’ve got Tyler Stanford and Chris Jones. Neither one’s a true center, but they’ve got some bulk. Stanford in particular. He must have spent all summer in the weight room, because he’s cut up pretty good. He’s a senior now, and he finally looks it—his face has lost that boyish innocence. Now if he sneers when he’s grabbing a board, people know they best step back. He’s honed his shot some too. I hit him when he’s facing from fifteen and in, he’ll knock it down. Jones, I don’t know about. He’s there by default after paying his dues for a couple years on the bench. He’s got size, but that’s about it. Only way he’s getting buckets are point blank—then again, Murphy and Bolden can work wonders, so maybe Jones will develop.
J. J. Fuller’s at the three. He’s been through the grind with me last year. I can’t say we’re tight, but I trust him on the floor. He’s shaved off his old flat top, which made him look like he was straight out of the 80s, down to a close buzz. But he still looks rigid. His face always has a serious expression, like he’s trying to figure out a calculus problem. His moves on the court are the same way—forceful but methodical, always in straight lines with no flow. Even his shot is a line drive, but it finds bottom if he’s within sixteen or seventeen feet. And the kid hustles. Even as Coach has them walking through the set, Fuller carries out his fakes like it’s game-time.
Then there’s Josh Reynolds at the two. A sophomore. Last year, he was a mess. If he can get some confidence though, the skills are there. He’s grown a little in the off-season, up to my height—6′3″. And that shot is smooth enough. His challenge will be on the defensive end, where older players will try to overpower him.
With me at the point, it’s enough. We’ve got some weaknesses, but you can say that about any team. The problem is, with me sitting on the sidelines, the point’s being run by Malcolm Rider, a scared-witless freshman. Even walking through the sets, he looks confused. Fuller rubs off a baseline screen, and Rider is still looking to the opposite wing.
“No, no,” Bolden says. He’s taking it easy on the kid, not raising his voice. Coach puts a hand on his shoulder and gently pivots him the other way. “Once the play to the wing is done, you’re looking for that baseline cut.”
They run through the offense a few more times, and then it’s live action. I take the floor with the second team. If the ones think I’m going to take it easy just because they’re my boys, I’ve got a wake-up call in store for them.
First thing I do is dig into Rider. He tries driving right, and I cut him off. He looks to make an entry to Jones, and I deflect it out of bounds. Next time I keep my hands active, scaring off any passes except a bail-out to the wing. Once Rider gives it up, it’s pretty obvious he doesn’t want the rock back. Scared. Since he’s no threat, I sag off him. And since I know where the offense wants to go, I give them fits. Reynolds passes to Fuller on the wing. I peel off Rider and jump the pass. I pick it clean and take a power dribble the other way—then I pull up since we’re supposed to give right back to the first team instead of running full. But everyone knows that was an easy throw-down in the other direction. Next time, the ones work it down to Stanford, but he’s too slow to make his move. By the time he rises, I’ve dropped all the way down from the elbow. I spike that thing out of bounds. Give a little holler of authority as I do it. That one draws some reactions all around. It’s nice to remind everyone that even if I’m in green I’m the boss on the court.
The ones start again. By this time, they look a little discouraged. Rider most of all. He’s extra tentative now, and I take advantage. I flick at the ball once and get a piece. He scrambles to control near mid-court, but then he picks up his dribble. “Dead! Dead!” I yell, and my teammates clamp down behind me. Rider pass-fakes, pass-fakes, pass-fakes. Finally he extends the ball too far. I pop it loose, corral it, and this time I can’t help myself—I push it down the court with a couple power dribbles and tomahawk one home.
Murphy’s beside me in a heartbeat. He’s all smiles, acting like he’s amped that I’m bringing it so hard the first day of practice—but then he pulls me aside. He calls down to the other end to tell them to keep running drills, then loops an arm around my shoulder. He walks me toward the side basket. “Easy there, killer,” he says.
“What do you mean?” I ask. With the bleachers pushed back, I can see all the dust that collects on the floor—it’s a faint line about ten feet away from the court where the shine of the hardwood turns cloudy. Murphy keeps walking with me. We cross into that cloudy area.
“I mean, dial it back,” he says. He speaks in a hushed tone, like he’s breaking some tragic news to me. “You have to let some of these other guys get their confidence up.”
I stiffen my back. Murphy’s arm slides off my shoulder. “Since when does it help other players to take it easy on them?”
Murphy takes a step back. He cocks his head and widens his eyes, giving me a look that tells me to cool it. “It’s one thing to play hard,” he says, “but you’re trying to embarrass your teammates. Especially Rider. You think it makes you tough to overpower a freshman in his first practice? You ought to be helping him out whenever you can.”
I hang my head. My temple throbs with anger. This is bullshit. That’s what I want to say. At home, I’ve got letters from every major college you can name. No other player in my position would be paying this big a price because he swerved in his car at the wrong time. No way. I get bounced from the opener. I get bounced from the first team in practice. And now I’m supposed to, what, be a cheerleader for my replacement? But I take a deep breath and look back up at Murphy. “Okay, Coach,” I say.
“It’s about what’s best for the team every time,” he says.
“Okay,” I repeat.
Then we turn back toward practice, neither one of us believing things are okay.
He grabs me by the jersey. I turn back to him. “Besides, D-Bow,” he says. “Save up some of those plays for when we get our rematch against Kernantz and Evansville Harrison.”
It doesn’t exactly make me cool with how I’m being treated, but I can’t help but smile at the notion of some payback against the guys who bounced us from State.
I never really thought I’d be amped to go to a party at J. J. Fuller’s. I mean, “party” doesn’t mean the same thing at Fuller’s. It’s more like the kind of gathering that people used to have in middle school—some chips on the table, some cokes, some music on the stereo but not too loud. And his parents lurking upstairs.
But, hey, fine with me. I’m out of the house after some prolonged pleading with my parents. Who cares if this thing is so tame I could have brought Jayson along and nobody would have blinked? It’s not like I’m looking for trouble anyway. What I am looking for is across the room—Jasmine Winters. She’s shot me down so many times I should know better, but when I see her it’s all over.
When I first saw her she was a sophomore. Even then she was pretty spectacular. But now she’s over the top. And it’s not just how she looks. Sure, she’s put together. Beneath those tight curls, her face has features that make her seem refined. Even wearing something simple—a yellow t-shirt with the sleeves down to her elbows and some tight black pants—she stuns me. But it’s more the way she carries herself. Cool. Composed. A step ahead of anyone else. Or
