It’s the first sign from my dad in a while that things are getting back to normal. “Most definitely, Dad,” I say.
With that, I’m free to retreat to my room. As soon as I walk in the door, I power off my cell phone. I’ve decided that this—my room, at least—is going to be a haven from the recruiting path. So I always kill my phone—no calls, no texts, nothing. It lets me actually get some studying done or, like now, just chill.
I’ve streamlined the room. Every time letters come, I organize them by conference and put them in the closet next to my kicks. No clutter—just one basketball in the corner, the Reggie-Miller-signed rock that Uncle Kid got me when I was a little kid. Gone are the posters of CP, of John Wall, of Derrick Rose. I love each of them, dig their games, but now the walls are stripped back to LeBron, Jordan, and Magic. Just the guys with the rings. That’s what I want—championships. Starting at Marion East and ending in the League. Where I want to cut down nets in between is still a mystery, even to me.
I lay back and think about Jasmine, about how I keep falling into her little trap. The thing is, it seems like she falls into it too. No doubt, when she sees me she’s not thinking hook-up. She’s always dealt better when we’ve just been friends. But there’s this connection neither of us can shake. Maybe she gets distant with me just because she’s pulled in two directions, one calling her toward college and away from Indianapolis, and one pulling her right back to me.
My door pushes open a few inches. Jayson peeks his head around the corner. Unsure of whether or not it’s cool to come in, he lingers there for a second. He’s in eighth grade now and he’s starting to sprout. We always thought he got the short and squat genes from Mom’s side, but he’s stretching out each year and starting to look more like someone from Dad’s side. Doesn’t matter—only place he’s a baller is on the X-Box sticks. But as he hangs there, I realize that in no time he’ll be full-grown and ready to back up all that game he talks about with females. He’s lost all that softness of boyhood from his face. Now there are some black wisps he’s letting grow on his chin. They look like streaks of dirt on his light brown features. A terrible look. But it’s one every guy’s got to figure out for himself.
“Get on in here, Jay,” I tell him.
He smiles, a little embarrassed for having waited for permission but also relieved to have gotten it. “I can’t tell with you anymore,” he says. “Sometimes you’re locked in your own head, and it’s like nobody else is supposed to disturb you.”
“You know it’s always cool with you,” I say. “’Sup, anyway?”
“Just more calls,” he says. He digs into his back pocket and unfolds a piece of paper. “Mom and Dad got sick of answering, so they put me on phone duty. Wanna hear the list?”
I nod, and he starts in—assistants at Georgia Tech, Louisville, Ohio State, and head coaches at St. Louis, Dayton, and Temple. I think that’s it, but then Jayson flips the paper over and keeps rattling off schools.
“You got ‘em all written down?” I ask. Jayson nods. I tell him to just set the paper on my dresser so I can check it in the morning.
Jayson yawns, like he’s as exhausted by the process as I am. “Man, that assistant from Ohio State called three times in the last two days,” he says. “It was like he was pissed at me when I said you weren’t home tonight. Like it was my fault or something. I about told him there wasn’t much difference between a Big Ten assistant and a telemarketer.” Jayson seems bothered by the recruiter, but the way he says it makes it sound like he holds it against me too. He’s all sneer these days.
I laugh. Maybe I should just make Jayson the point person for this whole thing. Let him sense who’s cool and who’s not, then just let him work whatever deal he wants as payment. He’d be good at it. “Jay,” I tell him, “next time that Buckeye assistant calls you tell him whatever the hell you want.”
He squints his eyes, skeptical. “For real?”
“Straight,” I say. “I don’t know where I do want to go, but I know I don’t want to play for Ohio State. Never liked those guys.”
Jayson nods approval, then raises his hand to his chin like he’s plotting just how he’s going to crack on that coach next time the phone rings.
A day before the season starts, Bolden lets me run with the 1s. Maybe he’s tired of seeing Rider butcher our offense. Or maybe, just maybe, he’s going to turn me loose in the opener after all.
Doesn’t matter the reason—we mash it. I fly past Rider and get to the rack for a deuce. I hit Stanford on a seal for a lay-up. A pick-and-pop for Fuller. Everyone’s got new bounce in their step, clicking along at full speed at last. Part of it is just knowing each other—I know right where Reynolds wants the rock for three. I also know when not to give it to him. I know the sweet spot for Stanford at the shallow wing, but I also know that expression he gets when he’s pushed out too far from the basket. But part of it is the ramp-up in skill from Rider to me—when in doubt, I just rip it to the rim. A lay-in. A jam. A dime to Jones.
Problem is, it’s a tease. Just as we’re getting a good rhythm, Coach barks, “Bowen back to the 2s.” I know better than to react, so I just take a deep breath and flip my jersey. When I line up across from Rider, I’m tempted to flip him inside out too—just show out against him so everyone knows that, with me at the point, the 2s could run the 1s off. But I don’t. I stay into Rider enough so it’s not obvious I’m slacking, but I let him start the offense. When he cuts through to the wing and catches a pass from Fuller, he lets the rock just linger out there in front of him. I could rip it and run, but I just give it a quick poke—enough to let him know he’s got to tighten up his stance. He tries an entry to Stanford, but the ball gets tipped out of bounds.
Murphy gets right in Rider’s ear. “You just got to see it earlier,” he says. “Stanford likes it quick, before he gets a body on him.”
Rider nods in appreciation. “I feel you,” he says.
Sure enough, next time through he catches on the wing and pops the orange to Stanford quick. Stanford rises in rhythm and fires front-rim-back-rim-out. While I’m boxing him out, I hear Rider grunt, disgusted that they still couldn’t get a deuce. Tough luck, kid.
But as soon as the ball’s dead, Rider’s getting more encouragement, this time from Bolden. “That’s not on you,” he says. “All you can do is get the ball where it’s supposed to be. The rest is up to your teammates.”
Rider still looks a little tight. His eyes stay downcast, like the pressure of filling in for me is bowing his neck. Stanford, who never said word one to me when I was coming up as a freshman, backhands him on the shoulder. “Lighten up, man. My misses don’t go on your line in the box score, so you can’t drag them around with you on the court.”
That coaxes a smile from Rider, at least. It’s a quick one though, because Bolden fires the rock at him and blows his whistle to set us back to action.
Amazing. I get nothing but grief from people—Rider gets nothing but love. Whatever. You can only control what’s right in front of you, and that’s what I do the rest of practice. After Murphy’s lecture the other day, I join in on the Rider pity party and take it easy on him.
At last, Bolden cuts us loose. He makes a line for me—moving at as close to a sprint as the old man can muster. While the other guys
