They both turn to see me, surprise on their faces like I’ve just caught them sneaking from a store with their arms full of stolen goods.
“Hey, D,” Kid says. He saunters over and extends his hand, trying to act nonchalant. I accept his handshake but don’t say a word. Instead, I just turn my gaze to Murphy. I raise my eyebrows, waiting for an explanation.
Murphy tries to smile like it’s all good. It comes off as weak, like a kid trying to act cool when he’s busted in the hallway without a pass. “Tell me, Derrick,” he says. “Can you name a single person in this whole city who knows more about ball than your uncle?”
Well, yeah, I want to say. There’s like every damn body in the Pacers organization. And the whip-smart coaches over at Butler. And last I checked Joe Bolden still resides in Indianapolis even if he isn’t a coach anymore. Instead I just say, “Nah, I guess not.” Besides, I can see where this is headed—the secretive conversations, the whistle on Kid’s neck? It clicks now.
“Then what better man to ride shotgun on our bench?” Murphy asks. “I’ve got my hands full as head coach. I need some help. So Kid’s my man.” Then, as if to defend his decision, he starts rattling off Kid’s cred—a Marion East grad, a serious baller in his day, a man who knows his way around Indy hoops.
I nod, but to me it means two things. First, it means Coach Bolden is never walking through that door again. I knew he wasn’t coming back, but this kind of seals it—hiring Kid, a guy who went round and round with Bolden back on the day, is like defacing Bolden’s house. But I also know this: now I’ve got an ally on the bench. I might be lacking some trust with Murphy, but at least my uncle will have my back.
I’ve still got my doubts. For as long as I’ve known him Kid’s taken any good situation and screwed it up. Just last year he was set up with a job, hooked up with the finest woman he’s ever been with. And he sabotaged it. Got himself twisted up in an unemployment fraud scam. That’s why he’s still a full-grown man slumming rent-free at our place.
But whatever. Kid and hoops. Nothing wrong with that. I step forward and give Kid a quick forearm thump on his chest. “Like old times,” I say. “You and me running things on the court. Like when we balled out on the Fall Creek court when I was a pup.”
That makes it good all around. As the two of them laugh at my comment, I suddenly realize both Murphy and Kid were a little iffy about how I’d take to the news.
The door swings open again. Fuller and Reynolds file in. Murphy and Kid stiffen up, preparing to officially share the news with the team. I head to my locker and start getting ready for practice. So much for my talk with Murphy. Can’t sweat that now though. After all, there’s one thing I learned from Kid all those years ago on the blacktop—when things are breaking wrong between the lines, the only thing to do is to get back after it harder than ever.
I have to admit, practice hums a little better. With Kid on the scene, there’s less room for Xavier and some others to fool around. And Murphy can put more of his attention on the back-court. Right away he spotted a flaw in Reynolds’ game. He pointed out that his step into his shot is real long—it takes him more time to get the shot off, but it also flattens him out and leaves him firing line drives. Like always, Reynolds bristled at the advice, but after two minutes of work he started finding bottom a little easier and everything was gravy.
Murphy even cracked on Gibson a little. Three straight times Gibson drove hard middle when the play called for a reversal baseline. Three straight times Murphy corrected him. “Man, you’re so amped to show everyone that you’re the great D-Train that you only do one thing,” he said. “Drive, drive, drive. Instead of D-Train I’m going to start calling you One-trick Pony if you can’t mix it up a little.”
Gibson pouted some, but give him this—you can’t keep the kid down long. He bounced back after a minute and made some slick plays.
It all meant that I didn’t get to interact with Kid much. Oh, I’d hear him now and then, barking at the bigs about how to box out. I even heard him tell Xavier that if he had a little more heart and a lot less lip he might get his name in the record books for rebounds some day.
But now we’re all on one end, the ones against the twos, doing some early prep for White Station, a tough outfit from Memphis. We head there this weekend for a day tourney. Evansville Harrison will be there too, but we won’t play them. Instead they get top billing against Tennessee’s reigning state champ. Still, it’s a chance to show out in a spotlight.
Kid’s in charge of the twos, and he does his Kid thing—he huddles them up and gets them amped like they’re about to rock Game 7 of the NBA Finals. And, hey, maybe that’s been what’s missing. Murphy’s had to adjust to his head coach role, but nobody’s stepped in to do his old job of getting guys pumped. Kid’s a natural. “Remember,” he shouts at them as they step back onto the court, “only way to flip your jersey and run with the ones is to beat the ones. Ain’t nobody gonna give it to you.”
Hearing that kind of talk gets me hyped too. And when I glance at Fuller and Jones, I see that fire in their eyes. The twos gonna come at us? Bring. It.
Gibson strolls out toward me. He starts clapping his hands, rallying his boys. Then Murphy bounces the rock my way. “Ball’s in,” he says. I grin at Gibson. He glares back. Oh, it’s on.
I pop the rock to Reynolds on the wing and we run O. The twos know every move we want to make. Still, I carry out my fakes. I take a couple hard steps like I’m going to down-screen, then cut away from the ball to set a cross-screen for Fuller. Gibson jumps the play. He squeezes his body between me and Fuller, throwing off our timing. Fair enough. But if he’s going to do that, then I’ll improvise. I spin and seal him on my back, then cut straight down the lane, hands extended. But by the time Reynolds sees it, the lane’s crowded. Besides, Gibson’s got a hand on my hip, holding me back on my cut. It’s a cheap move. He knows Murphy and Kid are too busy watching everything else to catch a quick grab. But when I take the bait—swatting his hand away—of course they see that.
“Clean it up, Derrick,” Murphy snaps.
I just grunt in response and keep on. But before I can get my hands on the rock again, Jones gets free on the block for an easy deuce.
Next possession, Gibson gets right back to it. He grabs. Holds. Jumps plays because he knows what’s coming. It’s nothing new. Second-teamers have been doing this since basketball was invented. Still, that doesn’t make it any less irritating. And this time it’s made worse because we don’t get a bucket. Xavier gets his first touch and chucks a bad one—a fadeaway from deep right baseline—that barely catches iron. While the second team grabs the rebound, Gibson gives me a quick shove. Nothing dirty—just enough to get me on my heels so he can create separation for the outlet. He catches at the hash and the only thing that stops him from a run-out is Murphy’s whistle. “Bring it back,” he calls. “Let the ones keep working offense.”
But Gibson just grins from ear to ear. Everyone in the gym knew that was a run-out. And only I know he had it because of that push.
On and on it goes. It’s not like I’m getting stopped cold. I’ve got four inches on Gibson. A few times I just rise up over him to show him who’s boss. But I can’t get the offense humming the way I’d like. And every time we get slowed down—a cut gets bumped off course, a reversal gets denied—Gibson seems to swell up a bit more.
Finally, I’ve had enough. Forget about rising up for mid-range Js. There’s only one way to put a pest like Gibson in his
