in Marion East is full of themselves. Talking trash. Yapping about dropping twenty a game. Going undefeated. It’s this way in every locker room in the state right now. Soon enough, the season will come along and knock some woof out of people. But today? Everyone’s still perfect.
Across from me, Darryl Gibson sits in his locker, headphones on. He bobs his head in silence, the only guy in the locker room not running game. He feels me checking him and looks up. He lowers the headphones down around his neck. “’Sup, Derrick,” he says.
I shrug. “What’s up with you?”
He shakes his head. Nothing. That’s been the sum total of our exchanges in school. But what is there to say? We both want the same thing and only one can have it. I check him now. He keeps a sneer on his face like he’s some banger ready to tear it up. Even has a little ink—a “D” on fire on the inside of his right forearm. “I know you’re not used to seeing white point guards around here,” he says, “but you don’t have to eye me like I’m some animal in the zoo.”
Around us, a few guys quiet down. Of course, everybody has been wondering about it to themselves—how it’s going to go down between me and Gibson.
“Ain’t about white, black, or green,” I tell him. “It’s about who’s got the orange in their hands and what they do with it. And you’re the back-up point guard.”
That gets a reaction from guys. The underclassmen all laugh—a little too hard maybe, trying to get on my good side. But Jones, my fellow senior, bellows across the room. “Know the truth when you hear it, Gibson.” It’s the first thing I’ve heard come out of his mouth since our meeting with Murphy.
Then Josh Reynolds, a wiry junior who’s set as our two-guard, bounces over. He sways and struts, then tells us, “Don’t matter who’s bringing the rock up the court. Just find me when I pop open.” Then he goes through an elaborate, slow-motion charade of his jumper. He fades back as he does it, then nods his head as if he’s seen the rock find bottom. “Wet,” he says. “All day every day.” Then he cups his hands by his mouth and mimics a crowd roar, like he’s just sunk a game-winner. It’s all play. The stuff that kids do from the first time they touch leather. Gibson and I both laugh, then check each other and serious up again.
I’ve got my eye on Reynolds though. He’s always been flaky. He bailed on us halfway through the first practice his freshman year, then had to beg forgiveness to get back on the team. And even last year when he slid into the rotation he was the kind of guy you had to keep calm. Quick to take a shot. Quick to panic. And already this year he seems even jumpier, like there’s an itch all over his skin. I’ll have to manage that mania, I can tell. I’ve learned that a point guard’s job is more than just driving and dishing—it’s also massaging egos and pep-talking and squashing tension.
But enough of that. The locker room door swings open. Murphy stands there, whistle draped over his neck. His eyes gleam with energy—maybe what we’ll miss in Bolden’s wisdom will be made up for by Murphy’s enthusiasm. He pounds his fist on the heavy door—thump thump thump—and smiles at us. “What the hell you boys waiting for?” he shouts. “Season starts now!”
No joke. Time to hit the hardwood.
Early on, Murphy sticks to Bolden’s old practice script. Namely, he runs us till our lungs burn and our legs go wobbly. I don’t care. It feels good. The thunder of kicks on the hardwood and a real sweat soaking through my shirt. I didn’t know how much a person could come to miss wind sprints.
I don’t ease up, either. Not now. And when I get a glimpse of Jones slowing down at the end of one, I don’t let it slide. “Come on, big man,” I say. It’s cool and off to the side. No need to call him out for the freshmen to hear. Still, he squinches up his face like he doesn’t want to hear it. “Naw, let’s do it, Jones,” I say. “Senior year. Make it count.” That at least coaxes a fist bump from him before Murphy lines us up and blows his whistle. Off again.
The only thing gnawing at me is Gibson. We finish neck and neck pretty much every time, but I have to make up ground in the second half of the sprint. It’s like he’s to the free throw line before Murphy’s finished blowing his whistle. Just zip. Gone. That burst I’ve heard about is real. And he knows it. There’s no talk between us, but every once in a while I’ll see him glance over at the end to see if he’s outpaced me.
Finally, it happens. The annual ritual. A freshman bows out. This time it’s another big—Xavier Green—who can’t hack it. He stumbles on one sprint, then on the next he doesn’t go. Just stands there on the baseline sucking wind while the rest of us rattle it off. I don’t really know Xavier, but his big brother Moose was our beast in the post for my first two years. I was hoping maybe Xavier would bring that same kind of heat to the floor. But one look at him, doubled over gasping, and the only thing I can tell is that he hasn’t arrived at the first practice in playing shape any more than Moose used to.
Murphy, hands on his hips, walks over to Xavier. This is it, I think. This is where Murphy lays down the law. Under Coach Bolden, it was a rite of passage—first one to cave on the sprints got chewed out mercilessly.
Off to the side, I hear Reynolds laugh a little. Two years ago, he was the one who got the earful from Coach so I’m sure he loves watching it happen to some other poor freshman.
Murphy puts his hand on Xavier’s back. “You okay there, X-Man?” he asks.
Xavier, still unable to stand up straight, just nods a few times. But then he holds up a hand to say he needs a second.
Murphy nods, understanding. He turns to the rest of us and says we did a good job. “Now let’s start drills. Bigs down here with X-Man. Perimeter players on the other end.”
We stand there for a second, dazed. “For real?” Reynolds whispers. I know where he’s coming from. It’s like Murphy just walked on Coach Bolden’s grave. I don’t care who Xavier’s older brother was, kid dies on a sprint he’s supposed to get jumped. And this X-Man business? Excuse me if I pass on the nicknames for someone who hasn’t scored a single high school bucket yet.
“Come on, let’s go!” Murphy shouts. But even then there’s no anger. He sounds like the same old Assistant Murphy, encouraging and cajoling. Not like a head coach at all.
Then, there’s drills. Two ends of the floor. One coach. I know this one’s not Murphy’s fault—he probably hasn’t had time to scrounge up an assistant yet—but it makes him look unprepared. The guy knows hoops, but if knowing hoops was all it took, then my Uncle Kid would be the next Coach K.
Sure enough, when Murphy strolls down to us and turns his back on the bigs, it’s a mess. He starts us in a weave drill, but behind him the big guys are just gaming the system. First it’s Xavier acting the fool, chucking up twenty-footers instead of working his post moves. And, after a minute, they’re all into it, even Jones who should know better.
Murphy must see me looking past him, because he stops our drill and wheels around. Just as he turns, Xavier is launching a hook shot from the hash mark.
“Hey, come on,” Murphy yells. “Let’s be grown-ups, aight? Work the way I showed you.” But there’s no heat, no old-fashioned Bolden bite. So they nod at Murphy and act all sorry, but in another minute it’s back to the same-old.
I try to focus on our drills, but when I hear laughing from the other end, that tears it. I stop mid-weave. I let a pass from Reynolds just sail toward the sideline. I take three big steps to mid-court.
