from the room that used to be Jayson’s, the one Kid now takes. Kid’s got to get his own place before the baby comes. He says he’s on it, but there’s no evidence of him looking for apartments as far as anyone else can tell.
“What you doing there?” Jayson asks. He points to the scissors.
“Nothing,” I say.
Jayson takes a few steps toward me, squinting as he walks. He sees the paper on the counter behind me. “What you clipping?”
I just point to the paper, let him see for himself. Jayson taps the list of players. “You could ball out over all these guys,” he says.
“I know,” I say, but I can tell Jayson’s just trying to pump me up. “I was gonna tape the list to my locker. Motivation, you know?” But as I explain it, I feel embarrassed. Every player has their motivational tools, but explaining it to a non-player is like trying to convert a non-believer to your religion. You realize you must just sound crazy.
“I’ll do you one better,” he says. He walks to the stove and slides open a drawer beside it. Out comes a book of matches, and Jayson holds them overhead like they’re some kind of trophy. “Make it a burn list.”
I see that old mischief in his eyes. We’re so on top of each other these days we’ve forgotten that we used to have fun together. Still, I shake my head no. “I’m not setting fire in our kitchen.”
“Oh, come on,” he pleads. He points toward the bedrooms. “All Mom does is complain about this paper anyway. How many times a week does she threaten to cancel her subscription because of some racist nonsense this rag puts out?” He’s got a point. I’m still not up for burning the thing, but Jayson takes my hesitation as approval. He opens the matches and strikes one. Then he holds it up in the air like a torch. “Come on,” he pleads again.
I look at that list. Ten guys in front of me. Ten. Some of them not even going to high majors. “Fine,” I say, and I grab the paper impulsively. I hold it over the sink while Jayson lowers the match to it. It catches immediately, the edges blackening and curling up. I hold it for a while longer, watching the names surrounding mine get swallowed by the flame. Jayson shakes the match down into the sink. It lands in a cup of water with a hiss. Then, once I see every name above mine reduced to ash, I drop the list and the rest of the Sports section into the sink, too. The flame moves faster, engulfing the whole section. Smoke twists up from the sink. I look at Jayson and wink. I have to admit there’s something cathartic about this.
“Only one thing to do now,” I say.
“What’s that?”
“Turn the heat up on Warren Central tonight, too.”
We both laugh, trying to keep our voices down. Any minute now people will start getting up for the last day of a workweek, but there’s no sense in waking them early. Then the alarm goes off—not from some bedside table, but the smoke alarm above the sink. I’d forgotten about it, but now it screeches insistently. Jayson starts to scramble for a chair, but I just give a quick jump and press the button to stop it. Then we open the kitchen window and the smoke starts escaping to the cold air outside.
The damage is done. I hear Dad hollering for my mom to stay put while he checks it out. He’s the first one to the front of the house, with Kid on his heels. They both look around frantically, their eyes on high alert for danger, death and destruction. Soon enough their gaze lands on me and Jayson where we stand by the sink, guilty as hell.
Dad runs his hand across his face angrily. “Please have some kind of explanation for this!” he demands.
I start to sputter out a response, but the more I explain the more ridiculous I sound. I watch my dad’s face grow darker and angrier. Behind him, Kid just shakes his head, stifling a laugh. Finally, Jayson steps up. “It was my idea, Dad. I’m sorry.”
Somehow that pacifies Dad. An admission of guilt goes a long way with him. Instead, he hollers to the whole house. “No fire here! Just two dumbass teenage boys doing whatever dumbass teenage boys do!” Then he thumps his way to the kitchen, muttering something about at least deserving some coffee before the day goes haywire.
Mom comes in and surveys the scene, hands on her hips. She looks bleary and beaten down. “I live with morons,” she says to nobody in particular.
That sends Kid over the edge. He starts laughing in short spurts, then just lets it out. Jayson’s not far behind, then finally Dad, and even Mom. Finally I feel safe enough to laugh, too.
Then Mom makes her way to the kitchen and starts making breakfast for everyone. She’s clearly exhausted, but she’s still smiling to herself at the absurdity of it all. I’ve known it all along, but it makes me realize it all over again—my mom is a true saint on this earth.
Warren Central. Their gym. So much for kicking off the season with an easy win. Their star from last year—Rory Upchurch—graduated and is getting minutes at Xavier now. But it’s not like he was lugging a bunch of scrubs up and down the floor last year. They might not have a star, but they’re talented and deep. Their center, Ricky Curry, is going to be a load for Jones. And they’ve got a senior point guard, J.T. Cox, who’s a savvy vet. We better lace ‘em up for real.
The clock’s dwindling on warmups. I call Fuller over to me, and we take turns with the ball on the perimeter. Shot fake, one dribble, pull up with the other one offering mock D. For me, it’s just about testing out that knee one last time. In my head, I know it’s good, but it hasn’t faced real game action yet. Every time I pull up, I’m thinking more about the knee than my follow-through on my J.
The crowd noise starts to swell as the clock dips under a minute. Season’s about on. I bump fists with Fuller, then step out to the three point stripe. I dribble the clock away, then with a few ticks left, fire a step-back three. Splash.
On the bench, Murphy gives us a few last words before they call out the starting lineups. He’s still flying solo, no assistant. “Run on misses,” he shouts. “We’re letting Jones play Curry solo, but sink down and show him some extra hands. On our end, keep your spacing to give room to drive. Got it?” I swear his voice almost cracks on those last words. And something about it seems off anyway. Coach Bolden never would have asked us if we “got it”—it was assumed that what he said was law. Murphy’s nervous.
I scour my brain for some way to give Murphy support. Some way to buck him up without sounding condescending. But there’s no time. The announcer starts in on the starting lineups, and I’m called first. As soon as Bowen resonates in the gym, I sprint to center court—and I’m greeted with a swell of boos and jeers. Truth? I love it. All it means is that I’ve broken their hearts a bunch over the last few years. Every baller knows that if the opposing fans hate you, you’re doing something right.
The only thing that bothers me is that I know Gibson is lurking on the bench. When Murphy wrote my name on the board pre-game, I heard this little pffft come from Gibson. He gave just the slightest shake of his head in dismay. I know where he’s coming from. When I was a freshman, I felt the same way every time Coach wrote Nick Starks’ name on the board instead of mine.
I scan the crowd for my people. They all sit together now. Dad and Jayson flank Mom, like they’re protecting her against the press of the crowd. Lia sits in front and gives me a quick wink when she sees me looking. Then, behind them, stands Kid. Arms folded. Sneer on his face.
