he makes eye contact, he just nods real long and slow.
They finish announcing our starters, and then the whole squad leaves the bench to join us. We huddle near our free throw line while the crowd buzzes in anticipation of the Warren Central starters. Then, as the announcer starts calling their names, the crowd loses their minds—basketball’s back at last. I get in the middle of our squad. “Game time,” I shout. “Game time.” I scan them, make eye contact with everyone. Even Gibson. “This is what we sweat for. What we wait all summer for. Game time.” I point above and around us. “Nobody here thinks we’ve got the goods this year. But we got news for them. The bodies right here on this patch of hardwood are destined for something special. I feel it. I know it.” Then I put my hand in the center and everyone layers theirs on top. “Starts tonight. Right now.”
Then we all shout Team! and it’s game on.
What I said to them? I don’t really know. I mean, I do feel that way, but so does every player on every squad in every corner of the state. But now I know there are no guarantees. All you can do is ball out while you can. And when the ref lofts that rock into the air and Warren Central controls, I dig into Cox and begin to do just that.
Cox comes into the frontcourt and decides to test me right out of the gate. He gives a little shudder then throws a crossover at me. It’s quick enough to get a step and he darts into the lane. It’s Xavier Green’s job to help, but he’s slow to recognize, and Cox has a clean path to the rim.
But I’ve still got my size. I time him up and rise. Years past I’d try to swat that orange hard enough to pop it. Now I just tap it straight to Green. He corrals, outlets to Reynolds. He crosses the mid-court stripe, pushing, then centers the ball. Fuller runs, widening to the wing. Jones is hustling on the other wing, hoping for an easy run at it, while Green and I trail. Reynolds knifes into the lane, then kicks to Fuller who’s spotted up. The D jumps to him, so he drives past. He looks for a lob to Jones, but by this time Warren Central has everyone back, pinched into the paint. For a second Fuller’s stuck. Creases of concern spread across his face. But he’s a year wiser. He knows there’s no need to panic. He pivots away from the pressure to get a clean look back to the perimeter—just in time to spot me filling out top.
I don’t even have to shout for the rock. He just puts it in my mitts and I rise in rhythm. True from the moment it leaves my hands.
From their pocket behind our bench, the Marion East crowd explodes. Always good to see the first bucket go down. But it’s more than that, I know. There’s a little extra throat to that roar, and it’s because I was the one to bury the shot. First touch, post-surgery. I point to our crowd in recognition. Then I point to my knee, as if to say it’s all good.
It’s not like Warren Central is going to stop the action to hand me the game ball though. Cox is right back on top of me, challenging again. He drives all the way down into the paint, but this time I stay pinned to him and he has to push it back out. I can see it in his body language though—it might not have ended in a bucket that last trip, but he got past me. I’m going to be dealing with his drives all night long.
As soon as I finish that thought, Xavier gets crossed up on his assignment, leaving his man at the rim for an uncontested jam. Now it’s Warren Central’s turn to pound their chests a little.
But that’s how it goes. In this game, nobody’s rolling over because of one play. The only play that matters is the next one. And it’s good—so good—to be back in the mix.
Warren Central finds their groove. They get Xavier so turned in circles that Coach Murphy has to take him out for a while. That means going to another freshman, Tony Harrison, who is way undersized—but at least he knows when to switch on screens. On our end, I keep us in it. A couple more Js. A nice drive and dish to Jones down low. A pick and pop for Reynolds.
Then it happens. With the score tied at 13, just a minute left in the first, Cox brings it up for Warren Central. He signals to his team like they’re running offense. Then he stutter-steps at me and is gone. Like a sports car ripping past a hitchhiker. This time I don’t have time to recover and meet him at the rim. Cox just curls around a late Jones challenge and scoops in a deuce. Plus Jones gets a silly whistle. Warren Central by two, at the line for a freebie.
The horn sounds while we shuffle toward our spots along the free throw lane. Probably Xavier coming back in for another go, I think.
“Derrick,” a voice says. “Hey, Bowen.”
I don’t have to look to know the news. It’s Gibson, subbing in for me. I trot to the bench but refuse to even look at Gibson on the way past.
When I hit the sideline, Murphy cuffs me on the back of my head. “Catch your breath,” he says. He wants to make it seem like he’s just getting me some much-needed rest, stretching out my breather over the quarter break. But anyone with an eye for hoops knows. It wasn’t just fatigue that beat me out there.
As I sit and grab some water, Cox sinks his free throw to put Warren Central up three. Their crowd’s feeling good now, the students jumping up and down. They get louder when, on his way up the court, Gibson mis-dribbles for a second and has to chase the ball down by the sideline. They think they’ve got him rattled—a short, white point guard seeing his first action. And there’s a horrible part of me that flares up—I wouldn’t mind seeing him fail. I swallow that bitterness down and make myself stand and yell to him. “You got this, Gibson. You good.” But even as the words leave my mouth I can tell how unconvincing they are.
None of this bothers Gibson a bit. He even smiles a little as he crosses the mid-court stripe. Then he loops to the right wing to run an exchange with Fuller. Only Gibson doesn’t give up the orange. Instead, he ducks his shoulder. He knifes into the lane. Then comes a step-back—just a filthy move—and he sinks a fifteen-footer.
The Warren Central crowd simmers down. Gibson trots back on D, clapping his hands in delight. He loves being on the road, feeling the heat of the other crowd. I have to respect that, at least.
Then he takes it next level. Just before Cox hits mid-court, holding up his index finger to say they want one shot, Gibson jumps him. At first, Cox tries to shrug it off. But when he crosses to his left, Gibson just rides him all the way to the sideline. Cox realizes they’re losing valuable clock, so he tries going between his legs to shake Gibson. No luck. Gibson times it and pokes the rock away quick as a cat. Before Cox can even react, Gibson scoops the ball up and then it’s flat-out quicks—there might as well be a cartoon puff of smoke where he leaves Cox. He’s to the rim for a lay-in with jaw-dropping speed. He gives us the lead, then just puffs his chest out at the crowd while the clock runs out on the quarter.
Our crowd’s so stunned they’re slow to react, but when they do it’s this high-pitched song of surprise and delight. The boys on the bench are just plain amped. As one, they leap up and start shouting at Gibson: You the boss and That’s what I’m talking ‘bout and D-Train rollin’! Gibson just bobs his head back at them, feeling pretty damn good about himself.
I stand and clap too. But there’s something about his head bob that makes it seem aimed at me as much as anyone else. I recognize it because it’s the same kind of look I used to give to Nick Starks when I was a freshman.
At least I get the bulk of the minutes. Problem is, when Gibson’s running point, our lead balloons to four, six, even eight in the middle of the third. But when I’m in, Warren Central tracks us down like prey. So here we are with a couple minutes to go, nursing a three-point lead.
