material for our amusement: our back-up four-man playing the fool in the waning minutes. Wes scooped a slice of pepperoni from the box and said, “Yeah, Jones got blocked by Joe Rim on that one.” I’ve heard Wes crack that joke about a dozen times, but we all laughed like it was the funniest, most original thing we’d ever heard. We all stayed up late, even Jayson since it wasn’t a school night, and watched the West Coast game—Spurs-Blazers—and nobody even breathed a word about me not starting. Until the 4th quarter of that late game. Wes had gone home and Jayson was in bed and my mom was asleep on the couch. Uncle Kid leaned forward in his chair to get my attention. “I see Bolden’s out to mess with you, just like he did me,” he said.
“Sidney,” my dad said. He was over on the couch, Mom’s feet propped on his lap, so he said it softly so not to wake her, but there was a real warning in that one word.
“Tom, you know Derrick shouldn’t be sitting on that bench.”
“Let’s just watch the game,” I said, nodding toward the TV.
“We’ve talked about this,” my dad said.
That was it for a while. We watched Duncan own players half his age. Then, like an afterthought, Kid muttered: “Well, we’re gonna talk about it again sometime.”
And now, lacing up my kicks and staring at that starting five, I feel like talking about it. Last night, I just wanted Uncle Kid to let things be, but I almost feel like I deserve some kind of explanation for why my name’s not on that board, especially after the way I outplayed Starks last night. Maybe Coach Murphy senses it, because he comes over and gives my shoulder a quick squeeze. “Different ballgame tonight,” he says. “Lawrence North makes Arlington look like a bunch of grade schoolers, so we’re gonna need you to be ready.”
“I’m always ready,” I say, though I want to tell him that if they need me so much then Bolden best get my name up there on the board.
Murphy was right about one thing: Lawrence North’s no joke. There’s a reason they’re the favorite to win our Sectional, and why they’re a real threat to bounce Hamilton Academy in Regionals. Squad is loaded. Every single one of their starters is scholarship material, but the primary weapon is Marcus Tagg, a rangy 6'5" swing-man. All-City, All-State, Kentucky-bound blue chipper.
Bolden stuck Royce Bedford on Tagg, and even before the tip you could tell Royce was in too deep. You could see it in the way he dried his hands on his shorts a bit too nervously, cocked his head back and forth and rolled his shoulders like he was trying to act tough: he was scared. Royce is a good shooter, a decent athlete. On his best days he’s usually a good match-up for us out there—but nobody can play scared. First time down, Tagg catches it shallow corner and just rises for a 17-footer. Filthy good. Next time he cuts to the wing and Royce, wary of Tagg’s burst to the hole, doesn’t challenge hard. Bucket for three. And next time it’s just ugly: Royce tries to anticipate the pass to the wing and gets back cut. By the time he realizes he’s lost him, Marcus Tagg is up in the clouds, soaring for an alley-oop that has the Lawrence North fans jumping in our bleachers. Timeout. A 7-0 hole and their other stars haven’t even gotten warm.
“Shit, he can play,” Royce says in the huddle.
“Well, damn, Bedford,” Bolden says. “At least you’ve figured that much out. Took you long enough.”
“You all right,” Starks says, and gives Royce a quick pop on the shoulder to try and shake him out of it.
“No, he’s not!” Bolden shouts. He looks at me for a second, his eyes bulging and angry, but then he turns back to the starting five. “We can’t expect Bedford to just check Tagg on his own. We all have to know where he is. Help on drives! Hedge on screens! Now let’s dig our heels in and protect our home court.”
That rallies guys for a little while. Nick makes a few nice plays and Moose knocks in a mid-range shot off the glass. But it doesn’t last. Tagg and Lawrence North are just too much, and soon enough Tagg gets loose for another thunderous dunk. Coach Bolden hangs his head momentarily, hands clasped behind his back, looking more like a man lost in deep thought rather than one in the thick of battle. It lasts for a few seconds and then he pops his head up like he’s heard someone suddenly call his name. “Bowen, next whistle,” he says. I jump from the bench. In the background I can hear a few cheers, but as I start for the scorer’s table Coach grabs me by the sleeve of my warmup. “Not for Starks,” he says into my ear, “for Bedford. You get into Tagg and see what you can do.” I take another step and he pulls on my sleeve again. “You know what you’re doing out there? You know the three spot in our offense?”
“I’m straight, Coach,” I say, but that’s not entirely true. I’ve never played anything other than point guard, not even in practice, so though I know what the three does I’ve never actually done it.
By the next whistle, we’re down 9, and when Starks looks up to see me checking in, a pained expression flashes across his face. The thing is, when I point to Royce instead, Starks looks even more pissed. I watch as Starks walks toward the sideline with Royce, like he’s some police escort—in his ear the whole time. This is their third year as starters together. Whatever Starks is saying to his best friend it’s certainly not complimentary of the freshman coming in to replace him.
When I body up next to Tagg, he just gives me this long staredown, like Who you think you are? He’s bulkier up close, and his dark scowl makes him look like he’s about 25. On the offensive end, I get out of rhythm. Any time I’m a step slow on my cut, Starks shouts at me, once giving a frustrated look toward the bench—as if I’m the one that dug us a nine-point first quarter deficit. Moose has my back, though, and guides me a bit more subtly: “Flare now, D,” he’ll say. Then, during a dead ball, “You all right, D, just stay at it. Next time you catch it on the wing, I’m clearing for you.” And, sure enough, he does, so I dip my shoulder and get past Tagg, exploding so quickly that he has to relent so he doesn’t foul, and I get us a quick deuce off the window.
At the other end of the floor, it’s an even greater challenge sticking with Tagg. The guy is in constant motion—posting up down low, then spinning for that lob, faking to one baseline and dashing to the other, setting a cross-screen and slipping it to cut into the lane. Their point guard, a shifty kid named Patterson who’s a ringer for a younger Jason Terry, is always on the lookout for him too. I stay glued to Tagg, and the one time he gets me pinned on his back in the paint, Moose slides over to scare away the entry.
We dig. We claw. We fight. Bolden shouts maniacally from the sideline. But we can’t make a dent in their lead except to shave it to 8 with the ball for the last shot of the first quarter. With just under ten seconds, we get it to Starks at the top of the key so he can work. He idles for a moment and we all catch our breath. There’s just a hint of a buzz in the crowd. I look up in the stands and see Uncle Kid on his feet, urging us to get a bucket. I realize that if we could knock one down here, we’d actually be in the best shape we could have hoped for after that disastrous start. I’m on the wing to Nick’s right. He jukes a couple times up top, then crosses hard to his right and knifes into the lane, so when Tagg helps I drift deep into the corner. I know Nick wants that last shot, but he’s drawn a crowd in the paint, so when he leaves his feet he has no choice but to kick it out—and I’m his best option, standing all alone in the corner for a beautiful look at a three. The pass comes crisp but low and I have to re-gather. In just that hesitation, Tagg is rushing at me, hand outstretched. I’ve still got time to rise up for a look, but his presence bothers me. The release just feels off, a little flat and short. Sure enough, as the buzzer sounds, my shot scrapes front iron and drops straight down like a stone. Our crowd is dead again.
In
