word about it, so Murphy steps in and rattles off about five straight clichés to try to raise our spirits. When Bolden finally does get in the middle of the huddle, he just re-iterates all the things he’s already told us: everyone help on Tagg, push the ball whenever we get a chance, be patient in the half-court. Like saying it all again will make any of it work better for us. Just before we break, he rattles off substitutions, putting Moose and Devin on the bench too. So Starks and I break huddle to face Lawrence North, down eight, with nothing but sophomore back-ups surrounding us.
It goes about as well as you might expect. I stick with Tagg, but with Moose out of the paint, he’s content to just feed their bigs. Even when we force a miss, they pound the glass, getting second, third, fourth shots until something drops. On the other end, it’s like I’m invisible. With this five on the floor, Nick decides he’s got to play savior, so he drives and drives and drives, penetrating into the teeth of the D but never kicking it out for shots. He never once looks my way, even when I pop open in the paint. “Ball!” I shout, but he just drives right at me, bringing more defenders with him.
“Get out of the lane!” he yells at me. He dribbles back to the top of the key and shouts at me again: “The three isn’t supposed to be in there. Learn the offense, man!”
Soon enough, Bolden gives up on his little experiment and sends Moose and Stanford back in along with Royce, so now I slide into the two spot that Devin usually occupies. But Royce arrives with instructions that I’m still supposed to check Tagg on the defensive end. The return of our starters gives us a little jolt and we slice away at the lead, getting it back to single digits. Our little run is fool’s gold, though, because Lawrence North cranks the intensity back up. They don’t explode like they did in the first few minutes, but they methodically stretch their lead, and our crowd goes kind of numb as if they’re watching a funeral procession edge along to the graveyard.
As the half nears an end, I’m spent. I’ve given everything I have keeping Tagg reined in. On the offensive end I haven’t had a single touch except to inbound the ball. It just wears me out. I’d as soon strangle Nick as look at him. Even Moose isn’t offering any words of encouragement. The silence of the crowd has been replaced by grumbles here and there. It’s not that they all expected us to beat Lawrence North, but they’re not exactly thrilled with our effort.
That’s when it happens: for the briefest of moments, I think about how Uncle Kid drove me up to Hamilton Academy and told me how I should consider taking my talents there. Tagg’s gone faster than a finger-snap, spinning away from me and throwing one down on a lob: the same move that froze Royce in the opening minutes. He backpedals to the defensive end and smirks at me. “Gotta stay awake, kid,” he says.
Next time down the clock’s dwindling, so they iso Tagg. He jabs at me once, twice—toying with me—then dips his shoulder and starts baseline only to pop back and bury one from three. I hang my head and hear the Lawrence North crowd go nuts. The buzzer sounds and I shuffle toward the locker room, not looking up. I don’t want to make eye contact with Wes, my family, anyone. I just stare at my AdiZeros as they make one step after another toward the locker room, until I almost bump into Coach Bolden.
“What the hell was that?” he yells.
“Tagg’s too good,” I say.
Bolden’s back stiffens and he puts his hands on his hips. “Don’t you ever say that again,” he says. “You make him good because you lose focus.” He started off in a controlled tone, but as he goes on his voice gets louder and louder. I realize we’re near the bleachers where Wes sits. “Then you’re out on the perimeter with Marcus freakin’ Tagg,” Bolden continues, “and you’ve got your hands down below your waist. You let your hands sink like that and you’re just waiting around to die.”
Waiting around to die. That’s about what halftime feels like. And much of the second half. By mid-fourth quarter most of the crowd has cleared, which is fine by me, because it’s fewer people to see me pile up garbage minutes with the other back-ups.
I listen to Coach Bolden’s post-game talk. After Bolden exits, I listen to Starks slam his fist into his locker and scream that we should be ashamed of ourselves. I listen to Moose talk shit about how it doesn’t matter if we win or lose, he’s still going to have himself a Saturday night, rattling off names of all the girls he claims want to share that Saturday night with him. I listen to a few guys laugh, unable to stay down around Moose even after a 19-point thumping. I listen to the shower hiss. I listen to the door to the locker room slam again and again. I listen to the sound of my footsteps echo in a dark, empty gym. Then I listen to someone call my name.
It’s Wes. He’s been waiting for me this whole time.
“You’re unbelievable,” I say.
“Derrick, if I’m gonna hang with you after wins, I’m gonna still be around after you get your ass beat.”
I laugh. “We did get our asses beat, didn’t we?”
“Like a drum.”
We go out the doors and get whipped by the cold November wind.
“You coming over to hang out?” I ask Wes.
“Hell, naw,” he says. “Your place will be depressing. Let’s go get some eats. We’ll pretend like basketball was never invented.”
8.
Sundays mark moratoriums on basketball, at least as long as my dad has his way. He’ll usually relent by late afternoon and let me watch a game, but in the mornings the very topic is banned. Been that way since I started playing.
First thing is the early service at Church of God. Neither one of my parents is super religious, so I’m pretty sure they think church is just a great excuse to get me and Jayson up and moving early on a Sunday morning. Uncle Kid usually attends too, but he never goes with us, always opting instead to slink in a little late and lounge in the last pew.
Anymore, though, while Pastor Baxter is up in the pulpit warning the faithful about the wages of sin, I’m running play-by-play in my head, dreaming up acrobatic dunks and buzzer beaters, plays that send the Marion East crowd into a frenzy. Honestly, when I do pay attention, Baxter isn’t bad. He’s a young, energetic guy, who can build up a cadence and get more than a few Amens from the congregation. He even does his best to tie his sermon into what’s going on now, so it’s not just some musty old history lesson. Every time he sees me after church he asks me about my game before he asks about my faith. But the more he builds up a rhythm on Sunday, the more I build up a rhythm in my head, and I can almost feel the leather leave my hands as I drain a shot over Tagg to win a rematch against Lawrence North in the Sectional Finals. And then I snap back only to hear Pastor Baxter tell us that our intentions mean nothing if we fail to act upon them.
I don’t worry about Hell any more than any other freshman, but when I’m sitting in that dusty pew by a stained glass window, I can’t help but think that it must be some kind of special sin to be imagining whole basketball games as the preacher’s giving his sermon. So, really, the only time I ever think I’m doing something bad enough to send me to Hell is during church itself.
I check Jayson and can tell he’s paying even less attention than I am. He fidgets in the pew and rocks his feet back and forth, like it’s all he can do not to leap up, kick those uncomfortable shoes off, and run for freedom. All it takes is our mom giving him a sidelong glance, though, and he straightens right up. We know from experience we don’t want to earn Mom’s wrath on a Sunday—she’s not above marching us down the aisle and out the doors while giving us a sermon of her own.
