gives Wes a playful bump—almost knocking him into his locker—and then he’s off, bellowing for his teammates to wait the hell up, his voice deep and loud as an amped bass.
I look over at Wes. We’ve been friends since first grade. There’s nobody as constant as he is. I always hated it when my middle-school teammates would brush him off just because he didn’t ball. He’s still smiling from our encounter with Moose, though.
“That guy’s cool,” he says, which is a pretty solid verdict on Moose Green. So we don’t have to say another thing as we head on to Algebra. But I have to rein myself in—just that encounter with Moose, just the mention of practice, has me playing out the season in my head, dreaming up all the ways my hype will become reality. I’ve just about mapped out the whole season, right down to me hitting a game-winner to beat Lawrence North in Sectionals, plus one more to drop Hamilton Academy in Regionals and send us to State. Then we walk through the door to Algebra, where Mr. Jenks, who probably hasn’t cracked a smile in a quarter century, has a stack of quizzes he’s handing out as students file in. An Algebra quiz—a reality check if there ever was one.
Coach Joe Bolden keeps a somber locker room, I can tell you that. In middle school, we used to be blasting Jay-Z before practices, getting ourselves loose. In the Marion East locker room, the sound system is a beat-up old stereo stuck in the corner collecting dust. The thing’s so old it’s still got dual cassette players in front. So the only beats here are coming out of Moose’s earbuds, and even Moose turns his sound down when Coach Bolden enters.
Bolden—his first year at Marion East was my Uncle Kid’s last. He hasn’t changed a single bit in those two decades except that once his hair started to go gray, he decided to just shave it all off. So now the locker room lights reflect on his bald, brown dome as he paces through the locker room, his almond eyes squinting so hard it forces deep wrinkles into his face as he takes stock of what he has this year. Since that first year, he’s won Sectionals exactly twice, but that’s not to say his teams have been bad. We’ve just never been good enough to beat teams when it counts. I’m sure the parents around here would like a few more Sectional banners, but it’s just as important to them that Bolden’s players stay out of trouble, which isn’t easy at Marion East. And if anyone does step out, Bolden makes sure their next step is to the curb. The man doesn’t tolerate foolishness. Just ask Uncle Kid.
I pull my new kicks from their box. I rocked Kobes, then LeBrons in middle school, but this time I’ve gone with the new Rose AdiZeros, black with the red trim to match the trim on our unis. It’s a tough move breaking from Nikes, but I figure new school, new season, new brand. I pull them out and smell that new leather. There’s something perfect about new kicks, like you can do anything in them, like every shot’s going to find bottom and you’re going to win every game.
Over in the corner, I see Starks getting ready. He’s got his ankles taped, his shooting elbow in a sleeve, his right knee covered by a black Ace bandage. But it’s all show. He’s never had an injury as far as I know of but wants to look like some soldier readying for combat. His tats creep out from under all that gear, dark against his light-brown skin. It wasn’t but a few years ago that Bolden would have made a player cover all those. Seems like only since Nick came along did Bolden come to grips with the fact that young guys want to get inked up.
“Time!” Coach Bolden yells, and like that everyone is out the door. I trail out, and I see every last player lined up on the baseline. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel nervous. Don’t get me wrong, I know I belong here. I know that even if I’m just a freshman all I need is a chance to unleash my skills. But there’s something about everyone lined up, the coaches staring at us with their arms crossed, everyone looking grim under the gymnasium lights. I try to squeeze in next to Moose, but even he shakes me off. “Freshmen on the end, D,” he says. “Don’t be playin’ now.”
I have to take my place all the way down at the corner of the floor. When I lean forward to take a look down the row, every other player is staring straight ahead, just waiting on Coach Bolden to make his way to center court and bark orders, like we’re in the damn military.
When he finally gets there and blows that whistle, I realize military isn’t much of a stretch.
Forget about drills—he runs us. I mean kills us. Down-and-backs, suicides, defensive slides, and more suicides. Nobody but Coach Bolden says a word, not even Moose, who’s doing all he can to hide how much of a struggle this is for him. After a while, Bolden’s assistant, Lou Murphy, walks over and grabs Moose by the elbow. They walk to one of the side baskets and Murphy acts as if he’s instructing Moose on post moves, but it’s really just a chance for Moose to catch his breath without drawing Coach Bolden’s wrath. Smart move. If Moose can’t finish the runs, then Bolden would have to come down on him, but everyone in the gym knows Moose is a threat for a double-double each night out, whether or not he can finish another down-and-back.
The rest of us are still waiting for Coach Bolden’s next whistle. This is nothing new. It seems like every self-respecting high school coach in Indiana has a reputation for being a hard-ass. Some places, it’s all show—the coaches put on a tough face but they know their best bet to move up the ranks is to keep their players happy and position them for the scouts. But I can see early on that Coach Bolden takes a special pleasure in this. When, finally, one of my fellow freshman falls out of a sprint and bends over on the sideline like he’s about to pass out, Bolden walks over. “You gonna quit?” he asks. The rest of us have finished the sprint and are gathered again on the baseline. I look over and can see Starks smiling, making some quiet crack to Bedford. It’s like the seniors have come to expect this moment.
The kid just shakes his head, but doesn’t look up at Bolden.
Coach shouts now: “I asked you a question! Are you going to quit?”
“No, Coach,” the kid manages.
“Then get back on the baseline,” Coach says.
Two more suicides and we’re done.
“Free throws,” Coach yells.
While we’re shooting, he rides us. He points out that only the seniors had taken time to stretch before hitting the floor, that it’s not up to the coaches to baby us and get us ready. He reminds us that if we can’t get ourselves ready to practice, then he can’t trust us to get ready for a game. He tells us that play time is over, that it’s November and Arlington is ready to come at us in two weeks. And then, for the freshmen, he says that he can see fear in our eyes, but if we want to suit up for Marion East then we better grow up and get over “that coddling middle school bullshit.”
Finally, the prelude is done and we jump into some drills. Bolden and Murphy spend their time on the end of the floor with the upperclassmen, but they keep sneaking peeks my way, checking to see how my jumper’s developing. The J from range is the one part of my game that needs work. It’s not a weakness, exactly, but if I could make myself a real threat from three, nobody could check me. While Coach Murphy is watching me, I drop in two straight from behind the arc. Just smooth as butter. I sneak a look back at Murphy, see his eyebrows rise. Then, when it’s time to D up one of my fellow freshmen, I don’t let any class allegiance get in my way—I pick him clean or, if he gets room for a shot, erase it fast. When the box-out drill comes around, I grab every rebound like it’s the final possession of a game, and at last I see that Murphy’s edged all the way down to our end of the floor. “Not bad, Bowen,” he mutters after a while.
But those are just drills. I need live action to really show out, and it doesn’t take much longer for me to get my chance. Coach Bolden calls the freshmen down to the
