throwdowns. Tomahawks. Once, when Bolden had to go into the locker room to get his clipboard, I popped it off the backboard to myself before throwing it down. My teammates hollered loud enough to wake the dead over in Crown Hill Cemetery. All but Starks, who just took a long sip off his water bottle and then spit into a garbage can.
I know why Starks acts that way. It’s because, between dunks, I’m making the plays that Bolden wants. Our offense isn’t that complex, and it never takes me long to get impatient. I’ll see that baseline open up and it kills me to not just attack the rim, but instead I reverse it back up top and let the offense clip along. All that matters is earning Coach’s trust so when the games get here in a few more days, I’ll have plenty of chances to punish people who want to try and check me. I’m also finding a rhythm with Moose, who’s a legit beast on the blocks. I get him the ball where he wants it and there’s nothing the guy guarding him can do. If little guards bite down on him they bounce off like pinballs. No doubt, Moose has enjoyed my arrival.
Royce and Devin aren’t so quick to warm to my presence. I know it’s not because they worry I’ll take their minutes, but because they’re tight with Starks. They’ve been balling together since they were in middle school, and those bonds don’t break, I guess. Even when I drop a dime to one of those two for a wide-open shot I get nothing, but if Starks hits them for a shot they act like he’s the second coming of Chris Paul: Great look, Nick, they’ll say, Beautiful pass, man.
Now we’re running fives, prepping for the first game against Arlington tomorrow night. I’m splitting time with Starks with the 1s. Right now I’ve got the O’s engine humming. First time down Moose seals his man. I hit him with a perfectly timed lob for a deuce. Then Royce deflects a pass on the defensive end and I push it ahead for an easy two-on-one break, Devin finishing at the end. Next time I rip the board and can’t help myself—I just motor past everyone and finish strong in the lane, getting the hoop and harm. One more time down and the 2s finally get a bucket—Devin falling asleep on a backdoor, and getting an earful from Coach Bolden—so they’re set again when we come down. I drive right, then kick to Royce in the corner. I cut on through to clear the lane for Moose, but when nobody can get him the ball down low, it gets reversed to me on the left side. Shot fake. Drive to the elbow. Shot fake again. And before the defense knows what hit him, I’ve slipped a little left-handed pass into Moose’s mitts. Bucket again.
After that, Coach subs me back out for Starks and I get a round of fives from my teammates, even Devin and Royce. I catch my breath while Starks runs the point for a few possessions. I stifle a grin when he bounces a pass at Moose’s ankles. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t want the team to fail. But if I raise the bar and Starks can’t jump over it, fine by me.
They go up and down a few times, with nothing special happening except Tyler Stanford getting flipped from first to second team at the four spot for Chris Jones. They’re both sophomores, and neither one does much more than take up space at that power forward position. There are times you can almost see Bolden’s patience stretching thin with them. Some days he’ll alternate them back and forth possession after possession, the vein in his neck bulging. Finally, Coach Murphy walks over and whispers something to Bolden. I know what’s coming.
“Bowen, in with the twos,” Bolden says. I flip my practice jersey inside-out, going from red to green, and jump back on the hardwood. Every day, they do this at least once—match me up against Starks. I always have to run with the 2s, but I don’t mind. It just makes it that much more impressive when I turn him inside out as quick as I do my jersey. Any day now, it’ll be Starks with the 2s. I can feel it.
I take a look at my squad—bump fists with a few of them. “Let’s run these guys off,” I say. The rest of the back-ups love it when I’m in their five, because all of a sudden things even up and they’ve got a fighting chance.
“Quit yappin’.” This is Starks, who’s waiting between mid-court and the top of the key, basketball nestled in the crook of his elbow. He won’t even make eye contact with me, but says, “Less talk, more play, Bowen. This ain’t middle school.”
That draws a little laugh from Devin, but when I give him a look he shuts up quick. I go out to check Starks. Up until now we’ve gone at each other pretty good, but he’s ignored me as much as he can. The fact that he had to say that to me lets me know I’m in his head.
He checks it and I get into him. I know where he wants to go, so every cut he makes is met with a little bump from me. Nothing that catches the coaches’ attention, but enough to bounce him off course. After a few passes, Devin gets impatient and flings up a weak fadeaway that skips off the iron and into Tyler Stanford’s hands. He outlets to me up at the hash and I push it into the front-court. Starks is back quickly, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned against him it’s that you shouldn’t underestimate how crafty he is on the defensive end. He’ll make it seem like you’ve got a good look at the rim, only to cut you off or poke the ball away. So I ease up on the throttle and settle us into our offense. It’s clear pretty fast, though, that nobody else with the 2s has a prayer of making something happen, so when I swing back to the top of the key I catch a pass on the move and lower my shoulder, get myself to the elbow and rise up over Nick’s outstretched hand. Bucket.
When they inbound it, I jump right on Starks. It’s hard to turn him over, but the more I get into him the more frustrated he’ll get. Sure enough, as he crosses mid-court, I flick at the ball and get a fingernail on it—not enough to steal it, but it slows him down again. Starks flashes a look at Coach Murphy, all but begging for a foul, but when Murphy just stares back, Starks gives the ball up and barks at me: “Don’t reach, man. That’s a foul.”
“Less talk, more play,” I say. That comment receives a subtle elbow from Starks as he tries to free himself on the wing. Sure enough, Royce feeds him the ball and Starks darts back baseline, but when he floats up his little runner, I get part of it. “Piece!” I yell, and Stanford yanks down another board and we’re off.
At the other end I drive and kick to the wing. No shot. I pop back out to the perimeter for the rock and feed Stanford low, but he just gets off balance, so I swing baseline and get it again. Reverse it back to the top. Wait a beat and then cut across the lane. Starks is trailing me, so I stop in the paint and just open up. It takes the three-man a second to realize it—he’s not used to a point guard who can post up near the basket—but he finally gets me the ball and Starks is still buried behind me. He tries to reach, but I keep the ball high and rise for an easy turnaround, only to see Moose flashing over. I know I can still score, even with Moose running at me. But I drop to it to Stanford who’s all alone for a layup.
“Good look, Derrick!” Coach Bolden shouts. Then he jumps on the first team. “You guys are getting it taken to you by the second team! How are you gonna handle Arlington? How you gonna handle Cathedral? How you gonna handle Lawrence North?”
“Come on!” Starks yells at his teammates, trying to rally them.
I don’t let up. As soon as he gets the in-bounds pass I’m on him again. I flick my hand in again near mid-court, and he seethes at me: “Don’t reach!”
So next chance I get, I reach again. This time I pick him clean. And here’s the thing: Nobody picks Nick Starks. So as I scoop the rock and push down the floor, I can hear a few people behind me—Ooooh.
Two dribbles. I’m in the paint. I rise. Then, just as I’m about to finish, my feet go out from under me. For a second I’m weightless in mid-air, my back parallel with the floor. Then down. Hard.
My shoulder gets the brunt of the fall, but my body twists, pushing weight up through my back and into my neck. Multiple whistles blow. As I lie on the floor I can hear the rumble of everyone’s feet as they sprint down to my spot.
I
