suicides all night long. The locker room is just as hot, and we can’t catch our breath. Moose hangs his head and sweat just streams off his nose. Coach Bolden’s shirt is so drenched it looks like he got caught in a rainstorm.
“Got to know who’s doubling on Randle-El,” he says. “They’re killing us every time we get crossed up. And on offense—” he trails off. Maybe he doesn’t have any answers either. Then he straightens his back, regains his form. “On offense, let’s make their asses work. I mean it. We’re going through the motions.” Here he imitates us, lazily acting out a shot fake and slow, methodical pass. “Shit. It’s five-hundred degrees in that gym, and we’re not making them jump. Get some pace going.” He pauses again, smiles. “I don’t run your asses all pre-season for the fun of it. Let’s wear these guys down! Now come on!”
That gives us enough of a boost to make a rush at the start of the third. We get the rock popping on the offensive end and get some results—I get a little leaner, Fuller buries a mid-range J, Moose gets a deuce off my drive.
But by midway through the quarter our legs are mush. The ball rotation slows down and our cuts lose their zip. “Move!” Bolden yells from the sideline. “Pick it up!” But even Coach Bolden’s urging can’t get us going again. Eventually, the ball swings back to me baseline, and I figure it’s as good as any look we’ll get. As soon as the three leaves my hand though, I know it’s short. I sprint in to follow my shot, but Randle-El rips it down and outlets to my man—who’s floated all the way out near mid-court for a run-out. He races ahead for an easy deuce. And just like that, whatever comeback momentum we had dies. We’re back down six and you can feel our crowd deflate, spent in this sauna of a gym.
At the break between quarters, Bolden walks a few paces out from the sideline to meet me before the huddle. Instead of jumping me like I expect, he just puts his hand on my shoulder. “Stay with it, Derrick,” he says. “We’ll get some shots to fall. Don’t get frustrated and impatient.”
I nod, and he cuffs me on the back of the neck as we head to the huddle. He knows something has to give. Without another shooter, there’s just no climbing back against these guys. Bolden scans down the bench, looking for answers. “Reynolds,” he says. It takes Reynolds a second to register the news—he just sits there. Murphy slaps him on the shoulder, tells him that means he’s supposed to shed those warm-ups and go check in. As he goes, a few guys shake their heads. The guy’s only been with us a week and hasn’t shown much yet. Seems like we’d be better off sending Devin in to play on one leg.
Bolden gets about an inch from my face. I can see the sweat beaded all over his forehead. “Tell Fuller to slide to the three. Then get Reynolds going,” he tells me. Then, right into my ear like a secret, he says, “He’s got as good a chance as stretching that defense as anyone.”
It’s a gamble, but it’s not like the rest of us are setting the world on fire. Besides, Bolden’s had weird lineups pay off before. I mean, just last year he had me running at the four, and that worked out, so I’ll give the man the benefit of the doubt. When I glance at Reynolds, the kid looks shook. He keeps kicking his feet out like he’s trying to loosen up his legs and flapping his hands out like he’s trying to shake water off them.
“Easy,” I tell him. “You get a look on these guys, bury it.”
“I feel you,” he says, but his body language tells a different story. He’s still all twitch and fidget. I can’t fix his head for him though.
The first trip down, I know better than to give him a touch right away. Let the guy get a sweat up at least. I kick it Fuller’s way. When I get it back, I try a drive. There’s nothing doing, so I kick to Fuller again. He feeds Moose, but Randle-El has him moved way off the block, so I swing over and get it back. This time when I drive middle, I get a little crease and the whole King defense jumps. I pull up with a choice—force it over two guys or kick it out again. There’s Reynolds on the wing, hands outstretched. I zip it his way, hit him right on the money.
And he leaves the thing a good two feet short. Misses so bad it just falls to the floor and rolls out of bounds. Reynolds hangs his head and trots back on defense, but I know he can hear the laughs and jeers from the crowd.
Next deadball, it’s back to the old lineup. So much for the Reynolds experiment.
We make a little run. I turn one of their guards and get a run-out jam to get our crowd on our feet. Then Fuller finally gets a trey to fall. But that’s all we can do. Randle-El keeps banging away down low and they ice it at the line. Final: 49-40, King.
It’s a long haul back to Indy. Lots of dark miles on I-65. Coach Bolden has Murphy up beside him in the front seat. They’ve got a light on and all you can see is the back of their heads bent down. They’re going over plays, over notes, but it looks like they’re praying.
Moose, usually one to get guys laughing on a bus ride—even after a loss—has been snoozing in the back seat since the exit for Crown Point. So the bus is stone quiet. We all expected better than this out of the gate, even with Devin hobbled. After the game, we hit the showers and made a straight line for the bus, but on the way I caught a peek of the early action in the second game. Hamilton was already up double figures, and the one play I saw was Vasco on the drive, whipping a behind-the-back pass to his teammate for a bucket. We don’t improve before we step up to them and we’ll get run out by 40.
In the darkness, that play by Vasco haunts me. I see it over and over. Smooth and efficient. It would be showboating if it weren’t so effective. And, yeah, I see that bomb he dropped on us in Regionals last year over and over again. It stings just as much now as it did then, like we keep losing that game again with every mile.
It’ll get better, I tell myself. We’ll get Devin back and defenses will have to come out after him. Room to drive. Room to feed the post. Everything will be better. But, damn, we should be steamrolling teams anyway. Maybe instead of just staying patient like Coach says, I should be forcing the issue more. I could drop 20 on just about any team we play.
I try to check those thoughts, put my mind on something better. Problem is, there’s nowhere for my mind to go that isn’t trouble. My family? Friction. My dad looks more and more exhausted and my mom keeps sniping at him to go see the doctor. Wes? My best friend is AWOL with his girl 24-7. And Jasmine? That’s the most frustrating thing of all. There are times when Jasmine’s voice runs through my head—a nice little compliment she gave me, her laugh—and it fills me up, but anymore I just hear her saying, No. Stop. I can’t. That’s when my pulse starts racing, and I feel like I’m going to burst.
Coach Bolden clicks off the light in the front seat, and the bus goes dark. The only light is the glow up ahead—the exit for West Lafayette, home of the Boilermakers. At home, I’ve got a mailer from them crammed in a box with so many others. But right now I’m just another rider on another bus, an hour from home with a loss hanging over my head.
7.
Ty’s Tower is covered up. Word is the city’s about to get hammered with snow. It’s like everyone’s decided to get their Christmas shopping done now in case they’re house-bound for a couple weeks. Wes turns over some Timberland New Market Slip Ons in his hands. They’re real light blue, the kind of thing Russell Westbrook might wear if he’s trying to look casual at a press conference. Wes lifts them up and down, marveling. He could probably use a reminder that last year his dad stood him up on Christmas—didn’t visit and didn’t get him his kicks—and I had to help him out. That would be cold though.
“I need to rock these,” he says.
He looks at me for verification, but he knows I always bow to his shoe knowledge.
