it’ll be with me when we get this season kick-started. We’re sitting 3-2 right now—a couple grind-it-outs around a heartbreaker at Cathedral—but Devin’s back in the lineup tomorrow night against Franklin.
“Iesha’s gonna die when she sees me in these,” he says.
“All about Iesha, right?” There’s a little edge to the way I say that, more than I meant. So I laugh it off. Truth is, it wears on me. Every other word out of his mouth is Iesha now. He was a lot more fun when he couldn’t get any.
Maybe he senses it because he nods toward the other end of the store. “Let’s check the jerseys,” he says. This is for me. Neither of us are going to buy anything, but Wes likes to scan through those racks of shoes like he’s mining for a diamond, and I like to try on the throwback jerseys.
I grab a handful—Pip’s old Bulls 33, Nique’s sweet Hawks 21, and an Alex English just because those old Nuggets jerseys are sick. Used to be when we did this, we’d get the hard stare from the manager, but now he knows who I am. My stat line is nothing to swagger about. But on these blocks everyone’s always so hyped for hoops that if you show even a little promise, people recognize you.
Wes tells me I have to get the Dominique jersey until I go back into the dressing room one more time. When I come back out, I sport the one I didn’t show him before I went in. It’s old school Iverson, blue with red trim, just the PHILA over top the 3 in front.
As soon as he sees it, Wes just raises his hands in the air. “Amen, D. That’s the bullet,” he says. “It looks so good on you, I’m gonna start calling you The Answer if you wear it.”
I laugh, then remind him that I’ve got a couple inches on Iverson. Plus hops he never had. It’s a crazy boast, and Wes knows it. He just shakes his head at me. But then his phone gets hit up, and he’s gone—off to the other side of the store again, mashing out a text to Iesha.
Used to be our house was buzzing the hours before a game. Jayson would have his music cranked up and Mom would be pacing in anticipation. Dad got into it, even if he didn’t want to admit it. He’d be egging Uncle Kid on, getting him to tell stories about his playing days until he got worked up.
Now, it’s basically silent.
Jayson’s back in his room. He’s got his music going, but it’s so low I just hear a muffled bass thump once in a while. Mom and Dad are each reading a book. They’re on opposite ends of the living room, like they’re trying to put the most possible space between them. Uncle Kid didn’t even come over. He’s probably hanging with his boy Brownlee somewhere because the most action here is that Dad’s head about bumps into his book every few minutes because he’s having trouble staying awake.
It’s about ten minutes before I have to hoof it to the gym, and nobody’s said a word to me. I’m just idling on the couch, gym bag beside me. Finally, my dad looks up.
“Derrick, you doing okay?” he asks.
“It’s all good,” I say. “We get Devin back on the floor tonight.”
Dad rocks forward in his chair and sets his book down. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes, then looks at me with full attention. “I don’t mean basketball,” he says. He waves his hand in the air, dismissing the very topic. “That will work itself out. I mean you. You’ve been walking around this place looking pretty serious the last couple weeks. I just wanted to know how you’re doing.”
“For real, I’m good,” I say.
Dad bites down on his lip, trying to decide whether to let it go at that. He picks his book back up, but glances over at me one last time. “Okay. It’s just that we get so caught up in the day-to-day that I think sometimes your mom and I take it for granted that you’re fine. You can tell us if you’re not.”
I don’t respond, but I steal a glance at Mom, who’s put her book down to check out our conversation. Her face is calm, patient, like she’s open to anything I might have to say. I don’t say a word. No need getting into some conversation about girl trouble or anything this close to tip. But it’s nice to hear my dad talk to me like that. It feels like for the last month my only conversations with my parents have been the same-old. Be back by ten, I get from them. Or, remember to help clean the kitchen. And all I’m telling them is if they need to drop me somewhere or pick me up. I don’t want to hash anything out with my parents, but it’s a nice reminder that I can.
Right now, it’s time to shake this place up a little. Get people’s pulses going so they can make some noise when they hit the gym. I grab my bag and head to Jayson’s room. He looks up at me as he’s softly rapping along with a Kanye joint. I just raise my thumb toward the ceiling a few times, and he gets it. Jay cranks the volume as high as he can, and in an instant the beats are pounding so hard they’re rattling my ribs. I turn and hit the door just as Mom and Dad rise in unison, hollering to Jayson to turn it down. I know he can’t hear them, and I’m all the way to the street before the music cuts out.
Franklin’s on tap. Another big test, especially because they got a forward in Chuck Nash who’s a real beast. But the good news is Devin’s back. All through warm-ups, he’s just stepping out to the stripe—bucket, bucket, bucket. There’s not gonna be any packing it in on us tonight.
“How’s the wheel?” I ask, motioning to his ankle.
“Good to go,” he says, but I can tell he’s still being careful every time he plants on it.
When we get to the huddle, Bolden senses that we’re extra amped. The crowd’s more juiced too. You can feel it in the way the gym’s been buzzing since warmups.
“Just because Devin’s back doesn’t mean it’s easy,” Bolden says. “You still need to guard and stay patient on O. And keep Nash in check. That means helping down on him when he gets it on the blocks.” He takes a look around. “Come on now,” Bolden shouts. “Heads in the game.”
That’s all he’s got before it’s time to get between the lines. Doesn’t matter. With Devin out there, we’ve got a little swagger for the first time. Nash controls the tip for Franklin. But when their point brings it across, I get into him hard. He tries to shake me with a crossover, but I get a piece and he’s lucky just to pick it up. It all gets him off balance. When he tries to get the ball to the wing, it sails about three feet wide of his teammate for a quick turnover.
“There it is,” I shout and pump my fist to Devin. The crowd noise swells. They’ve been aching for something—anything—to get excited about. When I bring it up, I figure there’s no sense wasting time. Let’s test out Devin’s J. He comes off a screen from Stanford. I give a quick head-fake the other way to freeze the defense, then zip it to Devin in the corner. Wide open. He catches it clean and lets it fly. His stroke is so pure, that thing’s wet as soon as it leaves his hands. When it finds bottom, our crowd goes insane. Our whole team does too. Seeing a long-range three find bottom is such a release, it feels like when you were a kid and got cut loose for summer vacation, free to run at last.
Their point is as shook as a boxer who’s about to go down. I hound him over to the right wing and make him give it up. They’re supposed to reverse the ball back to him. He claps for it, but he doesn’t really want it. When it comes his way, he stays back on his heels rather than stepping to meet the ball and that’s all the opening I need. I jump the pass and deflect the rock toward mid-court. I chase it down and would have a free run at the rim, but their off-guard hacks me to stop the run-out.
Even after the whistle, I push it ahead
