foul, but the ref just holds his hand up at Coach.
Turns out, I don’t even need a run-out. This time down, they’re too eager to jump at Devin. So when he comes off that Stanford screen, it’s like the seas have parted. I get an easy entry to Stanford, and then I slice down the lane as soon as my man turns his head. Stanford pops it back for a quick give-and-go, and I catch it right in the heart of the lane. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Nash jumping toward me. I know I should dump it off to Moose, but it’s too good a chance to pass up. I take one power dribble and get right on top of Nash. He keeps me away from the rim so I can’t throw it down, but I get a finger-roll finish, plus a whistle.
My feet hit the floor and I arch back and shout at the ceiling, letting loose all that pent up frustration. Moose comes over and shoves me so hard he almost knocks me into the second row. “That’s what I’m talking about, D!” he shouts. “Let’s run these bitches off.”
That’s enough woofing for the ref to step in and tell us to cool it. We do. We know he could whistle a T just for Moose cussing, so we behave. Turns out it was enough to get under Nash’s skin, because he gives me a cheap bump as I walk to the free throw line. “That’s a lot of noise for one bucket,” he says.
“Gonna be plenty more,” I say, stepping up to him. “You think you can keep pace?”
“Shit,” he mutters. “I’ll get mine.”
By that time, all the refs are on top of us, telling us to ease off. Good thing too because Moose has his back up. One more word out of Nash and it might just get out of hand. The Franklin coach asks for time, maybe trying to get his team settled. As we walk back to our bench, I just nod my head, like Yeah, we got them rattled already.
When we get there, Coach Bolden isn’t having it. He grabs me by the jersey and yanks me toward the bench. “What in the hell is wrong with you?” he shouts. I start to answer, but he cuts me off. “We’re up five. Five! And you’re acting like you’ve just won State.” He shakes his head and looks at Murphy, like now he does want some kind of explanation, but Murphy knows better than to say a word. It’s Moose’s turn next. “And you!” Bolden shouts at the big man. “Lord, I might expect such foolishness from a sophomore, but you should know better!”
Darius, our equipment manager, offers me a towel, and I snatch it from him. I give a quick mop of my face and then angrily sling the towel down at my feet. Just once it would be nice if Coach Bolden didn’t kill our momentum.
He takes a long look at me. He decides not to say anything, but when we hit the court again the vibe has changed. I go through my routine and let fly. The ball feels perfect coming out of my hands, and I start to back away from the line with the free throw already good in my head—6-0, I’m thinking, keep it rolling—so I don’t even see how it misses. I just hear the groan from the crowd and then see Nash looking for his outlet man.
Nash does nothing flashy. No jams, no fadeways, not even an up-and-under. He just keeps plodding along—a post move here, a short jumper there. Slowly, Franklin edges ahead. By the early fourth quarter they’ve got a six-point lead on us. Devin has only been able to go a few minutes at a time. Even when he’s out there, he’s not the same old Devin. He’s knocked in a couple more from range, but he needs wide open looks so he can take his time. When he’s out, it’s the same story. Fuller, Reynolds, Jones—none of them can stretch the defense.
I bring the ball into the frontcourt and kick it to Fuller. He looks and looks, the ball high over his head, waiting for Moose to post. There’s nothing. Fuller swings it back to me, and Moose claps his hands a few times angrily, like Just get it to me. The big man has a right to be frustrated, but they’ve practically got him doubled even before he touches it.
Our crowd urges us, but there’s no longer that bloodthirsty buzz from early in the game. Now it’s an agitated cry. They can feel the game slipping away with each tick of the clock.
I take a deep breath. Time to take over. I know my man can’t check me, but I also know if I lower my head and drive, the only look I’ll have is that pull-up. And it’s like that thing’s jinxed. So I set him up. I give a bounce, then another to my right, then dip my shoulder and go. It’s all show though. As soon as he bites—jumping back into the lane—I cross the orange back to my left and set my toes behind the stripe. The shot leaves my hand pure. I just know I’ve cut their lead in half and put this game back within reach. Except it’s front-rim-back-rim and out. A killer.
Nash grabs the board and outlets. But this time their back-up point, who’s been so steady all game, gets too full of himself. He decides to challenge me. He pushes into the frontcourt and drives toward the hole. I stay on his shoulder the whole way. When he offers up a little scoop—Whap!—I smack it off the backboard and then chase it down to control. That show pumps a little life back into our crowd. They rise again for one last run. It amps me a little too, like I needed to remind myself that I’m the best damn player on this floor.
Coach Bolden windmills his arm to tell me to push it up, but I don’t need any telling. I zip it ahead to Fuller, who takes one dribble and then finds Stanford in the paint. Stanford gives a pump and a power dribble, then stops near the rim, not quite free for a look.
“Ball, ball, ball!” I shout. I’m standing all alone on the left wing, praying Stanford finds me. He does, and I let go of another three. Head still, follow-through high. It’s picture-perfect form. Only this one is a tick long. The rebound kicks toward the top of the key, and Fuller dives to tip it away from Franklin. Stanford chases down the rock. When he looks up, he sees me still in the same spot, all alone again. He rifles it to me. I take my time, setting my feet. I can hear the crowd yelling for me to bury it, a clear shout of Bucket! coming from just behind me as I let it go.
But this time, even I know it’s off. A scraper that leads to a little fight for the board, which ends in the ball going out of bounds off Moose’s knee.
The gym is dead. I glance over to see Coach sending Devin back in for one last charge. The game already feels over. We slouch back to get ready to defend, Moose shaking his head the whole way.
“Damn,” I say, to nobody in particular. “Those were good looks too.”
That’s all Moose can take. “Hell with your looks, man,” he snaps at me. He’s never looked as big as he does at this moment, right up on top of me. “Get me the damn ball!”
The ref hears it and gives Moose a look, but Fuller jumps between us. “Come on!” he pleads. “When I transferred here I thought I was coming to a team that was gonna get after it. Not guys who were going to get after each other.”
Moose is in no mood. “Shut up with that bullshit, Fuller,” he says.
This time the ref won’t let it slide. It doesn’t matter that Moose was talking to his teammates instead of arguing a call, the ref jacks him up.
And that’s that. Down six, Franklin at the stripe for two, plus their ball after. Moose comes out too, exiled to the bench on Bolden’s principles—a T sends you to the bench, no exceptions.
While Franklin’s best shooter toes the stripe and some people in our crowd start to gather their stuff to hit the exits, Nash slides up next to me. He bends over and puts his hands on his knees so it looks like he’s just catching his breath. But I know what’s coming, and I deserve it. He asks, just softly enough so the ref can’t hear, “You wanna talk some shit now, Bowen?”
8.
There’s a knock on the door in American History. When
