bucket. When the last one falls, a few of us clap. Murphy whistles in approval and retrieves the ball. He pops it to Coach Bolden who catches it and tucks it under his elbow. “That’s eleven,” he says to Reynolds.
This time Reynolds does hang his head, but only for a second. When he looks back up, he has a sheepish little grin. His eyes are wide and glassy again, but he just looks fearful about the running in front of him, not like he’s going to break down. “I figure I deserve that,” he says.
We laugh then, even Bolden, and that’s the first step toward Reynolds becoming part of the team again—a bigger step than all those he’s about to take on the arena stairs. It means something that he’s going to take his punishment with a smile. Well, we’ll see if that lasts.
“All right,” Bolden shouts. “Enough fun and games. Reynolds, you hit the stairs, and the rest of you hit the baseline.”
We stand there, stunned.
“What?” Bolden shouts. “You thought I was just gonna run Reynolds? That’s eleven down-and-backs for the rest of you. Now move!”
We’re working half-court sets, ones against twos. With just two days before our first game, we look a little rough. It’s that three spot that’s killing us.
The twos just sag back in, with one guy chasing Devin. I feed Moose down low and it’s like the whole damn world collapses on him. He fires it back out to me. When my man runs to recover, I leave him chasing a ghost. But I hit all that traffic in the lane, and there’s no look. Maybe a pull-up from fifteen, but that’s still not flowing for me. I look to kick, and the one with the look is J.J. Fuller. His eyes widen, almost filling up that blockish face. But then he does it again—lowers his head and drives. Head down so that Coach Bolden could jump in from out of bounds, and he wouldn’t see it. He settles for a tough baseline fade that barely grazes rim.
“Reset!” Bolden shouts. “We can get a better look than that for God’s sake!”
“Come on, guys,” Murphy encourages, “look alive now.”
We run another possession, but it’s more of the same. No looks to be had. Finally, instead of driving, I decide to do what I’ve been working on all off-season. I catch a reversal pass and rip it into the lane. I know I could get to the rim, but that’s easy against our twos. Instead, I rise for the pull-up. Feels good coming off, but it’s juuust a millimeter shy.
“That’s okay,” Bolden says. “Good look. That’s what we want out of our offense. Just get good looks. The rest will take care of itself.”
Murphy chimes in with more encouragement. “Keep firing, D. They’ll fall, baby.” But a look around at my other starters reveals some doubt that we’ll ever score again. It seems like the only buckets we’ve had all practice have been put-backs by Moose and Stanford. Stanford’s starting to talk more trash than he can back up. He gets this tough squint to his face, like something he’s practiced after watching too many gang movies. It doesn’t work for him. He’s got those high cheekbones in his thin face, making him look almost feminine no matter how much he scowls. But when Bowman Academy gets here Friday night, it will be good to have Stanford thinking he’s a bad-ass.
Bolden tries Chris Jones at the three now. Jones is basically our first man off the pine for Moose or Stanford, but things are getting so bleak at the three it’s worth a shot. Of course, first touch Jones gets, he freezes up. He dribbles once, then gets in a tangle in the lane, and the ball gets slapped loose. A few bodies hit the floor, but the rock gets knocked into Stanford’s hands. He’s off-balance, but hears the sharp “Ball! Ball!” from the corner. It’s Devin. More open than he’s been all practice. Stanford sends him the pass, but there’s not much zip on it. That gives Reynolds just enough time to race back outside, trying to challenge the shot.
Everyone watches the smooth arc of the shot, following the orange until it finds home. But just as it rips through the net, I hear a pained yelp from the corner. There, in a heap, is Devin. He’s clutching his ankle with both hands and writhing in pain.
Reynolds is standing over him with his hand still raised from challenging the shot, the way a big man will leave his hands up to show he didn’t do anything wrong after getting whistled for a foul. Finally, he lowers his hand and extends it to Devin, a late offering to help him up. That’s like giving a Band-aid to a man with a gunshot wound though—Devin’s not getting up anytime soon. He cries out a few more times, just animal sounds that aren’t even words, while Murphy and Bolden rush over to him.
Bolden is the world’s biggest hard-ass, but let one of his boys get banged up and he’s as protective as anyone. He kneels next to Devin and puts his hand on his forehead, like some nurse comforting a patient. He talks to him quietly so nobody else can hear, and Devin starts to calm down. “Ice,” Bolden says, and our manager Darius sprints off the floor to get some.
Devin finally lets go of his ankle. Bolden and Murphy help him up. He keeps that right foot a few inches off the floor though, while the coaches help him hop toward the locker room, one of them under each shoulder like they’re carrying a wounded soldier.
“What happened?” Stanford finally asks. He’s got that scowl working hard, one eyebrow pinched down like he’s taking sight behind a gun.
Devin speaks through gritted teeth. “Came down on Reynolds’ foot,” he says. “Rolled my ankle.”
“Shit, Reynolds,” Stanford snaps. “You’ve been back an hour and you’ve already hurt a starter.” If his comment hurts Reynolds, there’s no telling because he’s still standing where it all happened, eyes down while he slowly shakes his head.
“We don’t need that, Stanford!” This is Murphy, shouting over his shoulder while he’s still helping Devin to the locker room. “It could have happened to anyone.” They all pause, letting Devin stand on his one foot for a second while Bolden slips the whistle from around his neck and hands it to Murphy. Then Bolden turns back to Devin, giving Murphy the nod to take over practice for a while. Murphy claps his hands and points to me. “Come on, Derrick. Get ‘em going. Next man up for Devin.”
I check the ball and start the offense, but we’re all just going through the motions. Everyone is wondering the same thing—how bad is Devin’s injury? I try to keep the worst scenarios—a ruptured Achilles, a broken ankle—out of my mind. But even as I drive the lane and dish to Moose, my thoughts are with Devin. I can see it playing out. The trip to the hospital. The MRI. The long wait for results. The bad news. The lost season.
Damn. If we had trouble scoring with Devin, our possessions are going to be as jammed up as rush hour traffic.
Two days and Bowman Academy comes calling. Usually, I can’t wait. But right now, this season is starting to feel cursed.
5 – GREEN
4 – STANFORD
3 – JONES
2 – FULLER
1 – BOWEN
Seeing my name written at the point guard spot fills me with pride. I knew it was coming. Everyone knew it. I was this team’s starting point guard the moment last season ended. But it’s still good to see.
Problem is, I was counting on Devin Varney’s name being up there too. Now I’ve got Fuller in the backcourt and Jones at small forward. That’s a tough way to run.
I
