live with. He’d miss five games and be back in time for Franklin. The Pike game at worst. But everyone’s seen the same kind of injury derail NBA seasons. We’ve watched guys miss a month just to come back too early, doomed for lousy play and a quick aggravation of the injury.
Devin looks back my way. He’s sitting in his street clothes at his locker, right foot in an air cast and elevated on a folding chair. “You got this, D,” he says. “I’ll be back before you know it, but you can run these first few in your sleep.”
“You got that straight,” I say. I give him a fist bump. Before you know it, it’s time to hit the floor.
The gym’s packed. When that band hits full volume as our kicks hit the hardwood, my heart’s about to burst out of my chest. Right now I don’t care if the damn Spurs walk through that door, I’m ready to go. I get myself into a solid lather and try to get the other guys amped.
As I go through the layup line, I keep hearing people calling my name like I’m a star on stage. It’s been a long time since someone with my potential has come up here. Everyone wants to be able to say they knew me way back when. I know it’ll get crazier next year—recruiters, boosters, money men. But it’s nice to get recognition. I hear a particularly high-pitched shout—Hey, Derrick!—and I turn to see Daniella Cole staring at me. She’s not bad looking, but she spreads it around and everyone knows it. I nod to her, but I don’t make any kind of big deal. Last thing I need is Jasmine thinking I’m trying to hook up with Daniella.
A deeper scan of the crowd shows that my people aren’t in the house yet, which is strange for them. They usually like to set up camp early so they get prime seats. I do catch a glimpse of Jasmine—she still hits the games, no matter how much she badmouths sports. She’s next to Iesha. They’re too busy laughing at something to see me. At least I get a nod from Wes in the band.
“Let’s just stay calm and focused,” Bolden says in our last huddle before the tip. “Don’t get all crazed ‘cause it’s the first game. Patient offense, tenacious defense!” Then we all put our hands in together. Bolden smacks that top fist on the stack and we shout, “Team!”
Game time.
Now, I trust Coach Bolden. So I’m all for running offense and following orders. Learned that the hard way last year. But when that ball goes up and Moose taps it to me, I’ve got other plans. Bowman Academy can play, I know, but they’re not getting guys like me every night out at 2A, so I take a couple rhythm dribbles into the frontcourt, nod toward Fuller to start into the offense—and then just rip it to the rim. I blow by my man and get to the rack before their bigs can even catch their breath. I have to angle around one of them, so I can’t throw it down, but it’s a quick deuce—not to mention a little wake-up call to Bowman that they’re in for the real deal tonight.
My early bucket gets the Bowman players back on their heels a little bit. When they bring the ball up, their guards look a little shell-shocked. They’ve got a nice big, Alex Danks, who’ll wrestle it out with Moose all night. But on the first trip, their perimeter guys seem almost scared to make a post entry. They reverse and reverse, then settle for a tough pull-up from the wing. It bangs back rim and falls to Stanford. He pivots and outlets to me at the hash, and I push—get right on top of their small point guard and get him off-balance. He has to reach late, and I just miss a chance at a hoop-and-harm.
The crowd’s already into it, like sharks sensing blood in the water. I square up the first and knock it down, get a round of fives from my teammates, then set my toe on the stripe again. Ref bounces me the orange, and I go through my routine. Take another deep breath, let fly, and bury the second—4-0, and we’ve barely broken a sweat.
When they inbound, I jump into their point. Coach didn’t call for a press, and I’m not really trying to turn him over, but I want him to know we’re gonna defend every inch of hardwood. Maybe get in his head a little. It works. He gives it up to their two-guard. I wave for Fuller to come pick him up. He comes in too hot, and the two rips past him, but all that does is get him sped up past his comfort zone. He flies into the frontcourt, gets off balance, and then tries to throw cross-court. There’s no zip on it and Jones snags it easily.
This time they get back, so no easy ones for us. But now it’s time to follow Coach’s instructions. We work it through our set a few times, everyone getting a touch. Fuller hits his man with a spin, then kicks it baseline for me. I square my feet, but see my man running at me—so I slip past him, then drop a dime to Moose for an easy deuce. On top of that, Danks takes a cheap swat at him and gets a late whistle.
Bowman’s coach has seen enough and calls time. Not even two minutes in, and we’ve got a six-point lead with a chance to make it seven. Our crowd gets up, half cheering us and half jeering Bowman, reveling in exactly what they came here to see—total domination. I scan for my family again and see that they’re just now squeezing into some seats in the next-to-last row behind our bench. There’s Mom, Jay and Uncle Kid, all with their coats still on. Dad’s nowhere though.
It doesn’t last. Moose knocks in his freebie, and it feels like everything’s going to be easy street. We even get a stop next time down. But with a chance to really stretch out a lead early, the offense grinds to a halt. Bowman just packs it in. I swear, every player has one heel in the paint. No room to drive, no chance to feed Moose on the blocks. Fuller and Jones have looks, but they hesitate and by then their man recovers. I figure it’s on me again, so first chance I get I flare out to the right wing, my favorite spot to shoot from. I get a clean bounce from Fuller and rip it to the lane for a nice, clean pull-up.
Front rim and off. Felt good too. I shake it off and hustle back on D, tell myself the next one will fall.
But it doesn’t. The next one is right on line, but just a hair long.
Fuller and Jones both give it a go, but they fare no better, rattling out open looks.
Meanwhile, Bowman starts to chip away. A free throw here. A put-back there. By the end of the first quarter, that seven-point lead is down to three.
It’s not like we go scoreless. If we turn them over, they don’t have a prayer of stopping our break. And Moose keeps fighting on the blocks, getting looks when he can. But the whole flow of the game has stopped. It’s like we went from the pace of the Indy 500 to a slow, slumping limp.
By halftime it’s tied, and you can feel the anxiety in our crowd. There’s this unsettled murmur, like they’re at some concert and are getting impatient for the act to finally take the stage.
Front rim and off. Front rim, back rim, out. Back rim and off.
Three different times in the third quarter I get a wide open look and miss. Each one could have stretched out our slim lead too, given us some breathing room against these guys. And with each one I could feel the crowd hold its breath, ready to explode, only to simmer back down when it rattles off.
At the break before the fourth, Coach Bolden tells us all to calm down. “We’ve got a three-point lead on these guys,” he shouts. “No need to get frustrated and force things. Just defend, then stay patient on our end.”
We break. As we take the floor Murphy hollers after us, “Let’s go now! Let’s bury these guys.”
Bolden looks at him like Murphy just spat on his mama’s grave. “What did I just say?” he yells. “Don’t go getting them all stirred up.” Then he shouts to us again. “Patient! Be patient.”
He’s right, I guess, but it’s easier said than done. We come out and Bowman Academy sinks back on defense again. Every touch on the perimeter gives
