my way and I pass up a shot—even open threes, looks I’ve worked on forever—I hear our crowd get a little more restless. Finally, Fuller makes a nifty little pass inside to Stanford, but the whole defense collapses so there’s nowhere to go with the ball. I flash to the top of the key to bail out Stanford. When the leather hits my hands I look up to find I’m all alone. My feet are just an inch past the arc, and I start into my motion. Then I think better of it and reverse the ball to Jones on the opposite wing.
This brings out the frustration from the fans. Through the collective groan, I hear clear shouts of Shoot the damn ball! and That’s all you, Bowen, come on! My cheeks grow hot and a bitter taste settles onto my tongue—getting heckled in our own gym! It’s about more than I can take.
Obviously, it is more than Fuller can handle because he forces—drives baseline into traffic and floats up a weak runner. Danks corrals it for Bowman and they rip it back at us.
They’re in no hurry on their end either, working and working until they get Danks on a flash in the lane. He misses, but Stanford gets a cheap whistle and sends him to the stripe for two.
I walk to the other end of the floor, head down, just trying to gather my thoughts. The crowd keeps murmuring, not just frustrated now but actually worried that we might lose this game. That’s just noise, I tell myself. Just static. Play it one possession at a time and everything will be fine. The Bowman crowd cheers, and I know Danks made the first. That murmur in our crowd gets more anxious. When I glimpse at the bench I see Murphy gnawing on his fingernails. Tight all around. Then Danks knocks down the second. One point game.
We come down and face that same sagging defense. We reverse and reverse and reverse the ball to the same old results. Nothing. When Jones catches outside, they don’t even bother giving false pressure. It seems to go on forever, and I feel like the only way we’ll loosen up this defense is if Devin hops out here, air cast and all. Finally, Moose takes control. He spins on Danks and seals him right at the rim. It’s a full-grown-man move. Before he can even holler Ball, I put the orange in his mitts.
Bucket. At last. Our crowd leaps up, voicing their pent up shouts. Our bench is up too, pumping their fists and urging us on. It’s like just seeing the ball go through the hoop flared up a fire in us.
The Bowman guards try to look chill about it, like We got this, but when they finally hit the offensive end they act a little confused. They hesitate, ball fake, start to cut and then back out to the perimeter again. After about thirty seconds they get antsy and force one into Danks. It squirts away from him and Stanford grabs it. He outlets to me and I push it up the floor. Their guards race back, and I pull up on the wing. I fake once to a cutting Fuller, but that’s just to give myself some rhythm for a wide open three.
When it leaves my hand, I know it’s true. Backpedal with my right arm still raised. Only to see it spin out after being halfway in the hole.
Bowman Academy clears and then their coach calls time when they hit the frontcourt.
Bolden just stands over me in our huddle. “What the hell, Bowen?” he shouts. “What are you trying to do with that shot?”
Before my better instincts can stop me, I blurt an answer. “I was trying to end it!”
Bolden’s eyes bulge, but he doesn’t jump me. He just shakes his head and turns to Murphy. “I swear sometimes I like dealing with freshmen better than sophomores. At least freshmen don’t act like they know better than me!”
After that he just stresses the same things again. Defend, rebound, work the offense. And I don’t dare object to anything. It all makes for a tense final quarter, but we wear them down. Moose gets free for a lay-in, then uproots Danks for a put-back, and we string together a few stops until Bowman has no choice but to foul. We knock in a few and that’s that. But as we shake hands with the Bowman players and the crowd files out, there’s a bittersweet feeling to it. Anyone will tell you that a win is a win, but this one doesn’t quite feel the same. An ugly 40-35 opener is not what anyone had in mind.
When I exit the locker room, Uncle Kid’s waiting for me. There are mostly just other players and their families lingering now, and the big lights over the court are killed so everything is dim. It makes it look like a party where the host is trying to get people to leave, but nobody’s taking the hint.
The other players and their folks don’t seem too upset by the game. Moose and his people are laughing it up. Reynolds gets a big bear hug from his dad, congratulating him on his first varsity game, even if he didn’t get but a minute or two of action.
Kid knows better, so he just gives me a firm handshake and says, “Better than a loss.”
“Barely,” I say.
He slings his arm around my shoulder and directs me toward the exit, out into the night. It’s like someone guiding a child away from a disaster so they don’t see too much. When we get out there, he anticipates my first question. “Your dad couldn’t make it, Derrick.” He says it toward the cars on 34th, like he’s giving directions to a lost driver. “He got called to cover for someone at the last minute.”
I shrug it off. No sense in acting hurt, but it’s the first time my dad’s ever missed a game. He doesn’t get as juiced as the rest of my family, but since I started in youth leagues he’s always been there, at least ten minutes before tip, every single time.
“Don’t get upset at him,” Kid says. “He’s doing all a man can.”
The thing Kid doesn’t say is that he wouldn’t be pulling these hours if I’d have bolted to Hamilton Academy. Damn. I know they wouldn’t have had to fight tooth and nail to eke one out against Bowman. Things would be a whole lot easier up there. But there’s no sense in wondering about what if. My mom tells us that all the time—You get too busy worrying about what ifs, and you forget to take care of what is.
And what is is that we’re gonna have to scratch every night out. At least until Devin gets back.
We reach our walk and Kid pops me on the back. “Gonna be a lot better nights than this one, D. Maybe some worse ones too, but a lot better. Bank on it.”
“Thanks, Kid,” I say. Then I nod toward the door. “You coming in?”
“Nah,” he says. “I got plans.” He looks away, that anxious, antsy expression he gets when he’s up to something he doesn’t want us to know about. I don’t bother asking, just tell him Later and head for my door.
Inside, Dad’s racked out on the couch again. It’s not even late, but my mom and Jayson have beat it back to their rooms. I see slivers of light under each of their doors. A quick stop at the fridge to pull out some leftover pizza, and I head for my room too.
On my dresser sits a stack of camp brochures, team logos on each one. Indiana, Purdue, Michigan, Illinois. They can’t start sending me letters yet, so this is how the big boys let me know they’re interested. I wonder how jacked they’d be about signing me if they saw my line for tonight: nine points and four assists, 4-13 from the field. I did get eight rips, but these people aren’t sending me mailers because I can get some boards.
There’s a rustling in the living room as Dad wakes from the couch. The floorboards give a few creaks under his weight and then there’s the sound of the fridge opening. I think about going out to join him, but somehow it’s just comforting hearing him move about the house, listening to him turn on the TV and then quickly squelch the volume to a low murmur because he thinks he might wake someone.
I
